Page 4 of Third Strike Smitten

Yeah, that’s better.

That I can handle.

I wind up and fire a fastball that paints the outside corner. The umpire’s right arm shoots up.

“Strike one!”

The crowd roars and once the noise dies down, I hear the mystery girl once again. “Atta boy,” she says, like she’s rewarding a dog for learning a trick. “See? That’s growth.”

My lips twitch before I can stop them.

Whoever is heckling me from the stands had better be worth looking at, because right now she’s got more of my attention than the rookie at the plate.

She wants to see growth?

I’ll show her what growth really looks like while she screams my name.

“Relax your shoulders,” she adds, almost conversational now. “You look like you’re trying to bench press the stadium.”

I don’t need another fucking coach, sweetheart.

I roll my shoulders once, and then again, more out of irritation the second time because I fucking listened to the mystery woman and rolled them the first time. What the hell am I doing? She’s not my coach and she’s not the trainer, yet here I am standing on the mound in front of thousands of people, heeding every word she says. Surprisingly though, my shoulders loosen a little which causes me to blink.

Huh.

I set myself again, nodding to Bishop’s second fastball call. There’s no overthinking this time. No running through mechanics and no arguing with myself. I just throw the ball. It leaves my hand clean, cutting through the air with that sharp, satisfying snap I’ve been chasing all inning. Bishop’s glove pops as it lands dead center.

“Strike two.”

The batter shifts, stepping out, resetting, suddenly not nearly as comfortable as he was thirty seconds ago.

“Well, will you look at that? He’s not a train wreck; there’s a goddamn pitcher in there. Toot toot, motherfuckers!” The crowd around her laughs and this time I crack a smile because damn, I’ve got to hand it to the mystery woman. That’s my kind of humor. Pretty sure I’ve shouted similar words at my television while watching games. I huff out a breath that’s dangerously close to a laugh and then remind myself to focus on this last pitch.

One more.

I’ve got this.

Toot toot, motherfuckers!

That voice. Her voice. It’s still there in my head as I throw the ball and watch as the pitch snaps into Bishop’s glove with a crack that echoes loud and clean.

“Strike three!”

The crowd erupts into a full-body roar as I step off the mound. My chest expands, breath finally coming easy as my teammates start moving, the inning over, the out secured.

Thank Christ.

Taking a step toward the dugout, I turn and look toward first base. I don’t mean to. I know I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway.

“Attaboy, Haynesy.” A few sections up from first base, she’s leaning forward in her seat like she’s been watching me the whole time. My breath catches in my throat as I take her in.

Well holy shit, it’s the redheaded girl.

Her locks cascade over her shoulders in waves that catch the sunlight like fire. She’s wearing a simple white tank top under a Lagers jersey and part of me desperately wants to know whose name is written across the back. A little smug and a lot amused, her lips curve into a knowing smile when she realizes I see her, like she’s aware of exactly what she’s done to me from fifty feet away and she’s entirely too satisfied with herself.

She lifts her brows almost like she’s saying, “You’re welcome,” and I find myself appreciating her spitfire-like attitude. She’d probably be a fun fuck if given the chance.

Maybe I can find a way to repay her after the game.