Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2) (5 page)

He was right.

“Yes, sir.”

“Use your brain, son. It’s how you’ve always stayed a step ahead of everyone. You’re smart. Quit sitting on your heels and reacting to everything. It’s a chess game. You have to be thinking three moves ahead.” His hands went to his hips.

Martinez jogged out from the left field bullpen. He was a monster. Six foot six and built like a brick shithouse, but with a gut. He damn near threw as hard as E, but didn’t have the same quality of secondary pitches.

I nodded to Coach. “He’ll want to get ahead in the count.”

“Good. Now you’re being a fucking ballplayer. Go on.” His lips curled up the slightest bit at the corners.

What sounded like a gunshot shook me from my concentration once more. I turned to see the catcher shake his glove hand like it was hot and toss the ball back to Martinez.

“Fucking guy can bring it.” Coach glared.

“Alright. Fine. Let’s see.” I looked up and then back to Coach. “He’ll want to work ahead. His curveball is shit. So I need to sit on first pitch fastball. It’ll be the best pitch I get to hit.”

“Exactly. You’re a catcher. Use it to your advantage. Think in reverse. What would you do if you were catching Martinez right now? That’s how you have to think, son. It ain’t rocket science.”

“I hope not. You’d be way out of your fucking element.” I grinned.

Coach smiled. “You little shit. Go win the fucking game already.”

“Done.” I called over my shoulder.

“Batter!” The ump called for me and pointed to the batter’s box.

I strode back up to the plate as I caught Martinez smiling at me.

I’m going to fuck you up, fat boy.

Visualization was the key to success. I don’t know why it worked, but it did. Over and over I pictured the pitch, and me driving it right back at Martinez’s ugly-ass face.

“Come on, baby! You got this.” Nik’s high, clear voice pierced through the ocean of noise.

I turned to where the girls usually sat. All three of them were on their feet, waiting in anticipation. Nikki smiled and blew me a kiss.

Anxiety coursed through my veins, as sure as the energy from the fans rumbled through the stadium.

Her excitement reminded me of how happy she’d been about the dinner at her parents’ house. I glanced up to the scoreboard, but was confronted with the damn .247 again. Shitty batting average, dinner with the parents—I couldn’t win. I was a hot fucking mess.

“Focus, son!”

Coach’s voice. It was like he lived in my head. I regained my focus.

I held up a hand to the umpire and dug my back foot into the batter’s box dirt like I was staking claim on my territory. When I dropped my hand to signal I was ready, I planted my front foot in and stared out at chubby fucknuts.

You got this shit.

I played the perfect scenario in my mind one more time—Martinez starting with a fastball, and me decapitating him with a shot up the middle.

I looked up and everything else faded. It was me and him, and only one of us would win.

Fastball. Fastball.

I twirled the bat in small circles behind my head as he nodded to the catcher and came set.

Loose hands. Fastball.

I relaxed my grip. The big bastard kicked his leg high and hard as I rocked my weight to my back foot. As soon as he let go, I knew it was my pitch.

I swung so hard I nearly came out of my cleats.

As soon as I connected I knew I was money, because I didn’t feel a thing. The ball connected with the sweet spot and rocketed off the bat toward the left field gap.

I dropped my bat and sprinted toward first as the crowd came alive around me, and my feet pounded on the dirt. I glanced at Cox, who represented the tying run, jogging from third toward home. Hamilton was flying from second to third, trying to score the winning run.

I glanced to left field as I was rounding first, just in time to see the fielder lay out and make a catch that was destined to be on Plays of the Week in a matter of hours.

No! Fuck!

It was like a sack of rocks landed on my chest. Cox and Hamilton hurried back to their respective bases as the left fielder hopped up to his feet. All noise from the crowd ceased as I came to a screeching halt in the base path.

I clutched the top of my helmet with both hands and arched my back, staring momentarily up at the inky night, praying it was a bad dream. How the fuck did he make that catch? It was my shit luck. All damn season. I’d let the guys down again.

There’s no time for pity, Braden. You’re a goddamn leader. Act like one.

I held my head high and sprinted back to the dugout like I always did, whether I hit a homerun or struck out. It was classy, and set an example for my teammates. When I ran past first base, I turned to our new rookie who walked to the plate. He was eyeing my reaction.

I clapped my hands together and grinned at him. “Let’s go. He ain’t got shit.” I tossed a grin to the sumo-looking motherfucker on the mound who was smiling at me. “Keep cheesing, dickhead! You’re about to get lit the fuck up again.”

I turned back to rookie bitch who now had a look of confidence on his face. He strode to the plate with a purpose. “You got this shit, kid.”

When I reached the dugout, Coach beamed like I’d actually won the game for us. I still wanted to go straight to the clubhouse and destroy a few things, or maybe just have a pussy style ugly cry in the corner. Not a chance though. My boys needed me, whether I was at the plate or not.

Coach smacked me on the ass as I ran down the stairs. “Bad break. We’re still in it.”

I shoved my bat back into the rack and tossed my helmet up into my cubby.

Easton was leaning on the rail with the guys, and I made my way up next to him to cheer on the rook. I’d let us down, but I could damn sure do my best to help another brother get us the win.

“You literally cannot catch a fucking break.” He slapped the rail, then reconsidered. “Well, I mean you
can
catch one. Fuck it, you know what I mean.”

It got a chuckle out of me. “It’s the goddamn baseball gods. They have it in for me. What do you do?” I shrugged.

He spit some sunflower seed shells out onto the emerald grass in front of us. “Indeed. They are being mighty cunty to you. Don’t sweat it, man. They’re moody fucks. They’ll come around. But rook up there doesn’t have a chance.”

I frogged him on his non-pitching shoulder. “Don’t say that shit, bitch. You know better than that.” I glared.

E scowled for a second, and then he dropped his gaze. “Sorry, man.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Pick up your teammate.”

E broke into laughter momentarily, and then turned his stare up to rook.

“Rip his fucking tits!” E hollered, his hand half-cupped around his mouth.

“That’s better.” I turned back to watch rook most likely fail as Easton originally predicted. But I wouldn’t have that kind of negative talk in my fucking dugout. Not a chance.

Our obesity-laden insults sliced through the air as Martinez kicked his leg. He fired the ball into home.

Crack
!

Any ballplayer worth a shit knew the sound. I could’ve had my eyes closed and known that ball was destined for the outfield bleachers.

Rook dropped the bat and started toward first, his head craned to stare at the ball in flight. All of us in the dugout watched as if it were in slow motion. The ball shot into the stands. A brief melee ensued about twenty rows up in left field as the ball landed amidst a roiling sea of faces and hands.

Everything stilled for a split second before a rumbling built around us, shaking the stadium. The players in the dugout erupted. Rook fist-pumped rounding first base as the disgraced pitcher sauntered off the field, his face buried in his glove.

Hah! You fat sack of dicks!

The dugout looked like a mosh pit as we all shoved our way out onto the field to go tackle the rook. When he turned to trot back after watching the ball fly over the wall, his eyes went from ‘excited’ to ‘scared shitless’ in an instant. I couldn’t blame him. There was a herd of big motherfuckers storming his way, and he was about to end up underneath them.

He finally gave in, and held his arms out wide as we tackled him. Hands, arms, legs, dicks, asses—it was all a blur as everyone tried to make their way to him and slap at his helmet.

After a few moments, the dust settled. We wrapped up our celebratory antics and headed back toward the clubhouse. Rook walked over to me. I faked a huge smile at him, knowing it should’ve been me. But wasn’t that what being a captain was about? Putting everyone else ahead of yourself? I needed to be happy for him, build his confidence.

“I wouldn’t have done that without you, you know?”

“Bullshit.” My smile disappeared, and I tried to walk past him.

He grabbed my forearm and squeezed. Usually, it would cost a fucking rookie some hazing, but this kid was all amped up on adrenaline and endorphins, so I let it slide.

“I mean it, man. Thank you.” His grip tightened on my arm.

I smacked his hand away and stood nose to nose with him.

The fear returned to his eyes.

“Don’t you ever fucking doubt your shit. You don’t need me to hit homeruns. You need to believe
you
can hit homeruns. You’re a bad motherfucker. Now you walk over to that hot as fuck reporter that’s waiting to interview you, act like that homerun was business as usual, and then you take her home and make her scream your goddamn name against the wall while you pound that shit out from behind. Got me, rook?” I glared into his eyes.

“Got it, Cap.” He smiled and headed toward the reporter.

“Hey, kid.”

He turned around. “Yeah, Cap?”

“You did good tonight. Enjoy it. Because tomorrow it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.”

He tipped the bill of his helmet at me and continued toward the camera crew.

I glanced out to the crowd and saw Kyrie and Kasey still replaying the homerun and ensuing craziness. It looked like Kasey was trying to grip Kyrie’s hips from behind and show her how to swing a bat. Kase winked at me and I shook my head.
Clever perv.

I gave Nik a wave and another smile. She grinned at me the same way she did when she broke the news of the dinner with her parents. Two days, and I would be face to face with her family. If my luck held, they’d run me out of their home and forbid Nik from seeing me again. I almost tripped over my own damn feet at the thought of losing her.

Coach was waiting for me at the clubhouse steps. “Good game tonight, son.”

“Sure.” I nodded and tamped down the rising flood of worry.

“You were at your best. I’m fucking proud of you.” His face wrinkled with a grin.

“Yeah, I guess. I could’ve done more at the plate. Head wasn’t fully in it.”

“I wasn’t talking about the way you played. I was talking about just now.” He nodded to the rook being interviewed and then headed into the clubhouse.

“Thanks, Coach.” I would always put my shit aside on the field for the sake of the team, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t take it home with me. I suspect Coach knew that, but it didn’t matter as long as I didn’t bring it back on the field.

I sat there for a few moments with my thoughts. Everything I was up against played through my mind—letting the guys down on the field, meeting Nik’s parents, the sub-par stats I’d put up so far this season.

When I finally walked into the clubhouse, I noticed Coach on the phone in his office. His mood was all off. It looked like he was yelling, but I couldn’t make out anything with all the celebration among the players and coaches.

After a few minutes he slammed the phone down so hard he may have shattered it.

I started toward E when Coach stepped into the door frame of his office. “Braden.” His voice was loud and insistent.

I popped my head up, trying to see over the smiling players. “Yeah?”

His words went from angry to a somber note. “Need a word, son.”

What in the hell?
“On my way.”

I’d usually have thought he was calling me to his office to make fun of me, but there was something about his voice, his face. I dug my nails into my palms at the thought of that phone call.

I strode over to Coach. “What’s up?”

His face paled. “Come in. We need to chat. Close the door behind you.”

“Yes, sir.” A million knives dug into my stomach.

I took a step into his office, and he went back to his chair behind his desk. “The door, son.” He glanced to the guys celebrating behind me.

Fuck me. This isn’t good.

I turned around and grabbed the door knob, pulling it shut. I’d never prayed for anything in my entire life—but in that moment, I prayed today wasn’t my last day on the diamond.

N
IKKI

T
HE MOMENT
B
RADEN
appeared in the bar’s doorway, I ran to him and jumped into his arms. I was worried he’d be upset about his almost-homerun, but he’d smiled at me from the field. So maybe it wasn’t so bad after all?