AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Andy shifted his body and held his glove up. Ryan lined up, visualized the pitch, and launched. Motherfucker. Once again, he’d thrown the ball perfectly where the glove was and once again, the pitch was wrong. This time inside.
Five more pitches all the same. Andy wasn’t holding his glove where it needed to be to give him the proper marker. How many times had they gone over where he liked it held for each pitch? Andy had one fucking job. Hold his glove where Ryan needed it held and then catch the goddamn ball. Andy was no fucking good to him if he didn’t hold his mitt in the right place.
Coach and Andy walked out toward him on the mound.
“What’s going on? You seem a bit off today,” Gill said.
“I’m not off, your boy here—” He pointed his finger at Andy. “—Isn’t holding the fucking sequence right.”
“Fuck you, Graves. I’m holding my fucking mitt exactly where it’s supposed to be. You just can’t hit the target.”
“Is that why the pitch lands in your glove without you moving a fucking muscle?”
“Keep telling yourself that, superstar,” Andy mocked.
“Do your fucking job and hold your goddamn glove where it’s supposed to be,” Ryan snarled.
Coach Gill stepped closer to Ryan. “Ryan?” Coach’s brow knit with concern.
Ryan took a deep breath to calm himself down. This wasn’t him. He could always separate life from baseball. What happened in the locker room was left in the locker room. The field had always been his sanctuary, like going to church. While he was on the field, the rest of the world ceased to exist. So why the hell was he struggling to do that today?
“Sorry,” he muttered to the pitching coach. It wasn’t Coach’s fault Andy was an asshole.
“You got your pitcher all sorted, Coach?” Andy’s eyebrow cocked up, taunting Ryan.
Gill turned and poked Andy in the chest. “That’s not helping. You do your job and hold the glove where you know Ryan likes it, and Ry will do his job and get it in the fucking pocket.”
“His shitty attitude has nothing to do with my glove. He’s just sour cuz he realized he’s snacking on my sloppy seconds,” Andy taunted.
Ryan saw red. He lunged toward Andy who stumbled back. If the coach hadn’t grabbed hold of Ryan’s waist, he would have sent Andy on his ass.
“Ryan,” Coach snapped. “What the fuck?” Gill pointed at Andy. “Get the fuck back to your spot. Ryan, my office. Now.”
Ryan glared at Andy, who gave Ryan a taunting salute before he turned and walked back toward home plate.
Ryan followed the pitching coach as he walked down the tunnel toward his office. Neither of them spoke a word. Once inside the office, Ryan closed the door behind himself and paced around the room.
“Sit your ass down,” Coach snarled.
Ryan dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk.
“You mind telling me what the fuck that was out there?” Coach demanded.
“Not really.” He was pissed, not only at Andy, but at himself. He knew better than to let someone get in his head. Andy was an asshole. He’d always been an asshole.
“Not an option, Ryan. If you want to see the field tomorrow night, you better start talking.”
Defiantly, he widened his legs in his seat, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees as he pinned his coach with a stare. “You wouldn’t bench me. You know I’m the best pitcher to line up against New York.”
“Watch me,” Coach growled. “You’re a great pitcher, Ryan. We all know that. But what I saw out there on the field was some bush-league shit. And that kind of bullshit is how you lose games, not win them.” Coach leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, start talking if you want to play.”
Unable to continue sitting in his chair, he pushed up and walked around the confined space on his side of the office. “I’m sorry about losing my cool.” He angrily scrubbed his hand across his face. “I wasn’t making excuses. Andy wasn’t holding the sequence right, but I could have handled it better.”
“You think?” Coach rocked back and forth slightly in his chair, never uncrossing his arms as he watched Ryan. “I’ll deal with Andy later. But we both know he’s a jealous little shit, and he always tries to fuck with you and make you look bad when he thinks you’re getting too big for your britches. You normally rub it in by making the pitch despite where he holds his fucking glove. That’s the thing that makes you so great, Ryan. You know your body and what you can do. You can visualize better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Ryan dropped back down into his chair. “I know. I couldn’t get out of my head like I normally can, so I needed the fucking glove to be where it was supposed to be today to hit it.”
“Why?” Coach rocked again. The squeaking of the seat set Ryan’s teeth on edge and, from the look on Gill’s face, he knew it. “Talk to me, Ryan. I gather it had something to do with Peyton.”
