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He stood and leaned into the umpire like he was speaking to him. Then he lifted his mask and trotted out to me. Even standing lower on the mound, the man towered over me. But he wasn’t glaring. A lot of catchers I’d played with would have come out here yelling. They’d tell me to get my shit together and follow the game plan. But that wasn’t Miller.
He lifted his mitt to one side of his face to prevent prying eyes from reading his lips. “This guy.” Cortney tilted his man bun toward home plate. “Can’t hit a slider. A fastball, though?” He cocked a brow. “He has no trouble sending those over the fence.”
My stomach twisted. I hadn’t thrown that pitch well in months. “There are other options. My slider’s shit.”
“I get it. Hitting the bird has fucked with the pitch, but you can’t avoid it. Especially when it’s this guy’s Achilles’ heel.”
“No.” I shook my head. “We’ll walk him.”
Cortney cut a look at the dugout, where Tom was scowling at us. “He won’t like that. He was clear with you during pregame that he expected to see this pitch today.”
I didn’t need to be reminded. I’d heard him loud and clear. The only reason I hadn’t told him to fuck off was because he was Avery’s dad.
Although my night out with her last week had been nothing more than a few beers before we all went home—separately—it had been more fun than I’d had since the night I met Avery. So I wasn’t purposely going to pick fights with her father. However, I hadn’t specifically agreed to throw the pitch either.
“We’ll walk him,” I repeated.
My teammate toed the dirt and let out a frustrated sigh. “If we lose this game, then we have no chance at the wild card. You know that, right? And you won’t get to pitch a playoff game.”
His argument wasn’t all that convincing. We’d have to win every one of the twelve games left in the regular season to make that happen. And with our schedule, especially since we had two games against the Metros, who were sitting at the top of the national league, our chances were almost nonexistent. The Revs hadn’t made the playoffs in years. And although the Langfields had made a lot of moves to improve the team recently, we were in a building year. We weren’t a playoff contender.
But it irked me that the guy who’d won three world series in his long career was pointing out how I wouldn’t be setting foot on the field for a playoff game. I might have bitten his head off, but I got it. This was Miller’s last chance to get there. He’d recently announced that he was retiring at the end of the season.
He must have talked Dylan out of the friend zone sometime after the day I met her, because they were having a baby girl in the spring. And their story gave me hope. If he could work his way to more with Dylan, then I could do the same with Avery. It would take time, but I could be patient.
“So?” Miller cocked a brow.
“Me throwing a shit pitch won’t help anything. We walk him.”
He shook his head and stalked back to the home plate. Instead of squatting, he held his arm straight out, and I tossed an easy ball his way.
He hadn’t even tossed it back before Wilson was jogging across the grass.
“Who coaches this team?” he snapped the second he hit the mound.
A snappy comeback was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. Instead, I pressed my lips together to hold in my frustration and shook my head. Cortney stepped up beside us, and Tom lifted his hand over his mouth to ensure the opposing team couldn’t read his lips.
“We don’t win games by walking batters when we don’t fucking need to.”
“We don’t win by throwing shitty-ass pitches either.” The man should know that by now.
“So don’t.” He looked at Miller and then back at me, then held his hand out. “Throw the slider or give me the ball.”
Motherfucker.
I pulled my shoulders back, and although ten thousand angry words were fighting to escape me, I responded with a clipped nod. Wilson didn’t bother to respond before he jogged back to the dugout.
When Miller was behind the plate again, he gave me two taps and four fingers.
Anger burned through me, and I clenched my jaw, but I pushed it all away and focused on the game. I took a breath and wound up. As I released the ball, an echo of a high-pitched screech of pain hit me, and I flinched. The ball floated rather than dropping like it should, staying level as it made its way to the plate. Fuck. It was easy pickings.
Based on the crack of wood, I didn’t need to look to know the ball was gone. I closed my eyes and kept them shut as the crowd booed the batter, who was taking his lap around the bases.
At the sound of a throat clearing, I forced my eyes open.No fucking way.
Wilson stood in front of me with his hand out.
My stomach sank as my blood pressure skyrocketed.
