Travis calls for change-up, but I shake him off. I was lucky enough that this guy skimmed my last change-up. I’m not risking it again.
Two outs and the third is coming two pitches from now. Bottom of the seventh inning and we’re up 3-1 on Miami. That run pissed me off. I lost focus and pitched right into the batter’s pocket, where Miami’s second baseman sent it flying into the bleachers past right field.
Thankfully, no other runners were on the bases, but that’s the last time I think about Miller fucking Montgomery while I’m on the mound.
It’s her first night with Max, and I’d assume from the glimpse I got of her this morning, it’ll also be her last. There’s no way she won’t fuck this up.
Travis, my catcher, changes his call, giving me what I want—a four-seam fastball. I need this inning over. No unnecessary runners on the bases, no extra time spent running through pitch sequences. Just up and down. Three at-bats. Three outs.
Giving him a nod, I straighten my body and align my fingers over the laces of the ball in my glove. Deep breath and I go through my mechanics, sending a fastball high and outside. Just high and outside enough that the batter swings and misses, earning me my second strike.
He’s pissed at himself, and I love that. I can see the frustration even from the mound. And when Travis gives me my next pitch, I know he’s going to be real pissed when I get my final strike on a slider.
It’s similar to my curveball, but my slider is deadly. This is only the second season that Travis has been my catcher, but he knows this is how I like to end an inning. It’s effective, and right now I need efficiency so I can get back to the dugout and check on my son.
Like clockwork, the batter swings as the ball takes a downward curve, cutting inside.
Three strikes. Three outs. Inning over.
Travis meets me halfway between home plate and the pitchers’ mound, connecting his catcher’s glove to my own. “Damn, Ace. You’re going to bruise my palm with that speed. How’s the arm?”
I round my shoulders. “Still feels good.”
I would add that I’ve got at least another inning in me, but I wouldn’t dare speak that out loud. Superstitions and all that.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“Let’s go, big bro!” Isaiah jogs in from his position between second and third base, smacking my ass with his glove. “What’s gotten into you tonight?”
I steadily jog to the dugout with them. “Just ready for this game to be over. Would like for it to happen as quickly as possible.”
“Fucking hell,” he laughs. “Is this because of the hot nanny?”
“What the hell did you say, Rhodes?” Monty yells out as we pass him, taking the stairs into the dugout where I’m met with ass slaps, shoulder claps, and endless praise for tonight’s pitching.
“Nothing. I don’t think I said anything.” He looks around. “Nope, didn’t hear anything either.”
“Good. I like you a whole lot better when you don’t speak.” He palms the back of my head. “Nice pitching, Ace.”
Nodding, I find the first staff member who isn’t busy.
“Sanderson,” I call out to one of our trainers as I take a seat on the back of the bench, high enough to give me a view of the field. “You got your phone on you?”
His eyes bounce to mine nervously, probably because he knows better than to speak to a pitcher between innings. In fact, I typically don’t talk at all, and my teammates know not to break my focus once I take a seat on the bench, but tonight is the exception.
Seven innings down which makes this the seventh text I’ve sent to Miller. Only I can’t be the one to do it because there are too many cameras focused on me in the dugout.
“Send a text for me,” I call out before rattling off Miller’s number I memorized this afternoon.
“What should I say?”
“Checking in. Ask her how Max is and remind her she can bring him here if she’s having trouble with him. You can take him off her hands, right?”
“Ace!” Monty calls out. “Stop texting my daughter and focus on the goddamn game.”
“Hey, you’re the one who not only raised an absolute wild card, but also hired her to watch my son. This is your fault.”
A crack of a smile peeks through his lips.
Sanderson clears his throat. “She texted back.” He reads from his phone with absolutely no inflection in his voice. “She says, ‘Tell Kai if he doesn’t leave me alone, I’m going to feed his kid all the sugar I can find in this hotel, sit him in front of a screen so he can get brainwashed by whatever the hell a Cocomelon is, then leave his grouchy ass to deal with Max all night.’”