Page 3 of Third Strike Smitten

It’s not that I don’t trust my brother. He’s been my catcher ever since I can remember. We grew up playing together and moved up through the ranks side by side. He knows the game and he knows my strengths and weaknesses. He never fails me even though I fail him left and right on the regular.

I wipe sweat from my brow with my forearm. The late afternoon sun is doing its thing because the diamond feels ten degrees hotter than it did even an inning ago. I’m aware of every single person in those stands in a way I shouldn’t be. There’s a guy in a yellow shirt three rows behind the dugout, a kid with a foam finger near third base, and a woman with bright red hair behind first. Ten thousand people and not one of them is here to watch me fail. They want to see a home team win.

And that’s all on me.

I nod and wind up trying to focus on the grip of the ball in my hand and nothing else. Just the grip. It feels slick in my fingers. Slicker than before. My release is a fraction too early and the pitch hangs in the air like it’s got nowhere to be, fat and slow and obvious. I know before it even gets there. The Rattlers’ cleanup hitter knows before it gets there. Hell, the kid with the foam finger even knows. The crack of the bat is less a sound than a feeling in my back teeth. The ball soars over the left field fence and the crowd splits in half—cheers on one side, groans on the other—as the runner takes his sweet time around the bases, tying the game.

Fuck my life.

“Jesus Christ, Killian!” Bishop yanks off his mask as he storms toward the mound, his catcher’s gear clanking with each angry step. Daniels, the pitching coach, is already halfway out of the dugout before thinking better of it and stopping.

“What the hell was that?” Bishop asks once he nears me.

“Bad pitch.” I keep my eyes on the dirt in front of me. The crowd’s already letting me have it.

“Bad pitch.” He repeats it back to me like I said something stupid. “You hung it, bro. You hung it and you knew you were going to hang it before you even let go.”

“And you’re the one who fucking called it when I told you not to! I shout back at him, my blood pressure rising. “You know damn well my curve has been shit today but you couldn’t let it go.”

Bishop’s the only person alive who can say something like that to my face and still be standing there a second later. He’s also the only one I know who will willingly take my shit when I turn it back on him.

Brotherly love and all.

He’s not wrong though, which is even worse. I fucked it up and knew it would happen before it left my hand and he called me on it. I should be apologizing.

But I’m in the middle of a fucking game and I’m the ace pitcher for this team, not him. Killian Haynes doesn’t fucking apologize.

“I’m fine. Just let it go.”

“Uh huh. And I say you look great, so we’re both lying.” He holds my gaze for a beat, long enough that I have to look away first, which I hate. The umpire circles a finger in the air and Bishop tucks his mask back under his arm. “Is Daniels going to pull me out?”

The last thing I want is to be pulled in the fourth inning. I know I’m having a bad night…okay, a bad string of nights, but I need to do this.

“If you keep pitching like you just did? Fucking right he will.” He taps my arm once with his glove. “Come on, man. You’re Killian fucking Haynes. Act like it.”

My brother walks back to his position and I take a deep breath, trying to find my center, but the tightness in my chest only worsens. The next batter steps up to the plate, a cocky rookie who’s been trash-talking the entire series. I need to shut him down, show everyone I’m still the ace, still the guy who can handle the pressure. Bishop is right. I’m Killian fucking Haynes, the starting pitcher for the Portland Lagers, and I’ll be damned if I let this rookie take me out. Though my fingers feel numb as I grip the ball, I wind up and release, and the pitch sails high and outside.

Ball one.

Fuuuck.

The crowd’s gripes grow louder.

“Put that one away Haynes,” the same voice from a moment ago calls out again, brighter now, like she’s settling in for a full conversation. “That curve’s got a kink. Bring her back once she’s been a good girl.”

The crowd around her chuckles and I hear their laughter from the mound. I should be pissed. I should want to flip her off and have her ejected from the game, but deep down in my soul, I know she’s right. My curveball sucks ass today and Bishop won’t leave it alone. My arm’s a fraction late. My brain’s five steps ahead of my body and none of it is lining up.

I look for his signal as the rookie waggles his bat, eager for another mistake on my part.

Of course he calls another curve.

Fuck the curveballs, bro.

I hold his gaze a second longer this time and give my head the slightest shake staring him down, refusing to take his call. Maybe this time he should trust me instead of the other way around.

After a lengthy standoff between Hop and I, he shakes his head and signals something I can agree with.

Fastball.