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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

FORD

How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on baseball when I know exactly how heavenly Juliet sounds when she comes?

It’s the top of the ninth against the Raleigh Aviators. They’re up at bat, and we're getting our asses handed to us. I wish I could say it’s because we’re sucking, but really, they are just the better team. More cohesive. For every incredible play we make, they’ve got three up their sleeves. Give the Renegades another season together and I have no doubt we’ll be there too.

But this afternoon, it’s just brutal. We can’t get a run in to save our lives.

The crack of the bat sends a shock through my system, just as it does every time. I shift on my feet to cover third base as the ball soars through the pocket between center and right field. It’s just low enough that there’s no way Kiefer or Garcia can get to it in time to make the catch.

Cooper Townes, the runner on second, sees his chance and takes off for third. We both know he’s going to make it without any trouble, but I ready myself in case by some miracle, my teammates can get the ball to me before he tags third.

By the time Kiefer fields the ball, Sharpe and Townes are safely on first and third, respectively.

We just need one more out.

One more out and this inning will be over, then it’s one at bat and home to Juliet.

I wonder if she’s watching the game.

Her door was closed when I left for morning work and as of the first inning, I hadn’t gotten a response to my text asking how it went chatting with her boss about quitting.

I know it was going to be hard on her. The cleaning gig was her first real step toward independence after Tyler died. But there’s not a single part of me that is upset she'll be safe in a kitchen, with all her clothes on, for the foreseeable future.

“Hey, Race Day,” Townes teases from behind me as we wait for his teammate to step into the box.

The two of us played together for a time on the Blues. Which means he knows damn well what my name is. It’s one thing for Ford and my agent to use the nickname—Ford, First On Race Day—but he knows I hate it when anyone else does.

Unlike Mercer,I wouldn’t say Townes and I were the closest. Not like I am with the guys on the Renegades. But I didn’t hate the guy either. Sometimes you just have those teammates who you hit it off with and sometimes you don’t. That doesn’t mean you don’t fight to win and take the losses together.

He drifts off the bag, toeing the baseline with his cleat. “I see you’re still committed to the words.”

I glance down at my chicken scratch handwriting in the dirt.

The word is please . As in: Please, Ford, teach me . Please, Ford, help me come. Please, Ford, don’t stop .

Okay she didn't say the last one, but I definitely pictured her doing so and a hell of a lot more during the shower I took after we hung up.

“What’s it mean?” Townes asks.

“Can’t tell ya,” I say, beating my fist into my glove, eyes trained on home plate where out number three just stepped into the batter's box.

He’s toying with me. Trying to break my concentration. It wouldn’t be such a dick move if they weren’t up by five, and it wasn’t the top of the ninth.

Could we come back from this deficit? Sure. Have I seen it happen before? Absolutely. Is it probable? Not even a little. But don’t tell the rest of the team I had that thought. Carson is probably in the bull pen right now, trying to use some voodoo goosfrabah bullshit meditation to help us pull a win out of our asses. But me…I just want to get home to Juliet and see how her day went.

God, who am I? I’ve never been this distracted by a woman. Not even when my mom was sick. Baseball was the only time I could tune out all the happenings of my day and just focus on the game. It’s always been my safe place, with the stadium as my temple and the third base line my altar.

“What if I guess?” Townes taunts playfully. “Please….let me catch this ball? Please…let my team score at least one run?”

My jaw ticks. “You know how it works, Towney. If I tell you, it’s seven games bad luck, and if you hadn’t noticed, we need all the help we can get right now.”

“Fine. Keep your wordy secrets.” He leads off the bag, waiting for Espinoza to throw his next pitch. “I actually was hoping I’d get stuck on third with you. I wanted to tell you that you need to get Willow and the commissioner to get the gag order lifted if you want any of us to back Mercer.”

That catches my attention. Enough that I take my eye off the batter and swing my head toward Townes. “What are you talking about?”

“Strike,” the umpire yells.

“Look forward, man. I don’t need anyone knowing it was me who tipped you off. But it’s not just the Blues with a gag order. Every team in the league is pressuring their players to keep quiet. Not because they don’t want Mercer back in the league, but because they just don’t want to be dragged through it if it gets messy.”

“But he’s all but reinstated. The testimonies are just a formality for the boards to cover their asses.”

Espinoza throws another strike, and even though I want this half of the inning to be over, I’m now invested in keeping Townes on third a little longer.

“We all know that. And we all want him back. It’s bullshit what happened to him. But without the commissioner getting involved, you’ll never see those testimonies.”

Strike three.

Townes pulls his helmet off and pats me on the shoulder. “Good game, bud.”

I tip my head toward him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You know where to find me.”

Bishop meets me just before I enter the dugout, his glove tucked under his arm and his catcher's mask pulled up. “What was that about? You planning a night to bake cookies and swap rookie stories with Towney?”

“If only,” I huff. “He let me know there’s still an unofficial gag order in place where Mercer’s concerned. None of the other teams want to get their hands dirty while the dust settles from his return.”

“Fuck,” he growls, taking the steps two at a time beside me into the dugout. “That’s why the testimonies have been scarce.”

“Exactly.” I swap my glove for my helmet in my cubby. I’m the fifth guy up to bat in the lineup, but it’s a toss-up if I’ll actually get to step into the box. “You think Willow can get the commissioner to step in and issue a statement?”

Bishop pulls off his mask and starts tugging off the chest plate. “She’ll sure as hell try. I’ve never known that woman to give up, but this reeks of bureaucracy bullshit, and we’ve seen how slow that is to change.”

He’s not wrong. Willow might have cleaned house when she took over and put a more progressive and levelheaded board in place, but the other clubs haven’t been so quick to change. It seems at every turn they are trying to undermine her plans to bring our club into the twenty-first century.

“Will you handle updating her, or should I?” This is one-hundred percent me passing the buck so I don’t have to try to track down our team owner after the game.

Bishop chuckles, and we slide up to the railing and watch as Garcia is hit with a wild pitch. It barely grazes his calf, but ever the drama queen, Garcia jumps and leans over like he’s been struck with an arrow.

He’s given the base, and by the time he gets to first he’s hopping on both feet like nothing happened.

“I can talk to Willow.” Bishop zeros in on the box as Etchers steps in and the Aviator’s pitcher tries to shake off the shitty start to the at bat.

He doesn’t pay me any attention as he silently makes notes on the pitches thrown. Glancing down the dugout, I’m not surprised to find every starting member of the Renegades doing the same thing. We might be at bat, but that doesn’t mean it’s time to relax. Our manager, Graham, likes to call it constant vigilance. It’s the only way we can stay ahead of our opponent.

After the fourth pitch, Bishop must feel confident in his observations because he turns to face me. “You wouldn’t be handing this testimony problem off to me so you can get home to that sweet woman I hear you now have living with you?”

I groan. I swear the Row is like living in a damn frat house. Nothing is sacred or above the team gossip mill. “That depends. Are you asking as my team captain or my friend?”

He tilts his head to the side and frowns. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you're going to tell me it’s a bad idea since she’s Tyler’s widow, and the team doesn’t need another scandal.”

Bishop flutters his lips and laughs. “As the perpetrator of the most recent scandal, I don’t think I have a leg to stand on.”

“Touché.” I grin.

“The question is, do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“Absolutely,” I say without missing a beat. “Juliet is…fragile. But not like a flower. Like a bomb. She’s determined and headstrong, but still figuring out what she wants, and while I am committed to helping her figure it out, I’m also trying to keep her. So, I’m not exactly playing fair.”

“Do you love her?”

“I could,” I admit, knowing damn well I’m on my way, if not already there.

Bishop searches my face, and I’m pretty sure he knows by the smile spanning his lips that I’m a goner. It’s likely the same look on his face when he talks about Willow. “Keep showing her what she could have, McCoy. Sometimes we can be a bit dense to what’s right in front of us.” He tips his head back and looks to the owner’s suite where Willow is watching the game with the majority of the other wives and girlfriends.

“Thanks, Bish.”

“Any time,” he says, focusing back on Etchers as he takes the walk and Elliot Stone, our first baseman, takes to the box. “Let’s go, Stoney!”

I clap my hands and echo the cheer for our teammate.

We hold our breath as Stone carefully watches four balls go by and takes his base. That’s bases loaded and three potential runs on base. Kiefer’s up next, and I’m on deck.

I grab my bat and climb the steps of the dugout. By the time I step into the orange circle and slide the weighted donut onto my bat, Kiefer is already at a count of one strike, one ball.

Closing my eyes, I take the next pitch to slow my breathing. In and out. I feel the weight of my bat in my hands, and imagine it’s an extension of me. I swing, focusing on the power in my hips and keeping my bat level.

“Strike,” the ump calls out.

Fuck.

The count is one-two.

I set my feet and watch as the pitch comes down. I practice my timing, swinging at the same time Kiefer does and relishing in the crack of the bat as he makes contact.

It’s a line drive, right into that same pocket the Aviators found during their at bat. It’s a solid hit and because of a bad bounce, Kiefer makes it to second, sending Stone to third, and driving Etchers and Garciahome to score our first two runs of the game.

At least it won’t be a shutout.

Etchers passes me on my way to the plate, and gives me a swift pat on the back. “Show 'em who we are, McCoy.”

“Renegades, baby,” I mutter, but inside me it’s a battle cry.

Because I’m the tying run.

There’s something about the batter's box that sets a fire under every player's ass, and it’s no different when I step in and take my stance. Inhaling deep, I twist my hands on the grip of the bat. I start my exhale as the pitcher winds up and releases it.

The pitch is shit. Far and outside.

Ball one.

Again, I center myself and wait. Stone and Kiefer both lead off and the Aviator’s pitcher, I think his name is Jacobs, sends the ball low and inside. It’s called a strike, which is bullshit, but I’m not about to argue with the ump.

I reset, digging my cleats into the dirt.

Breathe.

Connect.

The pitch is perfect. Right down the middle and a little on the outside. I snap my hips and swing, my bat reverberating with a crack as wood meets leather.

I know it’s out of the park long before the ball sails over the left field wall and into the crowd—who goes absolutely wild as the score ticks up, and I round the bases. None of them thought we’d be in it—hell, I was ready to call it—but here we are making the kind of comeback that only happens once every blue moon.

Stone and Kiefer are waiting for me, cheering as soon as I slam my cleat on home plate. The celebration continues in the dugout, but it’s brief as we watch our second baseman, Russel Brooks, step up to the box. He strikes out as does our designated hitter, Francisco Sharpe.

It’s up to Bishop.

He steps into the box and looks up at the owner's suite, and I swear his thoughts are written all over his face.

This one’s for Willow.

And damn if he doesn’t deliver.

Where I knocked it to left, he matches it to right.

The crowd loses it.

The team goes fucking insane.

All of us flood the field and cheer him on as he rounds the bases. It doesn’t matter that there is still one more out to be made. The game is over. We won. There is no comeback opportunity for the Aviators.

In the midst of all the chaos, I mimic Bishop’s actions and look up at the owner's suite. I can’t make heads or tails who’s who, but I know, right then and there, an addition I want to that suite.

Two more dates.

My heart soars as a Renegades chant echoes through the stadium.

This is what being on a team is all about.

This is why I can see myself staying in New York for the rest of my career.

Because magic like this doesn’t happen on every field.

Now all I need to do is convince Juliet to make magic with me off the field.