Jace calls the ball almost immediately after the batter pops one high—too early considering the wind we've been playing against all night. I back off, hesitantly at first, knowing if that breeze catches it even slightly, he'll be off. It's the bottom of the ninth, and we're only up by one—if there was ever a time to test his judgement, this is it.
The ball descends, dipping at the last second, and Jace adjusts—too late. He slaps his glove closed, leather smacking leather just before the ball hits the ground in a dull, ugly thud. The collective groan coming from the crowd only makes the duet of sounds worse as Holloway curses under his breath.
He scoops it, sending it to Ivan Ruiz just as the runner passes over the plate.
"Not yours," I deadpan, waiting to see how he'll react to the error.
We've played plenty of games together so far this season, but each one seems to come with a different version of him. A different attitude toward the game depending on the stakes—all part of the learning curve. And a different test I'm willing to give in order to figure out what he still needs to work on.
"It should have been," he says, dropping his hands to his hips.
I prepare my next comeback—sure looked like it to meortell that to Ruiz. But Jace's jaw ticks, and I decide against either. "Listen, it happens."
"Yeah, I know that," he snaps. My eyebrows shoot up as I look at him blankly. He glances over, reading my expression. "Sorry."
I slouch my shoulders, walking a few steps toward him as the stadium speakers blast the next batter's song. "Hey, it’s fine. We’re still up. Maybe just stop trying to impress the stands all of a sudden."
"I’m not—"
"Rook, that ball was still in the clouds when you called it… loud enough that they heard it in concessions."
He shoots me a glare before I see in his eyes that something clicks. His face falls softly. "Next one's mine then," he says, his lips turning upward.
"Yeah." I chuckle. "Just make sure the ball agrees this time. We're dancing, remember?"
Jace shakes his head as Clay Mitchell makes his way back to the mound. The sound fades, the crowd around us dimming with it. I inhale deeply, dropping lower on the exhale.
This is all second-nature—muscle-memory. A rhythm ingrained in me like my own DNA. I sweep the field already knowing there's one runner on base, then look at the batter. I study him, reading his hands and the way his weight's shifted. Predicting where the ball will go, I adjust my feet, pointing my body in the same direction.
Next is the pitcher. Mitchell's rhythm is simple, at least for me. I've studied it—memorized it. His planted foot, a heavy breath that I always catch myself making with him. It's like taking Ruthie to the doctor and breathing when they tell her to—there's no stethoscope on my back, but I mimic her all the same. Then, there's his slow, deliberate stretch and stride. The one that pauses time—where there's nothing but silence and the steadyboom boomof my anticipation. Finally, comes the quick, you'd-miss-it-if-you-weren't-looking-for-it micro-hesitation that turns the world back on. That signals the drop that comes next—smooth,balanced.
Go time.
Mitchell sends a fastball toward home, and the batter thinks about it, but lets it pass. Diego Garcia, our catcher, smacks his glove shut, the crisp snap resetting us all and signaling the restarting of the whole routine.
It never gets old—running through the motions—because in reality, they're never the same. Each batter is different, every pitcher. One man on, two, bases loaded—they're all unique. I think that's something I'll miss the most after this. There's not much about this job that's predictable. Monotonous. Boring. And I don't know what comes next, but I can't imagine it causes my heart to race in the way this game does. That it keeps me sharp and young like I need to be on the field. That it knows me like only this dirt—every misread, missed play, muffed catch. Every single mistake.
And still loves me anyway.
Mitchell throws another pitch, and this time the batter swings. He hits the ball high over our heads and into the outfield. Vasquez claims it, holding his open glove to the sky. "I got it!"
I jog toward him a few steps, mostly just to keep moving, and so does Jace. The ball drops, sinking right into his glove, and I whistle toward him. The crowd cheers as he throws the ball to Holloway. He sends it back to Mitchell, and I hold two fingers up to my outfield—one more out to go.
I glance over at Jace, chomping at the bit. He's eager—to make a play and make up for his last mistake—and that's a good thing. He should always be ready. But not at the expense of the game. Not to be the hero.
"You got a man comin'," I remind him, looking at our hungry opponent on first.
He nods.
"And I know Simpson. It's coming right toward you."
Jace shifts his feet, smacking his hand into his glove.
"Rook," I warn.
His eyes dart to mine. "I know, Two-Three," is all he says.
I suck my teeth, turning my attention back to the mound.
