My fingers tighten in my glove, my other lightly hitting against the leather. Lynch stands up when I nod to him. I’m ready, we’re good. And I know he trusts the look in my eye. He can always tell when I’m bullshitting. Dundee slaps my back, and Lynch and I make the long walk from the outfield to the dugout as the announcers introduce the lineup. It’s game time. Right now, the only thing that matters is showing my old team that they gave up on me too soon and proving to my new team that they can count on me.
Five minutes later, the national anthem is over, and I take the mound to the screams and shouts of the home crowd. My home crowd.
I can do this. The first batter steps up as I look to Lynch, I nod to the signal, and deliver the pitch. Strike. Yes. I can do this.
When Lynch throws me the ball, my glove closes around it at the same moment I glance unconsciously to the stands behind the ump. Normally, I look unseeing at the crowd behind the plate. I’m not focused there. They don’t faze me.
But a jolt of recognition zaps straight to my gut when my eyes meet hazel ones in the first row behind the plate, just to the right. What the hell is Avery doing here? She leans over, speaking closely into Bodie’s ear. Glancing to the dugout as I make my way to the rubber, I get a confused look from Dundee. There’s no way he’s more confused than I am. Did he do this?
I set up for the pitch, making a concerted effort to avoid her eyes. The ball drills into Lynch’s glove for another strike.
This is no different than any other game she’s watched. It’s fine. Taking a deep breath in, I force it out as I nod to the slider call and deliver a third strike. My eyes immediately find her smile as she claps and cheers with the fans around her. At least there’s no damn book in her hand. I give her a slight smile as Lynch returns the ball to me.
I step to the top of the mound in preparation for the next batter when I see a person take the seat beside her.
My father.
There’s panic on her face as she looks to me. What the hell is she doing sitting with my dad? He did this. But how would he know?
Lynch waves, getting my attention. As I accept his call, my body switches to autopilot. I wind up, but as I begin my forward momentum, my eyes can’t help but look at him next to her, and as I release the ball, I know it’s no good. Overthrown, it’s too high and out of the box, causing Lynch to run for it as the umpire calls ball one.
Dad sneers at me as he leans over, says something to Avery, then points to me.
“Lowe.” Dundee is standing next to me. Where the hell did he come from? With his hand over his mouth to shield his lips from watchful eyes, he says, “What the hell is wrong?”
I lift my glove over my mouth. “He’s here. Cash is sitting behind home. Get him out of here, and keep him the fuck away from Avery. Right now.”
Dundee lets his shock show for a second but doesn’t break eye contact with me. “I’ll take care of it. But I need you to hold it together. Get through this inning or at least a few more pitches until I can get Murdock ready.”
“I don’t want to be relieved. I want him out of my sight and away from her.”
“Give me a minute to get it handled, but keep your shit together, Carter. Don’t give him exactly what he wants.” Dundee lowers his hand and delivers an encouraging slap as he gives me a smile that I know is forced. He’s just as pissed as I am. And he doesn’t know the full extent of it. Goddamn, I want that bastard away from Avery.
Lynch calls a splitter that I shake off. When I finally agree to a call, I wind up and immediately find my father as I release the ball. Fuck. I’m losing it. The batter swings, getting a big enough piece to foul it. The next pitches are nowhere near where I intend them to be, and the count goes full. The hitter’s final pitch is a ball that walks him to first base.
Mac steps up to bat as I watch an usher approach the row that Avery is seated in, leaning over to say something to my father. Mac tips the first pitch, sending it to left field for a foul. And I couldn’t care less as I watch my father shrug off the usher and remain in his seat. The bastard won’t leave. He knows precisely what he’s doing.
Mac swings his bat around, squatting into his stance as he glances back. His smile taunts me. Welcome to my head, asshole. Now he’s aware of exactly what’s holding my attention—because this game sure as hell isn’t. He flashes a grin as he winks, shouting, “Make Daddy proud, Carter.”
The pain I feel in my elbow isn’t real. The bone snapping happened years ago. But I still remember the moment because that’s what I’d wanted to do—make my dad proud. I’d figured maybe he’d stop being a dickhead to me and my mom if I had a good game. Only, the opposite happened, it ignited the true beast I’ve since come to know.