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I don’t reply to him, because I’m preoccupied by the fact that he’s handing the bat to Lennon.Shit. I was hoping two straight outs would push this back one inning. Maybe two. Maybe never, if we grew a commanding enough lead, which I’m certain we will. No one here is going to be able to hit off me.
Right now, I’m quite annoyed with Lennon Matthews. But I still experience a rush of pride as she moves to stand at home plate. Because she adopts a stance identical to the one I taught her during our baseball lessons senior year.
Once again, I’m grateful for the cover my glove provides. I don’t have a lot of time to decide how I’m going to play this.
People paid close attention to me striking out Ryan, but it was nothing compared to the scrutiny I can feel on me now. This is primetime entertainment.
The longer I hesitate, the worse it will get.
I’m irritated with Lennon, but I can’t make myself throw the ball much harder than a gentle toss. It’s a throw Ryan would have knocked a couple hundred yards. That Robin probably would have at least made contact with. Lennon comes close, but she doesn’t tap the baseball. Her hazel eyes narrow at me, as she realized I took it easy on her.
Colt tosses the baseball back into my glove.
I know I could hurl it whizzing past Lennon before she even batted an eye. But I can’t do it. I want her to have a chance to hit it.
So I lob her another softball, one she doesn’t even attempt to hit. “Are you fucking kidding me, Winters?” she yells, loud enough for every outfielder to hear.
Anyone who wasn’t already paying attention to us sure as hell is now.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I call back. “You can’t hit the ball if you don’t even bother swinging, Matthews.”
“I can’t hit a ball that takes ten minutes to reach home plate, either,” Lennon retorts.
“Here, let me help.” Ryan steps forward and crowds next to Lennon. He whispers something to her as I grind my teeth. She doesn’t encourage him, but she sure doesn’t push him away either.
Fuck it.
I throw the third strike as soon as she looks at me, poised to hit the ball. But unlike the last two, she doesn’t have a prayer of doing so. I don’t check my speed or force; all I bother to do is ensure the ball is as far away from her as possible while remaining in the pocket.
The sound of leather hitting leather resonates around the field. I give Colt an apologetic look. Even with the glove, I doubt his hand is feeling too great right now. That was at least ninety-five. Maybe a hundred.
Lennon looks stunned.
She asked for it, but I don’t think she expected for me to deliver.
I drop my glove on the mound for the next pitcher, then walk toward the dugout. I skirt the edge of the field, so I don’t encounter anyone on the other team.
“I’m going to have a bruise tomorrow,” Colt mutters to me, shaking his right hand.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to throw that hard.”
“Yeah, you did.”
I don’t deny it as our first batter heads to hit Jake’s pitch.
The game proceeds, but it’s lopsided. The teams are pretty evenly matched, aside from me. No one on the opposing team can hit a single ball I throw, not even Luke or Jake, which means we score run after run, while the other team can’t manage one.
Luke has had his fill after three innings. “Let Adams pitch, Winters!”
Normally, I would resist being replaced. But right now? I could not care less.
I lost my pleasant buzz a while ago, and most of the people watching and playing are oblivious to the fact I’m throwing pitches that college players would have a hard time hitting. It’s the only outlet I have for my anger at the moment.
“Fine.” I stride toward home plate, barely pausing to toss the baseball to Colt as we switch places.
“Matthews! You’re up,” Jake yells.
She’s not. Robin Jones is next in the batting order. I glance over at Jake. He grins at me. I don’t know whether to be grateful or pissed about his interference.
