Page 21 of Knox (Comeback Duet #2)

CREW

Knox and I were getting ready to head to the field for our game when my phone buzzed on the dresser, and I saw it was a video text from Mallory.

I pressed play, and Grady was in the pool at their house.

It must have been the day before because it wasn’t time yet for him to have his lesson yet today.

On the video, his instructor crouched behind him with a hand braced under him, guiding him to float on his back.

His little arms were stretched out, his body tense in a way that showed he was still learning to trust he wouldn’t sink.

The instructor’s voice carried through the phone, telling him to look for an airplane in the sky so he would keep his head back.

When she finally pulled him upright, he wiped at his eyes and turned toward the phone.

His grin was wide, and both Mallory and Archer could be heard cheering for him.

I wished I could watch his lessons in person, but we had agreed to keep them in the early afternoon because that was when the sun would be highest, and it would keep Grady from ending up cold, even though the pool was heated.

It also meant I was always at the stadium by then, working through pre-game stretches or sitting in pitcher meetings.

Since I hadn’t been there for a single one in person, Mallory sent videos so I wouldn’t miss out completely, but most of the time, the videos only made it clearer how much I was absent from.

“Sounds like G’s doing good at swimming.” Knox squeezed my shoulder.

“Yeah. He is.”

I tucked my phone into my pocket, grabbed my bag, and followed Knox so we could get to the field for our game.

With my chest protector and shin guards on, I came out of the dugout and headed across the field to the bullpen.

A few fans had settled in early behind the rail, beers and nachos in hand, waiting for us to warm up.

Ritchson was already there with the ball in his hand, tossing it into his glove as I dropped into a crouch.

He started with his fastball, the pop sharp in my glove, then worked through his slider that looked tighter than it had in his last start.

“Slider’s got more bite today,” I told him.

“Yeah, I’ve been working on it and it feels like it’s coming out clean,” he answered.

“Looks like it.”

We finished up the rest of his throws, then walked to the dugout for the start of the game against Houston.

After the national anthem, I scanned the crowd quickly and found my family had finally made it.

Day games were tough with Grady’s swim lessons, but a few rows up, Mallory was sitting next to him and Archer.

My son was shoving popcorn into his mouth while Archer leaned over and whispered something into Mallory’s ear.

She laughed, swatted his arm playfully, and then, as though she could feel me watching, her gaze met mine.

She started to wave and then nudged Grady to look at me.

He jumped up and waved enthusiastically, and I smiled before slipping my catcher’s helmet on and heading behind the plate.

Ritchson was locked in early. He ran through the top of the first without a hiccup—three up, three down.

My first at bat came in the bottom of the first. We already had one out, and the pitcher started me with a fastball low and away that I didn’t bother chasing.

Next was a curveball that didn’t break much and stayed over the plate longer than it should have.

I drove it hard on the ground, thought it might sneak through, but the shortstop moved well to his left, picked it clean, and threw me out by a step.

Knox came up after me, took a pitch off the plate, fouled one down the line, then got under a ball that carried to the warning track. The left fielder caught it for the third out.

Ritchson cruised through the innings, only giving up one hit that was a homerun in the third.

We’d managed to get the run back and were still tied when I came up to bat at the bottom half of the sixth with two outs.

The pitcher tried me outside twice and missed, then brought a fastball on the outer half that I fouled back.

He pitched inside after that, missing and making it three and one.

I let the next pitch go, watching it dip under the strike zone, then took the walk.

Knox walked up to the plate, tapped it twice, then waited for the first pitch.

He fouled off two, then took a pitch low.

I thought about stealing, but instead, waited as the next ball was outside, and made the count even.

The one after that, he drove to left, but it hung too long and got squeezed near the foul line.

Jogging into the dugout, I dropped down on the bench to put my gear on while Knox came in, set his helmet in the cubby, and grabbed his glove.

“Didn’t look like you loved that swing,” I told him, tightening the strap on my shin guard.

He shrugged. “Wanted to drive it up the middle, but it was a change-up and I was expecting a fastball.”

“Still put a decent swing on it.”

“Doesn’t mean it felt right.”

“It never does. You could be three for three and still talk about how one came off wrong.”

He almost smiled. “That’s probably true. And better than being the guy who’s fine watching three go by.”

“If that were the case, you’d be sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“Yeah, right. You can’t resist me.” He winked and then ran up the stairs before I could respond.

By the eighth, Ritchson was still throwing strong, but the Astros managed to score on a bloop and a sac fly. The score remained close, and we just needed a good knock to tie it or even pull us ahead if we got a runner into scoring position.

I led off the bottom of the inning and managed to hit a single.

As Knox headed to the plate, I took my lead and watched the pitcher. Instead of pitching to Knox, he snapped it to first base. I dove back to the bag, my hand outstretched for the corner, but my wrist bent under me wrong, and pain tore up my arm so fast I saw stars.

For a second, it felt like the whole stadium dropped out from under me. I couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t get air into my lungs. All I could do was roll onto my back, pulling my throwing hand in close and squeezing it to my ribs like somehow that would keep it from falling clean off.

I tried to move my fingers, but the pain was too intense. A few seconds later, I heard my name, but I didn’t open my eyes.

“Stratton. Look at me.”

I pried my eyes open and found Parker crouched above me. The trainer was next to him, and he was already reaching for my wrist.

“What happened?” Parker asked.

“My hand,” I managed. “Bent it back. It’s not right.”

“Did you feel a pop?” Reynolds, the trainer, asked, thumb pressing lightly at the joint.

I flinched hard and he let go. “No. Just … it fucking hurts.”

The crowd was dead quiet as Reynolds eased my batting glove off and turned my hand so he could see the swelling already building across the back of it. My stomach rolled.

“We need to get it X-rayed,” he told me.

“Yeah,” Parker agreed. “Come on. Let’s get you checked out.”

I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to make it any more obvious how bad it was, didn’t want to think about Grady in the stands watching me, and I certainly didn’t want to consider what it would mean if they found something that would take more than healing on its own overnight.

Reynolds slid an arm under my good side and helped me sit up. My wrist pulsed hot, as if the bones weren’t lined up how they were supposed to be. The crowd started clapping like they always did when a guy got back to his feet, even if they all probably knew I was headed straight for an X-ray.

Parker stayed with me, hand on my shoulder, steadying me when it felt like my balance wouldn’t come back. I glanced toward the dugout, found all the guys up on the top step watching, then looked toward Knox only a few feet away.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

I gave the slightest nod and walked off the field. I didn’t try to find Grady or Mallory. I just kept my eyes forward, letting Reynolds lead me down the steps into the dugout and hoping it wouldn’t turn out to be as bad as it already felt.