Quit Your Pitchin' (There's No Crying in Baseball 2)

“Mommmmmmmmmmaaaaaa!”

“Better go Mama,” I ordered, smacking her ass. “I have to pee. Then I have to drive over to my place and get my gear. I’ll be back and we can head to the fields.”

Then she was in my arms again. For about four seconds until the screaming of ‘hungry!’ started.

She laughed as she walked away, and I felt my broken heart’s pieces start to shift back into place.

***

“You got ‘em set up in the box?” Gentry asked.

I nodded and slipped my socks up over my calves. “Yep.”

“They doing okay?” he pushed.

I gestured to my phone, which sat open next to my thigh.

Gentry bent over and picked it up, bringing it up to his face.

The moment he saw the picture, he started to laugh.

“That’s hilarious,” he said. “I bet he thinks he’s in seventh heaven.”

“No doubt,” I agreed. “And he has all the fruit, drinks, and attention he may ever need or want.”

That was due partially to the fact that he was surrounded by my grandmother’s new husband’s grandchildren—all girls—who were ages fourteen to twenty-three. There were eight of them. All of them also thought that Micah was the shit.

They were calling him ‘Baby George’ according to Wrigley.

And they thought he was the cutest thing ever.

“I wonder what I have to do to get that kind of special treatment,” Gentry joked.

“Get hit by a car,” came Rhys’ reply.

I looked at him with very little humor on my face.

Rhys winced. “I’m sorry. That was extremely insensitive.”

It was, but my mouth still kicked up at the edges. “True enough, I guess.”

I offered him my hand, and he took it.

“I’m glad everything is okay, man,” Rhys murmured. “I really was scared to death for you.”

I gave him a back slap and then walked to the training room to get my wrist wrapped. All the while I realized that the last time I’d been in this place, my whole life had changed.

But my son was all right.

My wife was back at my side.

And nothing else could change that.

The media, however, didn’t see things how we saw it.

They only saw the story.

***

Four hours later

At first, I honestly just thought that we’d lucked out.

The game was a success. We’d won…but tomorrow we’d be traveling to fucking Kentucky. Kentucky meant that neither Wrigley nor Micah could go. Which would then cause me to be away from both of them for the first time since Micah’s accident.

And I was not looking forward to that.

Hence the sour mood I was in as I held Micah in my arms and walked with Wrigley back to the apartment.

We’d made it to the last block that would lead us to the buildings when they spotted us.

We’d slipped out the back doors today on the way to the game, and they’d completely missed not only our arrival but our departure.

This time, we hadn’t been so lucky.

“Fuck,” I snarled. “Goddammit.”

It was as if they’d heard me, too.

The moment that the last syllable left my mouth, the entire crowd of cameras turned in our direction.

“Get behind me,” I ordered.

Wrigley did, and I handed her Micah—who was blissfully asleep—and deposited myself in front of them.

My temper was legendary. I’d more than earned the name ‘Furious George’ over the last nine months, and I was about to show them exactly why I’d earned it.

“Go inside,” I ordered as we approached the side door of the apartment.

Wrigley hitched Micah up into her arms and started inside.

The paparazzi tried to crowd her to take photos, but I lost it.

I pulled the closest one to touching her back by his jacket and realized too late that it was her freakin’ brother of all people.

He hit the ground with a solid thud, and I went for the next one.

Over and over I pulled and yanked until Wrigley made it inside, then I started to really get upset.

This was all their fucking fault.

They not only ruined our marriage—because I knew deep down it’d been the media attention that had shined the spotlight on Diamond’s deteriorating condition that had made her accuse me of things that she never would’ve done had I not been in the position that I was.

Then there were the months and months of them following me around, asking how I was doing when they knew damn well that I was falling apart.

Yeah, I just wasn’t in a good place.

Not at all.

Which was how, when the cops showed up, I ended up in the back of the cop car next to Dodger.

“What the fuck, man?” Dodger asked, a rag pressed to his nose to contain the blood that was still running out of it. “What did I ever do to you?”

“Why are you at our apartment?” I asked.

“‘Our apartment?’” he sneered. “Last I heard, this was Wrigley’s apartment. And since when do I need permission to check on my nephew?”

“My brother and sister are assholes, and even they called to make sure that he was okay. Where the hell have you been?” I countered.