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“Please,” she replied. “If I were a babysitter, you guys would actually have to listen to me from time to time.”
“Or else you’d give us a spanking.” Ramon waggled his brows.
“That’s enough. Jasper, let’s trade.” She laughed and indicated to Ramon he should roll over.
“I don’t think that will stop him,” Jasper said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Interleague play was a bit of an oddity for the team. Normally they only played other American League teams, except for a month in June when they faced the odd National League team. But since the Astros had moved leagues, interleague games had become more frequent out of a necessity to have even matchups.
Which was how the Felons came to be playing the New York Mets that night. The Yankees were their usual New York opponents, and it had been more than a year since the Felons had last played the Mets. Long enough each team had forgotten the quirks of the other players, or how to face off against certain pitchers. Certainly long enough for major roster changes and a shift in each team’s fortunes.
The Mets had long been a bit of a laughingstock in their division, whereas the Felons often rode in the first or second spot of their own. Now both teams were having a wonderful season, leading their divisions by a huge margin with all the sports blogs considering them sure things in the playoffs.
It was going to be a hell of a weekend series, with two giant teams battling it out in the national stage. The cap of the three-game showdown was an “ace off”—a battle of the teams’ two best pitchers—between Tucker and the Mets up-and-coming phenom Harry Mendoza. But that was two games away. Tonight, Miles would be up against one of their moderately skilled starting pitchers.
This would be the foreplay period for the teams. Feeling out each other’s skills and learning what they could ahead of the bigger, more heavily touted match on Saturday.
But it didn’t matter what the media had to say about the match because Alex could only think of one thing when he stared at the lineup card for the night’s match.
M. Hernandez.
Matt. Liv’s father and Alice’s ex. The very reason he’d had so much trouble overcoming her apprehensions about baseball players. The man she’d admitted was the cause of most of her misgivings about men in general.
He was batting third.
Alex crouched behind the plate like a coiled spring set to shoot up at any moment. At the pitcher’s mound, Miles looked good, the nerves and wiry energy of the previous season having faded away, leaving the kid as calm and ready as a pro.
The lead-off batter fanned—striking out swinging on his first up. The second batter hit a single, just inside the foul line behind first base. Then came Matt Hernandez. From Alex’s vantage he appeared much the same as most players—thick thighs, dusty shoes and a black shin guard over his gray pants. But something about his presence on the plate rankled Alex in a way no other player had.
Instead of any teasing jabs he might throw out to a player he was familiar with, Alex remained silent behind home, chewing the inside of his cheek out of frustration as he gave Miles the signals. Alex had spent some time watching tapes of the Mets batters, the same as the pitching staff had, and he knew Matt liked to swing at the fastballs, so Alex called for a change-up. It was a pitch that looked like a fastball but slowed down as it approached the plate, leading most batters to swing far too soon.
It worked like a charm. Matt gave a mighty swing, but the bat sliced through the air and the ball landed in Alex’s mitt with a satisfying whack.
“Fuck,” Matt grumbled, kicking the dirt in the batter’s box. A red
cloud billowed out in Alex’s direction.
The next pitch was a ball inside, sending Matt dancing backwards, his grumbling elevated. “You call for that one, Ross?” he asked, never glancing backwards or acknowledging Alex in anything other than name.
“What?” Alex replied.
“You think because you’re sticking your dick in my sloppy seconds it’s cool for you to call for bullshit plays like that?”
“Gentlemen,” the home-plate umpire growled, “let’s keep things civil and continue playing the game.” He kept his tone light but was stern in the manner of a friendly schoolteacher. It was his way of preventing the mood from getting too heavy but letting them know he meant business.
“No arguments here, Barry.” Alex shifted himself back into position, trying to ignore Matt’s spiteful words.
“Carry on, then.”
Alex made his call, and though it might not have been in his best interest, he called for another ball inside. Miles shook his head, and Alex made the same call. Miles shook him off again. The pitcher jerked his head more firmly, and this time Alex listened. He made the request for a straight-up fastball, and Miles nodded his agreement.
This time Matt didn’t miss. The hit made a cracking sound on the bat so deep and loud Alex didn’t need to follow it to know where it would wind up. The sound was a distinctive sign, a surefire herald of a home run. Alex lifted his mask to watch the hit go, and in a very unsportsmanlike move, so did Matt.
He didn’t just give it a passive glance. Instead, Matt tossed the bat down and tracked the ball’s path until it was well over the stands. Then he turned to Miles and jerked his chin at the pitcher before strutting towards first base to run his lap.
“What a prick.” Alex lowered his mask and punched the inner pouch of his glove.
