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MACK
Crouched behind the plate,I put down the next signal for a slider. When Owen rejects it, I give it again. I know the batter, he’s going to take the bait, but if Owen throws another fastball in the strike zone, it’ll be out of here and we’ll go down by a run in the eighth.
If he’ll throw the fucking slider, we can end this now.
Putting down the signal again, I try to use a little more force to emphasize my insistence.
We’re throwing this fucking slider, Thatch, and we’re getting the hell out of this inning and going to the clubhouse with another win.
Throw the fucking ball.
While we wait, I keep my eye on the runner at second. If he steps any further toward third, I’m giving Thatch the signal to throw his ass out. We could also end it there. It’s always good to keep your options open, but then Owen nods and starts his windup.
Here we go.
Getting a little lower, glove out, I prepare for the pitch, ignoring the twinge in my right knee.
As adrenaline courses through my body, that low hum I need during a game, I watch as Owen releases the pitch and the batter reaches for the ball. It all happens almost simultaneously, thanks to Thatch’s killer arm and speed.
When the ball slaps into my glove and the ump calls the strike, I flip up my mask and call out to Owen. “Fuck yeah, man. Fuck yeah.”
No one likes to talk about it, at least not out loud, but you better fucking believe we’re keeping count and realize how much closer each win gets us to clinching the division.
Gripping Owen’s hand, I pull him into my chest, heartily pounding his back. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Thanks to you,” Owen chuckles, always downplaying his greatness, which adds to how fucking awesome he is.
The rest of the team files out of the dugout and we go through the line, high fiving each one. Ross is waiting to congratulate me and Thatch on closing the deal.
It’s a team effort, but Ross put in the work tonight, going seven full innings.
None of us can deny how this season feels. We’re always gunning for the postseason, but something about this year feels different. The energy is high, the team has gelled, and we’re all doing everything we can to ensure the win.
Before I can escape down the tunnel, McIntosh stops me and redirects me to where Greer and her cameraman are set up doing post-game interviews. She’s currently talking to Freeman, who made a game changing catch in the fifth inning, but my blood starts to boil when I see the way he casually touches her arm, where a sliver of skin is exposed from her jacket sleeve being pushed up.
Standing to the side, I cross my arms over my chest and give him a death glare, hoping he feels it and gets the memo before I have to hand deliver it.
Hands off, mother fucker.
When his interview is over, he jogs off and shoulder checks me on his way by.
Yeah, we’re going to have a talk. Soon.
“Great game tonight, " Greer says, her professional smile on full display. I prefer the one she gives me when it’s just the two of us. The way she smiled appreciatively this morning when I had coffee and breakfast waiting for her or the way her lips turn up when she knows she’s hit her target with a verbal jab.
But this one is gorgeous too.
“Thanks,” I reply, giving her a wink and a smirk, as I brush my sweaty hair off my forehead. “It was a team effort.”
Her eyes narrow, as if to say,don’t put that voodoo on me, Granger.
“That stop you got on the wild pitch in the fourth was pivotal,” she continues, always impressing me with her knowledge and attentiveness to the game. With her looks, she could totally phone it in and no one would bat a lash, but she doesn’t take the easy road and I appreciate it.
“Stops like that become instinctual over the years. You don’t really have much time to think it through. All you can do is react and hope for the best.”
“Your instincts are spot on,” she continues. “There’s no question why they’ve deemed you The Brickwall. Brick, right?” Greer questions with a smirk of her own. “That’s what some of the guys call you?”
I nod, fighting back a smile. “Yeah, got that one my first year in the majors.”
