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

The warmth in his tone was soothing.

I was very tired.

“If you want more, you better get used to it.”

“Okay, we’ll have one.”

I snorted. “We’ll have more. I just gotta forget about this one’s birth first,” I disagreed, running one finger down the length of Micah’s cheek.

Micah turned and started to root, but I moved my hand back, causing him to settle.

“I feel like I’m drowning when I think about having to raise him,” I whispered. “It scares the crap out of me that I’ll break him.”

“We’ll be bungling through this parenthood thing together,” he teased. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We will.”

“Turn out those lights, baby. Let’s get some sleep while we can.”

I reached for the lights on the railing of the bed at my side.

“You gonna put him in his crib?” I asked.

“For tonight, I think I’ll just hold him.”

I turned out the lights, and the room was plunged into darkness except for the light that was still on in the bathroom.

“I don’t regret doing this so fast,” I whispered into the darkness.

I felt George’s lips on my forehead.

The cool tingle of his lips against my overheated skin made me smile.

“Something this beautiful—this perfect—is not a mistake. Rough. Tough. Seemingly impossible and beautiful. This is how it was always meant to be.”

Nothing, not anything, would ever break us.Part IIChapter 8Baseball is an acquired taste. Only those with good taste like it.

-Baseballism

George

“George, what do you want for Christmas?” the reporter asked me.

My wife back in my arms at night, my son in his bed under the same roof, and for this nightmare to disappear so I could live with my family again.

I wanted to answer the question almost about as much as I wanted to take another ninety-eight mile an hour fastball to the shoulder. However, our team manager had flat out told me that I had no choice but to be nice or our ratings would suffer.

Honestly, I didn’t care about ratings.

I didn’t care about much these days. However, I did care about the team.

The team was the only thing in this shitty little world that was keeping me sane right now with all the crap that was swirling around me.

And I wouldn’t let them down, no matter how much I wanted to yank the reporter’s microphone out of my face and shove it down his throat.

I hated this reporter.

He was a condescending jerk, and I’d like nothing more than to watch him beg as I pounded the shit out of him.

Especially since he was the one who’d started this all, the asshole.

“Well, Christmas is still about two and a half months away. Honestly, the only thing on my mind at this point is winning this playoff game, and hopefully getting into the World Series. That, I think, would be a great early Christmas present.” I smiled, baring my teeth a little too long at the reporter for it to be considered a ‘nice’ smile.

Dodger, yes, his actual name was fucking Dodger, winked at me.

Fucking winked.

“And how is your son doing now? I heard last week that he’s finally started walking.” Dodger smiled, acting for all the world as if he actually gave a fuck.

Which he didn’t.

Because if he had, he’d have fucking asked his goddamn sister himself how his nephew was doing, not me.

“Micah’s doing well.” I kept that short and sweet.

I didn’t want Micah’s face plastered all over everything, but like always, I knew that the goddamn news station had already split the screen and posted a few shots of my son on the ground, toddling like only a new walker could do. It was a picture that Wrigley had sent to her friend. Her friend who had then sold the same picture to the goddamn news stations and magazines seconds after she got it.

Why?

Because I was a hot fucking commodity, and the media and fans wanted to know everything there was to know about me, no matter how big or small.

Because it wasn’t every day that you had to file a restraining order against your wife’s sister because she tried to shoot you.

Wrigley, her sister Diamond, and Dodger were family. Their parents were dead, and Dodger, being the oldest, should’ve been taking care of his family. Only, Dodger did what he did best. Dodge.

Leaving Wrigley, who was seventeen at the time of their parents’ deaths, to take care of Diamond who was five years younger. Wrigley was more of a motherly figure to Diamond rather than a sister, so it was understandable that she’d be protective of her.

I could still picture the scene in my mind: the day that had ruined my life.

Diamond had been in a car accident a few weeks after our son, Micah, was born.

She’d hit her head pretty hard, and had suffered a pretty terrible concussion.

That concussion had abated, but the results of that concussion hadn’t.