I’m tempted to steal a quick glance at the man behind the plate, but I don’t. Best to let him make this decision entirely on his own.
I draw a steady breath and visualize putting on my blinders.
Getting in the zone.
At this moment, here on this field with the sun on my shoulders, my world narrows to baseball, only baseball. And just like that, everything feels right.
That’s how this sport has always been for me. It’s been the solace from any storm. It was the escape from my home when I needed it. It was my joy, my respite, my freedom.
I settle in at the plate, adjusting my stance, digging in.
Ready.
Grant must give Sullivan the signal because the rookie pitcher pulls on the bill of his cap, nods, then lifts his glove.
He goes into the windup and fires off the white orb that whizzes right past me.
Damn.
With a thump of ball against leather, Grant fields it.
I don’t even swing. That ball flies by too fast.
Grant tosses it back out to Sullivan on the mound. Sullivan paces then settles again on the rubber.
He sends the next pitch straight down the middle; I can see it in my crosshairs. I put my weight into the swing, slicing the air.
“Strike!”
I turn around. Crosby clenches his right fist, jerks it high like he’s the umpire.
“No shit,” I say to my teammate.
“I call ’em like I see ’em,” he says with a shrug. Then his eyes light up, and he smiles. “Want a third baseman? I can also cover second. And I can cover shortstop.”
“You’re taking over for me already?”
“Maybe I am,” he says.
“We can always use another player on the field,” Grant says.
“I’m there,” Crosby says and trots out to shortstop like a kid in the park.
I settle back in, and when Sullivan goes into the windup, Grant’s words reverberate.
Don’t go easy on him.
Never.
The ball whizzes down the line, and I connect with a satisfying thwack. The grounder skitters across the field and Crosby scoops it up easily, smothering it with his glove.
I curse but then return to the plate.
“Give us another grand slam like you did in September,” Crosby shouts.
Laughing, I roll my eyes. “If only it had gotten us all the way,” I shout back, then turn to Grant. “Game against the Aces that clinched a playoff slot for us last year.”
Grant nods, a spark in his eyes. “Yup. You hit a slider off the Aces star closer to win the divisionals, and no one threw a slider to you the rest of the month.”
I whistle in appreciation. “Damn. You do know the game.”
“I do. Now get your ass in the box and hit.”
We keep it up like that for several more rounds. I get a few solid hits and put one over the fence. Sullivan strikes me out a few times and walks me once.
All because of Grant, who’s unflappable. He calls the right pitch at the right time, guiding Sullivan. Crosby and I trade off, with Crosby taking some swings, working the pitcher as I field.
It’s teamwork. It’s four guys playing pickup baseball like when we were kids, a ragtag bunch helping each other out, playing a game—loving a game.
It’s no regrets.
At least, that’s how this last hour has been for me.
I hope it’s that way for Grant too.
When the session is over, the rookie pitcher is smiling again, a grin of gratitude.
“Keep that shit up,” I say to Sullivan. “We need a good right-handed reliever.”
“Thanks, Declan,” he says. “And it is a hell of an honor to play with you. You’ve got serious game.”
“And you are doing much better, Sully,” Crosby says, knocking glove to glove. “Good job putting in the time.”
Those words tap on a recent memory. “You know how the saying goes,” I say. “Well, let’s get it right.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see a smile tugging on Grant’s lips.
Let’s get it right, indeed.
Today was a test—of concentration, form, focus.
And if I’m grading myself?
I was not one bit distracted by Grant. That’s got to be a good thing, as I weigh what to do with his offer—an offer that’s already making me revise my rules about getting involved with ballplayers.
Rules I need for my own sanity, so my emotions don’t rule me, so my cravings don’t defeat me.
But then, Grant is making me rip up all my rules.
17
Grant
I am not looking at the clock. I am not staring at the time.
I’m only checking my phone for the tenth time to see if Reese scored a big guest for her podcast. My friend started her sports interview show this year as a junior in college, and she’s already killing it, racking up downloads and fantastic reviews.
When I click on my text messages as I leave the locker room after the Texas Scoundrels game, I refuse to let it get me down that Declan hasn’t texted me about my offer.