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An action typically done by a batter to show off after hitting a home run. The batter will throw or flip their bat up in the air in celebration. Sometimes used to taunt the opposing pitcher/team.
CASON
“Strike out, Reins?” Ezra asks when I open the car door.
“Nah, just a bat flip.” My heartbeat evens out when I sigh, still fascinated by the flush of her cheeks when her eyes met mine at the minivan comment. I look over my shoulder at the woman once more after she jumps the curb. Smiling, I shrug. The errant thought of her, on me, is one that holds my attention.
Drifting my eyes back to Ezra, I notice the smile plastered on his face and the sudden pique of interest, like he knows what’s up. “What?”
“You’re pathetic.”
Admittedly, I’ve been on a bit of a dry spell lately since Brie and I broke up.
“Damn, I should have got her number.”
Slapping his hand to my shoulder, he stares at me. “As entertaining as that was for me, I think you should lay off women these days. They always bring you trouble.”
I suppose there’s some truth to his theory. And he’s one to talk. Fall semester he had two chicks at one time and tried like hell to keep them separate. Didn’t work in his favor.
“Now, let’s go beat the shit out of the Dirtbags.”
Everything tells me to walk away and forget the woman with the cold brew and bagel, but something forces me to stay. It goes beyond the gesture and the general she’s-hot-as-fuck attraction she holds.
Sighing, I take one last look at the parking lot—the silver van has long since disappeared—and get into the car.
My eyes are heavier than normal as I take a drink of the coffee in my hand. I think about the fact that we’re only fifteen games into our fifty-six game season. Today will be my eighth appearance on the mound this season with a 2.78 ERA. Last year I set the record for single-season strikeouts and tied the program record for wins. I think about my strikeouts, ERAs, the pain in my shoulder every time I throw a fastball. Not far from my mind is my time spent on suspension because sliding into home with Coach Chiasson’s daughter last month was a bad move on my part. Rightfully so. But to be fair, I didn’t know she was his daughter. It wasn’t like we were asking for our last names in the back seat of my car. It was more about, let’s do this.
And we did.
And… Chiasson found out, and my three-game suspension followed. For a senior hoping to be drafted, that really fucks up your stats for the year.
I set my cup in the console holder and let my mind drift back to where it needs to be. Baseball. I have what they tell me is a rocket. There’s plenty of pitchers in the majors with good arms. Even great ones. My dad included. But there are few with an exceptional arm.
I knew when I was around twelve I’d be one of the exceptions and developed my curveball with accuracy. By the time I was seventeen, I could throw a hundred mile per hour fastball. Last week I threw 105 in a bullpen session. Videos of it are all over the fucking internet now, and clubs are breathing down my neck with offers.
If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m a baseball player. College level. I had my chance at the majors right out of high school. I passed and took the scholarship to ASU. Was it a smart decision?
Maybe.
Was it the best for me?
Absolutely.
I wasn’t anywhere near the maturity level needed to play in the majors as a man, or a ballplayer. I knew what it entailed. My dad plays in the majors. And I rarely saw him growing up. Between road trips and short conversations on the phone, during baseball season I was raised by my mom (or rather, my nanny).
All I remember from my childhood are road trips, new teams, new cities, and making new friends every year. I played ball, spent a good amount of time at race tracks, and heard from my dad a lot of “I’ll see you in two more sleeps.” My dad, Lucas Reins, in the time I was able to spend with him, taught me two things. Selflessness and accountability. Everything most of my generation lacks.
My story? It revolves around a kid with a fastball, a curveball, and the one constant in my life. Baseball. The game that freed me. It’s a long story, and probably one you will never get the full truth about, but it leads me to the present.
Me, trying to find myself in a sport I wasn’t sure would give anything in return.
And, looking for a place to stay. You can’t fuck the coach’s daughter and not get kicked out of your dorm room.
Okay, he didn’t kick me out. I got myself kicked out of the dorms, not an easy task to do when you’re on a full ride as a star baseball player, pretty much everything is paid for, but regardless, it explainswhyI’m so tired, the spark of interest in the girl with the cold brew, and why Ez is currently staring at me with curiosity.
“What?”
He sighs, shifting into gear. “Think of curveballs, not your fucking dick, Reins,” he notes, merging into traffic and heading toward campus. “You’ve already pissed Chiasson off enough this season. If you’re late for pitchers stretch, he’ll have your ass.”
He’s right. For once in the last three months, I need to think about something other than the destruction that’s been my personal life.