Page 8 of Third Strike Smitten

I read the message twice. I know she’s right. The front office has been watching me closely this season. I’ve felt their eyes on me during every shaky inning, every walk, every time I’ve lost control of my pitches.

Me

I’ll figure it out.

Harper

Good. Because I can’t keep making excuses for you. Find something that isn’t baseball. A girl, a hobby, meditation, I don’t care. Just something.

I toss my phone back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. Harper doesn’t understand. Baseball isn’t just my job. It’s my entire life. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. The thought of losing it, of being traded away from my brothers, from Portland...

Bishop, Shepherd, Sebastian. The three of them are the only reason I haven’t already packed my bags and driven somewhere no one could find me. They’re my anchors. Without them, I’d be completely adrift.

A knock at the door pulls me back.

“Kill? You alive in there?” Bishop’s voice filters through the wood.

“Yeah,” I call back, not moving from the bed.

The door opens anyway. Bishop stands in the doorway, his eyebrows raised. “You’ve been in here for almost an hour. We’re ordering pizza.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Tough shit.” He walks in and sits on the edge of the bed with me. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” He’s wearing that look that says he’s not buying what I’m selling.

“Harper’s on my case again,” I admit, picking up my phone and showing him the text. “Front office thinks I’m too tense on the mound.”

Bishop takes the phone and scans the messages, his expression darkening. “She’s not wrong.”

“Not you too,” I groan, falling back against the pillows.

“Listen, I’m not saying you need to turn into Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky overnight,” Bishop says, handing me back my phone. “But you’ve been wound tight all season. Even more than usual.”

I stare at the ceiling, unwilling to admit how right he is. The pressure has been building for months now. The expectations, the contract negotiations, the fear of letting everyone down.

“Look, I get it,” Bishop continues. “You feel like you have to be perfect all the time. But nobody’s expecting that.”

“Everyone’s expecting that,” I correct him. “That’s the problem. It’s getting harder and harder for me to turn off the pressure and focus on what I’m doing out there. Every fucking pitch feels like it’s carrying the weight of the entire season.”

“That’s because it is,” Shepherd says, appearing in the doorway. He may only be older than me by about three minutes but I’ve always looked at him as my older, wiser brother…even if he chose football for his sport of choice.

Maybe he’s not as wise as I used to give him credit for.

“You’re the team’s ace pitcher,” he says. “That’s a lot to carry.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder,” I mutter, picking at the hole in my jeans.

“But you’re not carrying it alone, bro,” Hop adds in. “We’re a team. Let us help you.”

“By doing what? Catching my pitches?” I finish for him, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “That’s literally your job.”

“By being your brother first and your catcher second,” Bishop says, his voice softening. “We’ve always had each other’s backs. You don’t have to do this alone.”

I sit up, frustration bubbling under my skin. “I’m not alone. I have you guys. I have Harper. I have the whole damn team. But at the end of the day, when I’m on that mound, it’s just me and the batter. Nobody else can throw that pitch for me.”