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But I aimed to show the whole world that with three years before my thirtieth birthday, I deserved to be getting at least one of those huge contracts. The ones that would set me up for life in a way that my previous arbitration contracts had only hinted at. The kind of life that would ensure that the only thing I ever had to worry about again was picking up a baseball and throwing it very hard.
I glanced over at my coach, who grinned. He was retiring at the end of the year, and we had discussed already how I was likely to test the free agent market. He promised to put me on the mound on days where I was most visible, making sure that I wasn’t overworked, but trusting me in big games to tell him when I was done. So far, he had kept his word, and with a nationally televised audience for today’s game, I was going to be on display against a lineup I felt like I had a bead on.
I ran to the mound, scuffing the ground near the rubber. Pushing my heel against it, I put myself into a set position and glared down at my catcher. Ricky Perez was a damn fine catcher, terrific at keeping the number of passed balls down, and he seemed to know how to keep my rhythm so I didn’t feel like I was throwing too fast or slow and that I didn’t start getting into a rut of relying on the same pitch too much.
I had ten warm up pitches, and as I wound up for the first one, Ricky slid to the right. He seemed to instinctively know what I was going to throw. I knew I kept my windup extremely similar and my grip hidden as much as possible, but Ricky was so damn good at watching my body language and catching a flash of my fingers that he knew what pitch was coming, even when he didn’t call for it.
Slider, down and away. The smack of the mitt was gratifying, and the ball went exactly where I wanted. The next nine would be straight fastballs, just finishing off warming up my arm, but throwing that slider off the mound was a big confidence boost. I smiled and held my glove up for him to toss it back. That’s when I saw it.
A sign, just behind the mound a couple of rows up. It had my old high school mentioned on it. I couldn’t believe it. Someone from all the way down in Murdock, Texas was at Yankee Stadium and watching me play. I caught the ball as it was tossed to me and peered up to see if I could see who it was. Maybe it was an old teacher or student I'd gone to school with.
The sign moved to the side, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Unless my eyes were deceiving me, that was Mallory sitting behind home plate.
I had to remind myself that my eyes might very well be playing tricks on me. I thought about Mallory all the time, especially when I was super stressed out and needed to think about something for a break. She would always come into my mind, and I would have one of two reactions. Either laughter would bubble up and I would smile, thinking about things she said or how cute she was or her voice when she sang during the shows. Or my body would react, and I would find myself replaying our interactions with very different outcomes.
I might have just dreamed her up. The stress of making sure I pitched well today was intense, and I might have finally just snapped. It could be anyone out there—hell, the sign could be saying something entirely different, and I was just imagining it all. But the more I stared, the more I thought it actually was her. Mallory had come to see me pitch. She had even brought a sign.
Walking back to the mound, I felt an extreme sense of focus descend on me. Suddenly, the nationwide TV audience didn’t mean anything anymore. Neither did impending free agency or anything else. All that mattered was Mallory was there, and that meant I was going to pitch the game of my life. I almost felt sorry for the guys in pinstripes. It was going to be a long evening for them.
I finished my warmup pitches and waited for the first batter to come up to the plate. He was well known for being a high contact hitter, excelling at taking walks and fouling off close pitches. Working around guys like that never seemed to work. It was best to go straight through them like a buzzsaw.
Ricky put one finger down. Fastball. I nodded and wound up.
Ninety-six miles per hour, down and in. He took it for a strike. A shockingly large number of people cheered.
I looked up to see the girl who looked an awful lot like Mallory clapping. The people on either side of her I didn’t recognize, but they seemed to be looking at her rather often. I tore my eyes away. I had a job to do.
Two more outs, a lazy pop fly to right center, and a hard grounder to first and the inning was over. I started walking off the field and glanced up to where the girl was. It had to be Mallory. And she was looking directly at me.
I jogged down the steps of the dugout while the boys around me grabbed helmets and talked strategy. The opposing pitcher was working high and tight. They needed to be ready if he went headhunting. That sort of thing would not only be dangerous to them, but it would cause repercussions. Ones that I would be charged with dealing out.
The dugout had a step before the railings, letting the boys stand up a bit as they leaned over the rails to watch the game. Normally, as a pitcher, I would keep my eyes on the field but would sit at the far end of the bench, sometimes keeping a warm compress on my shoulder. Not yet though. Right now, I only wanted to keep an eye on Mallory. I stepped up on to the step and leaned over the railing, craning my neck to get a look at her.
Ricky came up on one side of me, and a newer player, a kid up from the minors who played short, came up on the other. He looked over my shoulder to see what I was looking at and let out a whistle.
“Damn, she’s beautiful,” he said. “You know that girl?”
“Which one?” I asked, pretending not to know who he was talking about.
“The redhead,” he said. “Come on man, don’t tell me you can’t see her. She has a sign with your name on it, bro.”
“I see her,” I said. “She’s a girl from back home. We went to high school together.”
All I knew was that if the kid, whose name I hadn’t fully committed to memory yet, said something lascivious, he was going to catch a bit of time in the doghouse. I might not be one of the old vets, but I had some pull. If he didn’t want to ride the pine for a few weeks, he’d be careful about what he said.
Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut, going quiet for a few minutes before making a comment on one of our batters’ stances. I ignored him. I was busy watching Mallory laughing and talking with a guy sitting beside her. A twinge of jealousy that I had absolutely no right to went up my spine and made me grit my teeth. I forced myself to pop gum into my mouth and start to chew so I didn’t grind them into dust.
It was irrational. I shouldn’t be feeling jealous over a girl I had seen twice in ten years. Yet there I was, wanting very much for our own offense to be done so I could go fire fastballs as hard as my arm would allow me and work off some of the frustration. The kid had been right about one thing: Mallory was beautiful. She had been beautiful before, but now she was downright incredible.
I couldn’t help but feel jealous. I wanted to get her attention, but from this direction I wasn’t even sure if she could clearly see me. Then she glanced over, and our eyes locked. She smiled, and I thought maybe she could. It gave me an idea.
7
MALLORY
“So this is good,” Tamara said. “He’s doing really well, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’s doing great.”
