“Let’s call the pen, Kordell.”
“On it.”
I dig my forearms into the railing in front of me and tense my jaw, battling the frustration I can feel seeping from my pores. Tonight’s game has gone from a single pebble trickling down a mountainside to a full-blown avalanche. The team is overrun, and my options this late into the seventh inning are slim.
Kordell Bailey, my friend and pitching coach—the best in the league if my opinion alone were enough to declare him so—is already picking up the phone and calling the bullpen, relaying the decisions we discussed just moments ago. We’re putting in our third reliever already, with Beck finding himself ordered to start warming up.
In a perfect world, he’d sit until the ninth, but I can’t guarantee that tonight, no matter how much I love this team.
Out on the mound, Brady Keller is floundering. There’s an awkwardness to the way he pulls his knee up before throwing that I noticed instantly but let go. That small mistake cost usback-to-back hits, soon to be a third. The first two bases are occupied as the third batter finds his footing at home plate.
It’s tense in the dugout as we watch Brady drag his palm down his thigh and reach up to flex the brim of his hat once again. Someone clears their throat, and then there’s a presence beside me. A flick of my eyes reveals Finn taking the spot on my right, his sunglasses shielding the gaze he’s fixed on the mound.
“He’s rattled,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Garrett’s next?”
I slowly release a choppy exhale. “Yes.”
The moment Brady pulls up his leg and discomfort pulls at his mouth, I prepare myself for the hit. When the bat makes contact, the force sends the ball right down the centre of the field. Asher Vaughn takes off toward it, his glove already lifting from his side. His speed picks up before he’s leaping into the air and closing his glove around it.
I hold my breath when he puts his feet beneath him and spins around, eyes tracking the player from second, who takes off for third. He’s fast. Really fucking fast for a guy his size, which makes him one of the best assets we have on this team. The runner pushes himself faster once Asher lets go of the ball and sends it blasting through the air toward our third baseman.
“Jesus,” Finn mutters under his breath.
Yeah.
The ball gets snapped up in the baseman’s glove half a second before the runner slides feet first through the dirt and slumps over the plate. I clap hard enough for my palms to burn when the out is called and the dugout cheers. The home crowd lights up around the stadium before I tune out the noise and nod at Kordell on my way onto the field.
Brady’s expression is visibly withdrawn as I approach him, already aware of why I’m here.
Trust in my players didn’t used to come easily for me. I joined the Havoc after a knee injury took me out of the major league, and I spent two seasons coaching in the minors. My arrival wasn’t one that went without several hitches, including an inbox full of threatening voicemails from members of this organization who didn’t believe I was ready or experienced enough for the team.
In all honesty, they were right. I wasn’t.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t bust my ass to get there.
In addition to the higher-ups, there were several players who looked at me and saw a stubborn, egotistical ex-hitter who was only here for an extra shot of fame. That couldn’t be further from the truth, and they soon realized that. Their trust was hard-earned and something I cherish deeply.
At this point in my career, I’m intentional about everything I do for this team. Whether that’s who I play and when, if I go out to celebrate when they offer an invite, or which reporters I speak to after a massive win or hard loss to ensure I don’t step into a trap meant to hurt my players. There are dozens of decisions to make every single day, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
This right here is my least favourite.
Glancing at the umpire, I point to the bullpen with my left hand before tapping that wrist with my other. Once his chin dips, I look to the stressed pitcher on the mound.
“You’re done, Brady. Garrett’s coming in now. Go take a seat and grab some water,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Rome.”
I slap a hand to his shoulder, guiding us away from the pitch. “Rest up and get your head right for tomorrow.”
Because I don’t believe in punishing a bad game with the lost opportunity to deliver a win in the next one.
He sniffs in response, and that’s that. Finn’s the first one to greet him in the dugout. They speak for a moment while I find my spot again and wait for Garrett to get to the mound.
I keep my expectations as low as possible when the game kicks back up. With every swing and a hit, I grow more relieved that I didn’t allow myself to hope here. The opposing team gets two hitters home by the time we manage to strike them out.
