Page 176 of Hiding in the Outfield

The pitcher fires in a laser—one-oh-one fastball down the heart of the plate. Swing and a miss by Schultz. That’s strike two.

Schultz’s brother Ryan and Frankie hit it off, too. Ryan is a professor at Berkeley U, and before classes started up again, he helped show Frankie around. Which ended up leading to something kind of ironic happening…

We’ve been nervous about the media catching on to us, but it’s been so hectic between relocating, finding a place to live, playing Major League ball, Frankie’s new role demanding a ton of his time—we really haven’t had a chance to breathe, let alone be out together where the media could get wind of us.

What did happen? A sports site—and I say sports site lightly because this one is really just a site that gossips about athletes—posted an article with pictures saying that Schultz was cheating on his wife with a mystery man, said mystery man being Frankie. See, Ryan looks a hell of a lot like his brother, just leaner. So, the gossipmongers went nuts for it.

It got straightened out quickly, thankfully. I got to see our PR team in action, and damn, Liam and Layla are a force to be reckoned with. But as of right now, it would seem the world thinks my captain’s brother is dating my boyfriend. I grin. Did I say it’s been a whirlwind?

Pitch comes screaming—crack! Line drive down the left field foul line. It lands fair, and the outfielder’s tearing towards the wall, but it doesn’t matter. That’s a base hit, baby!

Schultz gets a double out of it. Tying run on base!

I step into the on-deck circle, lifting my bat behind my back and stretching out my shoulders. Sanchez is up now. Both he and I are power hitters. Please let him send one to the stands. This closer for Houston is on fire, though.

I slide the weight on my bat, do a few softball swings, and center myself. Visualize wood connecting with ball. I channel my inner Shane and manifest.

The guys all flew out for our home games for this part of the series. They’re back at my and Frankie’s place watching. Win or lose, I’m really glad I’ll get to go home to all of them. We text in our group chat every day and video call to the point where it’s probably obsessive. I still miss the hell out of them, though. We’re heading back to Providence during the off-season for a bit, all living together for the last time. Halloween party, ravioli making, and a visit to Mama and Papa Nebs are all on the schedule.

The first pitch is outside, but Sanchez goes reaching. Even from this distance, the frustrated tic in his cheek is evident. This level of pressure is something I could never have prepared for. No one can.

I drop the weight off my bat and line up like I’m the one in the box. My eyes are locked on the pitcher while I rotate my bat slightly. He fires, and my muscles jerk to swing even though I hold back. I’m just trying to get my timing down. Sanchez’s was off, unfortunately. Strike two.

I let out an unsteady breath.

I home in on the pitcher’s face. Jaw set. Brows pinched. My attention drops to his hand; knuckles curled around the ball.

And then my gaze catches on a movement behind him. Schultz is patting his leg. My eyebrows fly up. Sanchez hasn’t seen him, though. Schultz starts jumping up and down, but the pitcher’s already winding up.

It’s going to be a fastball, inside.

Sanchez swings and gets nothing but air. Strike three.

Despite the strikeout, my heart has started an excited jig in my chest. That was huge. Because Schultz picked up on a tell of the closer. We have signals designed to alert the batter to what pitch is coming if a pitcher has a tell. If a pitcher is obvious enough that anyone can see it, it’s fair game. And, shit, Schultz clearly clocked one. Because he was spot on.

I step into the batter’s box. I tap the ground. Kick twice. Bring the bat over my shoulder and meet the pitcher’s glare.

Bring it.

No sign from Schultz, so I’m on my own.

First pitch comes in and—fuck—I’m way too early. Overeager.

Breathe, Jackson. You’ve got this.

I step back and shake it out. This is just like any other at-bat. No big deal. Not insurmountable pressure threatening to crack through my ribcage. Not a stadium’s worth of it crushing down on my shoulders.

Nope.

I step back into the box.

I tune it out.

The roar of the crowd.

The blinding stadium lights.

The weight of what this game means.