That’s what I tell myself when their pitcher gets a second strike past me at the bottom of the eighth.
Come on, Nick. Focus.
Exhibition games technically don’t count, but they matter to me. It’s my first one with the new team, we’re up by a ridiculous amount, and I’m not about to choke in front of everyone?—
Swing. Connect. Hit.
Oh, shit, it’sgoing.
I drop my bat like the wood is on fire and make a break for first base, keeping the soaring ball in my peripheral vision as I smack the bag, turning the corner and heading for second when it lands. My legs scream as I pound the red, sandy dirt, the ball flies in, the second baseman stretches his arm out…
And I plant myself firmly on second before he even has a chance to make the catch.
“Nice one, Russell,” the second baseman says to me. A peek at his jersey tells me that he’s Kaminski, number thirty-two.
Kaminski. Where have I heard that name before…
Jax is still walking up, so I turn back to my opponent. “Hey, man. Are you related to?—”
“Hunter? Yeah, he’s my baby brother.”
An eighteen-year-old baby? And this guy doesn’t look a day over nineteen himself. “Sweet. I trained with him, like, once before Detroit called me up. He’s a good kid.”
The elder Kaminski snorts. “Is he? Maybe he only behaves inpublic.” He squints at the pitching mound and backhands my shoulder. “Your slowpoke batter’s finally ready. See you around, man.”
God, I love baseball. We’re a nice bunch. Jax is nervous; the poor guy never expected to be drafted in the first place, and he was only in baseball for the scholarship, but he’s got skills, and now he’s in the kinda-big leagues, way out of his element.
The pitcher fires, and Jax smashes the ball right down the middle, and I take off. I fly past third and round the corner toward home, stomping on the plate before seeing where the ball is now.
Jax sent it soaring out of the damn park. What the hell was he thinking, planning to become an actuary when he’s got batting skills like that? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with a traditional career, but he’s gonna go far here, and fast.
My teammates swarm me, and then a shaky Jax once he makes it home, too. We ride the high as we take our positions in the field, and once our godly pitcher strikes out three out of Anaheim's next four batters, that’s the game. We’re kept on a tight leash, though, so the team keeps the celebrations short and muted before we head home to recover for the night. There’s practice all day tomorrow, followed by another game the day after.
As soon as I step into my room, the tiredness sets in, and my bones get about ten times heavier. Jeez, I’m fuckingbeat. I drag myself to the shower and rinse off the grime that managed to accumulate between leaving the ballpark and arriving at the hotel. Once I’m done, I set my phone down on the fancy wireless charger Dean bought for me in China and collapse onto the bed. I’m facing the wrong way—my feet are on the pillow, but I’m not energetic enough to give a damn.
My relaxation lasts for a short minute before my phone vibrates. It’s a struggle to muster up the energy to lift my neck to peer at the screen, but the second I see my boyfriend’s face on the caller ID, I get a surge through my whole body like I stuck a fork into a power socket.
Scrambling to the other end of the bed and messing up thecrisp sheets, I grab my phone off the charger and smack the green button to answer Dean’s call.
His tired, handsome face pops up, his eyes relaxed, with rugged stubble defining his jaw. If I wasn’t about to pass out from my own fatigue, I’d make some kind of comment, but I simply sigh and lie down the way Dean is, a heavy duvet drawn up to his chin and making him look so freaking cozy.
What I’d give to be there with him, even though it’s sixty degrees colder in New Hampshire.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, slurring my words.
He stays casual, keeping his tone light. “Nothing much, I wanted to call before I pass out for the night.”
My heart squeezes. He’s so considerate. “Yeah, I’m about to sleep, too. Training is kicking my ass.”
A gentle chuckle comes through the phone, and my god, Dean’s reactions are always so adorable. He’s so expressive, and his eyebrows always do this funny kind of movement that makes it impossible to tear my eyes away from them.
“You call me because you miss me or something?” I don’t need to ask, do I? He’s been missing me; that much is clear.
“You got it.”
Offering a weak smirk, I decide on giving him more of what he so clearly wants. “Or maybe there’s something else?”
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, chuckling. “I’m way too tired, but maybe later.”
