Page 13 of The Battery

Leo

H ome game. Number seventy-eight. None other than the Brooklyn Brawlers under a scorching, late June sun. Blood red versus blue. The last of a three-game series, the first two games we won, we were currently tied.

This did not mark my first fight against the Brawlers since leaving, but it was Cody’s first playing with me on the team. The last time the Riders hosted the Brawlers was back in May when I was still on their team. The bruise on my ass had taken three weeks to go away.

We were finishing up the bottom of the fifth.

I had struck out and now stood against the railing in the bullpen.

Cody joined me, ready to hit the mound shortly.

In the two weeks since his comeback, Cody played an astounding seven games—two of those came from one of his nemesis Assholes, Levine, having to rest due to injury.

In those two weeks management, impressed by his rapid improvement since I knocked sense into him, moved Cody from long reliever to middle reliever.

This game against the Brawlers marked his first time playing that position.

At the stadium, Cody and I had an unspoken agreement that I wouldn’t give him special attention.

I participated when the pitching staff needed the catcher.

What we kept to ourselves, however, was Cody’s check-ins when we had the free time in our schedule.

He would explain what he trained on with the staff, who did what and when, and I would provide analysis.

I had a hanging pitching mat installed in my backyard.

Cody would come over for some demonstrations and I provided analysis and help where I could.

And then we’d hit the pool. The weather turned from mild to scorching in only a few days.

It was a welcome reprieve from the heat of our little practice sessions.

Admittedly, I kept Cody at arm’s length in this newly forming department of physicality.

He didn’t seem to mind that I consistently wanted the same thing out of him.

In fact, I think he made a game out of it—how fast could he work his magic to get me off with just his mouth?

Most nights that he came over ended with me sitting on the edge of the pool or at one of the chairs around the fire.

Cody did his thing while I relaxed. It was his prerogative if he wanted to get himself off or not and he usually did.

I had yet to help him out in that regard.

Selfish. I know.

But I had a singular goal and I couldn’t be distracted with the introduction of reciprocated feelings.

“Duggins is up first,” Cody said as he popped open a tin of nicotine pouches. The scent of cinnamon perfumed the space between us.

Mentally, I grunted. That smell had been triggering things for me lately. It’s what I smelled in the moments before he went down on me. I bit down on my tongue in abject rejection of the budding Pavlovian response. Cinnamon did not equal climax. No, sir. It did not.

“What would you suggest?” I said.

Cody wedged the packet into his gums. “He’s been hot lately. But he always swings at the first pitch if it’s low and away.”

“And?”

“We should start with a slider,” he said, then used his tongue to adjust the packet.

I watched him, his eyes, his posture. No hesitation, no hitch in the shoulders.

No question in a quirky brow. He spoke confidently, as if he was in command.

“Then we give him what he wants. A fastball. Gift wrapped. Perfect throw.”

“Third pitch?”

He answered without hesitation. Practically spoke before I finished saying my words. “Changeup. Drop it out of the zone. He’d expect the velocity of that fastball.” He turned and looked at me. “Then we play it by ear after that.”

Realization seemed to come to him in that moment. His brow climbed an inch up his forehead. “That is, um, if you agree.”

That bastard. I actually felt the urge to smile. I hated when people got me to do that. “Your call, Hill.”

He gave me a wicked grin. A wave of something hit me when I saw it.

Too cute were the words that came to mind. Followed immediately by, Ah fuck.

I turned away from it and leaned into my default personality. Not here. Not now.

We took to the field and, per our new little tradition, fist-bumped when we split to our respective stations.

I had only performed my sick PitchCom beat session once since it’s debut.

An away game against the Jacksonville Barracudas had gotten tense and I needed to snap Cody from his spiral.

It worked and we won, but I couldn’t use that feature too often.

Since then, however, anytime a player screamed, “Fastball, fastball,” the entirety of the team knew to respond by shouting, “Cur-cur-curveball.” Management playfully cursed us out for it.

Duggins came up to bat, a gruff man with a grizzly beard and arms thicker than my thighs. I sent Cody’s suggested call for a slider and, as he predicted, Duggins swung. He missed and we got our first strike.

I sent the call for a fastball, up and in. The change in Duggins’s eye level forced him to adjust to inside the plate. Another swing and a miss.

Cody remained calm and collected. A point of pride hit me. These two weeks had proven invaluable to his career. Incredible how someone can launch to excellence with just the smallest nudge of encouragement.

Third call—changeup. The ball dropped out of the zone with the intent for Duggins to swing over it. As Cody anticipated, Duggins was expecting the velocity of the fastball. Another swing and a miss. Third strike.

Cody reset. I stood to stretch and roll my neck when I saw the next batter. I fought through a sudden wave of disgust and—as much as I had to admit it—fear.

The Brawlers first baseman walked up to the plate.

Quinn was a six-foot man, golden blond hair, sharp features.

Handsome, truly. Well built. And a horrible, disgusting bigot.

It was him, and him alone, that started the all-out brawl last season between Brooklyn and New England.

I hadn’t been there due to my ACL tear. Quinn called Romo a fag to his face after the rumor mill made sure everyone knew of Romo’s secret life.

Romo swung his first punch ever and decked the asshole right in the jaw.

Then both teams emptied onto the field as chaos erupted.

Here we go , I thought as Quinn finally stepped up to the plate after languidly adjusting the straps of his gloves. Cody remained calm at the mound. I wasn’t sure if he was aware of how this guy could act, but we were about to find out.

I sent the call. Fastball, inside. Cody threw and the ump called it a ball.

Then Quinn stepped out of the batter’s box to, again, adjust his gloves. This was one of his tactics. Needless delays.

Back in, I called for a slider, low and away.

Swing and a miss, though it was a close call. Cody’s throw just nicked the corner.

Quinn growled out a frustrated sigh and stepped outside the batter’s box. He then looked at the umpire. “That was outside. Come on.”

“I said what I said, Quinn. Let’s keep going,” the umpire said.

“Yeah, you said ,” Quinn repeated in a mocking tone. He gestured toward Cody. “Superstar over here with his pitches.” He laughed, shook his head, then stepped back to the plate.

I called a changeup, down and in.

Second ball. Then Quinn stepped out again . I clamped down on my frustration, since I knew this was his game, but Cody hadn’t experienced it yet. I saw his face pinch together.

Come on, Hill. Don’t spiral on me now. This could be an opportunity for him to show management his calm under unnecessary pressure, a special kind of lesson people didn’t always experience.

Quinn seemed to adjust his stance when he stepped outside, but at the same time he had his head pointed toward Cody and shouted just loud enough for him to hear, “Watch that clock, kid!” referring to the pitching clock.

We only had so much time to work with. He stepped back inside.

Cody rolled his neck and rolled his right shoulder more than he usually would.

Fourth pitch. Fastball. High. And the third ball.

Again he stepped out, his fourth time doing so. This time, Cody threw up his arms and put his back to Quinn. No. No, don’t let him see he’s getting to you. Over the past two weeks, I had been successful in coaching Cody how to ignore the Assholes. How could he not see the same lesson applied here?

Quinn was smirking at Cody, clearly delighted his psychological game was working.

Cody gestured to the plate as if he could get Quinn to hurry it up. Wrong decision.

Quinn dropped his head back and let out a laugh. “Oh, so now you know where the plate is?”

I exploded forward and put myself in Quinn’s line of sight with Cody. “Back the fuck off, man,” I said and got right in his face. I lifted my mask and let him see the seriousness on my face.

“Or fuckin’ what , Leo? Or fuckin’ what?”

I gave him an answer. I centered my weight just right and, with ease, I pushed Quinn away from me with my right hand.

My center of mass was enough that he stumbled.

As he recovered, suddenly Cody was right there.

Quinn made to come back at me, but Cody intercepted before I could defend.

He used the same motion as me and shoved Quinn backwards enough that the man stumbled, tripped, and his rump hit the dirt.

I stared in wide-eyed amazement. Cody’s posture, his fists. He was ready to fight beside me.

Damn. A swirl of pride and sex and hunger hit me all at once.

That came crashing down as the umpire interjected, pointed at both of us, then gave the universal gesture for us to get the hell out.

*

While I crashed into a leather recliner in the clubhouse, Cody stared into space. He spat his nicotine pouch in a trash can and wrung his hands as he burned a line into the carpet.

“Sit,” I told him with enough grunt in my voice that he stopped moving to stare. “You did what you did. Now you gotta live with it.”

Cody crashed into the recliner next to mine. “I’ve—”

“Never been ejected,” I finished for him. “Well, welcome to the club, newbie.”

He then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Do you think—”

Another easy interruption. “We’ll find out.”

His cheeks puffed as he blew out air, then leaned back into the chair. After ten seconds, he leaned forward again, then made to stand.

“Cody,” I said and looked over at him. “Stop fidgeting. Remember what I told you about that?”

He gave me a sharp nod, sat up straighter, and said, “Right, right. Cool. Calm.”

I waited a minute to make sure he had settled before breaking into the next conversation.

“You need to let me handle my own fights.” I spoke carefully and not in my usual gruff manner.

Over the past two weeks I had come to read his reactions to what I presented.

This time around, and this subject, required a more delicate touch.

“I’ve done this plenty of times. You’re still a rookie. You shouldn’t be getting into fights.”

“He pissed me off,” Cody said. “And I… I…” He looked away from me. “You can handle yourself. I know that. But I wanted to stay next to you.”

I was expecting this. I needed to shut it down. “I can handle myself,” I said with more bite in my voice. “I don’t care if you want to help me out. What’s important is your career. Don’t make me think I’ve been wasting my time helping you.”

That snapped him out of whatever sentiment he cared to share.

“You’re more important in this equation. You gotta understand that,” I continued. “There’s a reason they call catchers the field generals, all right? Don’t risk things because you think you need to stay at my side. Okay?”

Something pinched inside me. Lock that shit up , I told myself. Lock it up and throw away the key.

“Yeah,” Cody eventually said. “Got it.”

Romo and the skipper walked down the hallway after Cody and I fell into an uneasy silence. I braced myself for the berating from the skipper and prayed that Cody wouldn’t break easily.

However, to my surprise, our bushy-mustached walrus of a manger was all smiles.

The skipper regaled us with how he almost got ejected himself after running out to argue with the umpire.

I felt the tension leave Cody as he realized we weren’t in as much trouble as we could have been.

After the skipper finished his story, he gave us both a pat on the shoulder and told us to keep up the good work, then went back to the field. Romo stayed behind.

“Well, that was unexpected,” I said when the three of us were alone.

“He loved it,” Romo admitted. “You two have been showing us the goods the past two weeks and you solidified today what we’ve been hoping for.”

I nodded in understanding, but the look on Cody’s face revealed his confusion. I wagged my finger to gesture between him and me. “Us, Hill.”

“Hiroshi’s bond with our pitchers was a key element to our game,” Romo explained.

“Getting that back is everything. A solid battery is what we need and seeing the two of you have each other’s backs means we’ve got something good going.

Whatever it is you two are doing, don’t stop.

In fact Leo, we wanna see that in action with the other pitchers, too.

Good job, guys.” He fist-bumped us, then left.

I looked over at Cody and held out my fist for him. He withheld, lips pursed. I pushed my fist farther out. “C’mon, Cody.” Couldn’t he divide like I could? The game and relations were two separate identities.

He blinked, then halfheartedly bumped my fist with his own. “Now what?” he asked as he sank into the recliner.

“We wait for the game to finish.”

“And then?”

“Back to the usual. And congratulations, by the way.”

Cody snorted and shifted in his chair. “For what?”

“You just secured your spot on the pitching staff. No way in hell they’re letting one half of a strong pitcher/catcher combo drop back into the minors.” I nodded. Got him to look at me so he could see the sincerity. “You’re safe, Cody.”