Pitch Please (There's No Crying in Baseball 1)

“Something happened.”

“What happened?” I pushed.

“Something overseas. Your dad got a call. They think your brother was hurt on a mission.” she said quietly.

My stomach dropped for a second time that day and stayed somewhere around my knees.

“I’ll call you back.”

The moment I hung up, I called my mother.

“What’s going on?” I asked the moment she picked up.

My mother started crying.

“Mom!” I barked, not liking the hesitation.

“Your brother…he was hurt over there…they said,” she moaned between crying jags.

“Give me the phone, woman,” my dad’s barking command broke in.

I took a deep breath and waited.

My dad wasn’t the most eloquent man in the world, but I knew he’d get all the information across without having to hear my mother crying her eyes out.

“Your brother and his team were on a mission when they were ambushed. Three of his teammates are dead. Two were captured, and one was injured. That’s the one they think is your brother.”

“They think?” I pushed.

“Corvallis couldn’t give us much more than that,” Dad explained.

Corvallis was a family friend, and the leader of the team of misfits. When Corvallis left the Air Force, he lured my brother away, too. Helping him join the world of black ops, and together, they formed a covert organization that even I didn’t know that much about.

My dad and Corvallis had served together, and that bond was still as tight now as it was thirty years ago, though somewhat strained when Corvallis didn’t give us all the information we wanted, when we wanted it.

Corvallis had promised to keep an eye out on Hannibal, and he’d done so, giving us updates even though we didn’t sometimes like those updates. Like now.

“Where’s he at?” I croaked.

“Germany, for now,” Dad said. “Gonna head out later tonight.”

I rubbed my sternum, suddenly feeling so much turmoil rolling around in my chest that I didn’t know what to do.

“The All-Star break is coming up next week. I’m going to play tonight’s game, and tomorrow’s,” I cleared my throat. “Then I’ll have a few days to come.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable, Son,” Dad agreed. “I believe they might even transfer him again before then, so it’d be good to wait a few days to come out so we know where he’s headed next.”

I looked blankly at the long hallway, not seeing anything in particular.

“Love you, Pop.”

“Love you too, Son. Be good.”

The familiar saying made a small smile kick up the corner of my mouth, but just as quickly, it fell.

Dad used to say that to Hannibal and I, but he really was talking more to Hannibal than me. Hannibal and I were okay apart, but together we were atrocious. Though, most of that was because Hannibal was crazy.

Not crazy, crazy, but crazy as in he would do anything crazy.

“You better be okay, fucker,” I whispered a quiet prayer. “You better be okay.”

***

I walked into the dugout two minutes before game time.

I’d missed the national anthem. I’d missed the opening pitch that I normally caught. I also almost missed my kiss from Sway.

Though that was something I collected on despite the fact that the whole entire world was probably watching us.

At this point in the day, I was tired of everything. I was literally on the verge of a mental breakdown, and I needed my woman.

“You okay?” she asked once the kiss ended.

She ran her hand over my hair, then smoothed her soft fingers over my beard.

“No,” I told her truthfully. “I’m about as far from okay as a man can get right now.”

She closed her eyes, and then opened them. “He’ll be okay.”

He would.

That I knew.

The question was whether he would be the same.

“Ready to play ball, boys?” Coach Siggy bawled.

He looked at me specifically, and I nodded.

“Ready.”

We weren’t ready.

We sucked it up.

Bad.

Gentry hit three players. I missed the goddamned ball more often than I caught it. Rhys was fucking up and making errors right along with us, and we didn’t get a single hit the entire game.

“Good game,” the other team’s first baseman said as he collected the bat that was laying on the ground next to my feet.

I looked over at him, sweat dripping down my face and into my eyes.

“Yeah,” I lied.

He slapped me on the back. “How’s the kid?”

“Out of surgery. He’s alive…but they’re not sure if he’ll make it yet or not.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he murmured quietly. “Keep us updated, okay?”

I nodded once and watched him leave, wondering if the entire world was aware of what had happened to George only hours before the game.

But they were only aware of one part of the turmoil I was feeling right then, and hopefully, they would never be the wiser.

***

Four days later

I knew the minute I picked up the phone that something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

“Hello?” I answered, disrupting not just my sleep, but Sway’s and my dog’s as well.

“I know it’s late,” my dad’s voice broke into the quiet. “But we need to talk.”