Full Count (The Catcher Series Book 1) (18 page)

            Skyler
’
s eyes dart between mine
and my scraped up arm before he sighs deeply. Anyone else would be scared he
was going to kill them just with his glare alone, but I brush it off. “Buzz, if
he can
’
t do it in time to start the next inning, you can
’
t go back in the game,” he tells me softly.

             “I know, that
’
s why-” I begin,
but then I see Rick heading towards me.

            When he reaches for my wrist to look at my arm, it
forces Skyler to release his hold on me. Rick is a big muscular guy that scares
everyone at first sight, but he is genuinely a nice and caring guy. He
’
s like a big teddy bear. “You got a bunch of rocks in here,” he
informs me as if I don
’
t know, but he
’
s
already starting to use a tweezers to pluck them out. I wince at each tug, but
I know it needs to be done. The second out is made as my replacement tries
scoring, but Cara made it in before her to give us an early 1-0 lead. As she
enters the dugout, I give her a high five and she returns it with a troubled
expression. I also show my support to Natalie because I probably would’ve gone
for the close play, too.

             “How is it?” Cara wonders, wincing at the sight of
blood.

             “Almost clean. Just gotta wrap it,” Rick tells her.
I feel like a puppet but am glad that our trainer jumps to bandage me up so
quickly so I can continue pitching. Skyler is standing touchingly close to me
on my unharmed side. This time it
is
him massaging my shoulder, but I
know he
’
s just trying to make sure my arm is okay. Feeling
his fingers on me ignites my energy. I glare at Rick to pick up the pace
wrapping my arm so I can go throw a few pitches on the sideline behind our
dugout before the inning is over.

            Luckily he finishes in time to allow me a few extra
pitches on the sideline, and then Cara and I take our places on the field. My
warm-up pitches are shaky, so I decide to slow them down just a little to
increase my accuracy.

            The first batter of the second inning hits my first
pitch I throw at her, but our centerfielder catches it with ease. The second
batter is determined to make me pitch to her. She knows I
’
m
banged up and wants to make me work for it. I would do the same thing, so I can
’
t really blame her. My first two pitches are fastballs that hit
the corners of the plate, but only one is called a strike. The next two are low
misses, and all of a sudden I
’
m behind in the count. It
’
s 3-1, which means I have to throw a strike and she knows it. I
put some heat on it, and Cara isn
’
t quite ready for it,
but it
’
s still called a strike. The batter looks surprised
at how fast the ball came at her. It
’
s full count now.

            Unfortunately she
’
s ready for my
last pitch that is a curveball on the outside corner. She swings and the ball
flies in between the second baseman and centerfielder; there
’
s
nothing either one of them can do to catch it or make a play.

            With a runner on first base, the pressure I put on
myself increases. In all the innings I
’
ve pitched thus far
my freshman season, I haven
’
t allowed a single hit. Since
I
’
ve been the closer, it isn
’
t that
alarming of a statistic, but I
’
m still proud of myself for
doing it. That batter just ruined my perfect season.

            When the next batter steps up, I throw her a heated
strike down the middle. She thought about swinging at it, but by the time she
decided to, the ball was already in Cara’s glove. As I go to prep myself for
the next pitch, I feel the warm breeze on my newly cut-open arm and stop. I put
my glove underneath my armpit as I pull on the bandage to try to make it stay
on my sweaty arm. It
’
s such a distraction though, and I
end up throwing a wild pitch past Cara, which lets the runner on first steal
second base.

            This is getting out of control.
I take a deep
breath as I read Cara
’
s signal to throw a curveball
inside. I obey her signal, but the ball takes it to the extreme. It hits the
batter in the lower back as she turns away from it. It hits her hard, too, and
she goes down like she
’
s just been shot. I twirl around to
face the field of teammates behind me as I sarcastically throw my glove into
the air with no intention of catching it. I can
’
t do this
anymore.

            Since the umpire calls “time” for the batter to
recuperate, Skyler runs out onto the mound to meet me. “Hey, B, what
’
s going on?” he asks me, picking up my glove. He holds it in
his hand, letting me be free of it for just a moment. I can
’
t
thank him enough for understanding that that
’
s exactly
what I need right now.

             “My arm. The bandage is getting in the way,” I try
explaining. I stare at the fresh dirt between me and second base - anything but
the runner, batter, or Skyler. They’re all distractions. I need to breathe and
focus… God, I wish I could pitch with a blind fold on right now.

             “It
’
s wrapped pretty good. It
’
s in your head that it
’
s in the way,” he
argues yet is still nice about it. Although he
’
s been my
lifelong friend and crush, he
’
s my personal pitching coach
at the moment, and he plays the part very well. He knows how to separate his
feelings from personal and professional. “Can you focus?”

             “Sky, I
’
m not pitching blindly,
not when I just beaned a girl,” I tell him thinking that
’
s
his code word. My intention isn’t to snap at him even though that’s what
happens. We were on the same wavelength, but we both know I would have severe
consequences for doing that with a batter in the box. Luckily he doesn’t take
it personally.

             “Pretty sure it
’
s illegal to
pitch blindly in a game,” he chuckles, lightening the mood as we hear the crowd
applaud for the batter who is standing up and walking to first base. “I just
need you to play catch with Cara. If they hit it, your teammates will do the
rest of the work. Just throw it.”

             “I just hit a girl!” I quietly shriek at him, my
eyes passing his for a half second out of old habit.

             “You
’
ve never beaned anyone
before?” he questions me, causing me to shake my head no. “Have you ever been
beaned?”

             “Yes,” I admit, remembering the stinging feeling in
my backside.

             “And look, you survived. So will she,” he declares. “Now,
get through this inning. Just play catch.”

             “What if I can
’
t?” I challenge
him.

             “You can. You gotta have short term memory as an
athlete,” he disagrees. He brings his free hand to my shoulder and whispers, “Look
at me.” Skyler
’
s eyes have a tendency to make me melt, and
in the hot spring we
’
re having, I
’
m
afraid to look at him. But he
’
s my coach, so I hesitantly
obey his order. For a half second I forget we’re in the middle of a game and
have to pinch myself to get back into Softball Bianca’s head. “You can do this.
McCallum knows you can do this or he wouldn
’
t have put you
in this position. Cara believes in you; the rest of your teammates believe in
you and have your back. And I believe in you. It
’
s a
little hiccup. But you can fix it.” Handing my glove over to me, he adds, “Us
against them, who wins?”

            I can
’
t help but smile at our
line we have been using since we were kids. Whatever
’
s
been between us the past few months has been strictly professional regarding
softball, so him saying that is a nice reminder that we have something more
than just a coach and player relationship. “Us,” I answers, and he chimes in
with me when I say, “Every time.”

18 Skyler Swanson

Buzz manages to dig herself out of the inning but allows one run
to score. Everyone taps her shoulder in encouragement as she walks into the
dugout, but she brushes them off. While her teammates bat, she sits on the end
in the far away corner with her head down. She
’
s fucking
beating herself up over something so insignificant to the game. That run makes
it a tie game at 1-1, but it
’
s only the second inning;
there
’
s plenty of fucking time for us to get a lead and for
her to make sure we keep it.

            I watch her from down the bench, and I want nothing
more than to go comfort her, to hold her in my arms and take her storm away.
But I can
’
t because I
’
m one of her
fucking coaches. I thought being her personal pitching coach might bring us
closer together like we were before she entered high school, but I just feel
cold and professional around her. I fucking hate it. When she beaned that girl,
I saw Buzz lose it for the first time all season. She threw her glove into the
air, and I didn
’
t even have to question my next move. I
knew I had to go out and talk to her.

            The umpire wanted us to wrap it up so the game could
continue, but Buzz didn
’
t look mentally ready. I decided
to end with “
our
” line, “Us against them, who wins?” and
she finally smiled and relaxed.
Good
… she still
remembers.

            After a few minutes of letting her be alone on the
bench, I approach her and put my arm over her hunched back. “Good job getting
out of that inning,” I compliment her.

            “Thanks, but I gave up my first hit and run, and I
beaned a girl,” she quietly tortures herself. As a player myself, I usually
think the only big deal is allowing a run to score, but there is so much more
to Buzz because it
’
s her first time letting these things
happen in a varsity game.

            “It could
’
ve been worse,”
I tell her.
“You could
’
ve let two or three
runs score. One isn
’
t that big of a deal; we
’
ll
come back and get ahead.” My hand rises with her back as she takes a deep
breath. She needs to let it go if she
’
s going to play the
rest of the game. “Are you done for today? Do you not want to pitch anymore?”

            “I want to pitch,” she states with her head still
down. “Will you catch for me? In the batting cage, I mean.”

            “Yeah. Grab your glove,” I order, standing up to find
the extra catcher
’
s mitt in the coaches
’
ball
bag. I tell McCallum what we
’
re going to do, and he nods
in agreement. He
’
ll agree to anything if it
’
ll
get Buzz
’
s head back in the game. It
’
s
kind of his fault for putting her in the starting lineup for the first time and
telling her five minutes before the fucking game started though, but I won
’
t tell him that.

            My attention is distributed between Buzz and the
scoreboard so I know how many outs are left in the inning but also give her the
attention she deserves.

             “When you hit her, you looked more annoyed than
anything else,” I point out as one of her pitches zooms into my glove.

             “Yeah, I was,” she agrees.

             “It happens. You don
’
t think
Alex has beaned people before?” I try to help her understand it
’
s
just part of the game. I throw the ball back to her and wait for her to set her
feet.

             “Yeah, but the girl could
’
ve
avoided it by jumping back instead of into it,” she explains.

             “Close your eyes,” I order before she throws it.

             “But-” she starts, but I cut her off.

             “
Buzz, do it!
”
I
demand.
“It
’
s just for me. You
’
re not going to do this on the field.”

             “Ugh,” she frustratedly sighs. I watch her calm
herself down as she closes her eyes. The pitch is exactly what I want from her:
a heated, focused, controlled fastball. Her banged up arm has no affect on her.

             “One more,” I call as she watches me throw the ball
back to her. After she does the same thing again, I walk over to her and take
her under my arm to walk back to the dugout. “Good job.”

             “Thank you for helping me,” she whimpers as she
leans into me. It feels good to have her need me again, and I never want to let
her go. I like that she feels vulnerable with me and during a big game, too. We
’
re always the perfect team, and this scenario is no different.

             “You
’
re welcome,
B,
” I say, squeezing her arm lightly.

             “I mean all season. You didn
’
t
have to take the coaching position… but I
’
m glad you did,”
Buzz comments. Her child-like grin fires me up in the best way. I thought I
lost my best friend when she started hanging out with what
’
s-his-fuck,
but that statement assures me that isn
’
t the case.

             “Anything for you, sweetheart,” I reply. I purposely
make it sound sarcastic but I know she knows I
’
m serious.

            Buzz pitches the next three innings and holds them to
the one run from the second inning. I request for a relief pitcher to take her
place for the last two innings so she doesn
’
t throw out
her arm. She also bats and gets one hit, but we don
’
t let
her run the bases in fear of her hurting her arm even more. Trainer Rick takes
the bandage off after she comes in from hitting as it is because the sweat on
her arm is causing it to come undone, and the wound needs to breathe.

            We win the game, which is followed by a short
ceremony for winning the conference title outright. I look into the stands and
see our usual crew, but Beth and Theresa aren
’
t present.
Allen, however, is beaming with pride next to my dad for his daughter being
recognized as one of the all-conference players of the year. I
’
d
like to think he
’
s proud of his Godson for helping his
daughter pitch her way onto varsity, too, but I might be wrong. But all I care
about really is the look on Buzz
’
s face when she notices
her mom isn
’
t there. I watch her eyes scan the crowd and
then fall to the ground, and it kills me that it upsets her so much.

            After the announcer calls her name to receive her
plaque, Buzz stands next to a few of her teammates who are also being
recognized as conference players of the year. Her dad has come out onto the
field to document the ceremony with his Nikon; everything he takes is candid
except for one group shot at the end.

             “Sky!” she calls from near home plate. My attention
focuses on her as she waves me over. When I reach her side, she adds, “Part of
this belongs to you.”

            Chuckling at her adorable appreciativeness, I banter,
“I
’
ll get my own in July, sweetheart… but you
’
re welcome.
”

             “Thank you,” she replies, smiling.

            Taking her under my arm, I tell her, “It was all you,
Buzz.”

            Once the ceremony is over we go back to the dugout to
grab all of the equipment bags and head to the parking lot to go home. I grab
Buzz
’
s bag for her so she can hold a bag of ice to her
bandaged arm as we walk to my Jeep. I set the bag in my trunk and watch Buzz
’
s smile grow across her entire face. Cara and Laurie sandwich
her into a group hug and scream with her in excitement for not only winning the
game, but the conference title, too. Then Tiffany walks up and they welcome her
into it, too. It
’
s nice to see Buzz so happy, but I
’
m caught completely off guard when I hear someone call my name
from behind. I spin around to see Chase Morgan
’
s fucking
fist coming straight at my face.

            Because I
’
m blind sighted, it
feels like I get hit with a boulder that Buzz could
’
ve
thrown as a pitch. I react the same way the girl did that Buzz beaned by
falling to the gravel ground beneath my Jeep. I imagine it
’
s
a hearty fall because all four of the girls rush over to me, grinding the
gravel into their shoes. Lying on the ground and covering my heated cheek, I look
up at the circle of girls towering over me, and I
’
m a little dizzy.

             “Sky, Sky, Sky,”
Buzz
’
s voice echoes. “Are you, you, okay, okay?” I close my eyes in
hopes of stopping the extra noise that
’
s causing a
throbbing echo in my head. “Can you hear me?” Thankfully her voice stops
duplicating itself.

             “
Yeah, just gimme a sec,
” I
muster out. I lie on the gravel jabbing into my backside and reach down into my
chest for a deep breath. The sun pierces into my eyes, so I force myself to sit
up. That
’
s when Buzz squats in front of me with a
concerned look plastered on her face. It
’
s so unusual to
see her so serious.

             “What the hell happened?” she gasps with soft,
confused eyes.

             “Chase just punched me,” I tell her before
stretching my jaw to try to eliminate the ache in my cheek.

             “He what?” she shouts, standing up to tower over me.

            After taking her hand and letting her help me stand
up, I repeat, “He punched me.”

             “Why? What did you do?” she wonders innocently. She
isn
’
t accusing me of doing anything, but she wants to
believe that he wouldn
’
t hit me for no reason, even though
that
’
s exactly what happened.

             “I didn
’
t even know he was at
the game, let alone in the parking lot or by my Jeep. I was throwing your bag
in the trunk, and I heard my name, spun around, and he just fucking hit me,” I
explain.

             “Please tell me you
’
re kidding,”
she pleads. The confusion in her eyes is so apparent that I think she
’
s going to collapse and scrape up her fucking arm even more. I
glance at Cara who is shaking her head; she knows I
’
m not
kidding. Tiffany and Laurie wear pure concern on their faces but remain silent.
I hate that everyone except for Buzz knows Chase Morgan is a douchebag. She
’
s such a smart girl; how does she not see it?

           
I don’
t answer her. We all
disperse, and I silently drive Buzz home. After pulling into her driveway, I
get out of my Jeep and open the trunk. I carry her bag into the garage as she
walks next to me with sorrowful eyes. Not saying anything and just going back
to my Jeep to go home is the best idea, so that
’
s what I
start to do until Buzz proves she thinks otherwise.

             “Sky,” she gently calls after me. I spin around and
lightly move my baseball hat on my head. “I
’
m sorry…” Her
eyes can
’
t leave my cheek, and guilt fills them
completely. I don
’
t like it. She isn
’
t
an extension of Chase; she shouldn
’
t apologize on behalf
of him.

             “It
’
s not your fault. Good game
today. I
’
ll see you later,” I tell her and get back in my
Jeep to drive home. By then my cheek is just pulsing in an uncomfortable way,
but it isn
’
t painful. I look in the mirror as I
’
m about to drive away and am taken by surprise. Chase sliced my
cheek open just below my right eye. It isn
’
t enough where
I need stitches, but it
’
s fucking bleeding.
Looks
can be deceiving after all…