Page 19 of The Battery

Cody

I fucking dominated . Three innings as the middle reliever and I proved not only to myself, but to the managers, coaches, and the other relief pitchers, that even a team like the Harrisburg Stags had to be cautious of me.

I had nothing but power threats lined up against me from a team known for speed and base running.

Their lead-off man in the fifth swung and missed a fastball I painted on the outside corner.

A well-placed slider brought strike two.

And for the third? A nasty curveball that dropped out of the strike zone, but the guy swung anyway.

The second batter, a power hitter, singled on a line drive down the middle.

But I used a changeup on the third hitter to keep him off-balance.

After a foul ball, a slider led to a ground ball to our second baseman, who flipped to Freddie at second for the force out, then to first for a double play. It was a hell of an inning.

Leo and I didn’t speak before or after. We fist-bumped, to keep up pretenses and maybe to sate whatever superstition had been sown over the past few weeks.

Neither of us let on that hostility simmered between us, sundering the careful foundation on which to build something strong.

Maybe he didn’t see that—and if he didn’t, well, I didn’t care anymore.

The things he said to me might have been in anger, but they still cut deep enough that I would feel the wound for a long time.

Until then, I had a game to play and a goal to achieve.

We were getting ready to take the field for the sixth inning when Leo surprised me with an opening gambit. “Your slider is too predictable. There’s no bite in the movement. They’re gonna focus on that this time.”

Oh, the litany of sass I wanted to throw back at him in that moment. I pulled off my cap and ran my hand through my hair. Adjusted the nicotine patch. “Okay,” I said with exceptional effort. I wanted an award alone for the ability to hold back. “Anything else, sir?”

I saw him flinch. He turned to look at me after he finished strapping on his left knee guard. “Yeah. You’re starting to cock your head before you throw a fastball. Stop it.”

“Maybe I’m doing that on purpose. To make them think they can read me.”

“You’re not a clever pitcher like that.” He finished the second knee guard.

I wanted to drive my cleat into his crotch.

He held up a hand, palm out, as if to placate me.

“You have consistent and reliable mechanics, Hill. That’s needed.

We have clever pitchers and reliable pitchers.

You are the latter. Don’t pop off because I’m saying something you think you don’t like. ”

He grabbed his mask and stared me down. Those bold green eyes of his sat behind dark lashes like emeralds buried in coal. “Don’t get cocky, all right?”

I steeled myself against the unnecessary criticism. It was so juvenile of him to make a comment just because he could. So I said, “Sure thing, boss. Hey, be sure not to lean so much into your crouch. I’m surprised you haven’t fallen over yet.”

The fire in his eyes. I would say it was sexy as hell if I wasn’t already seeing red.

“Try and keep that mitt from moving around too much, too. It’s like you’re trying to signal a plane landing.”

“ Enough, boys ,” the skipper barked. I hadn’t realized he’d been standing there. “Fuckin’ married couple over here. Get out there, already.”

We jogged up and onto the field. A deep-rooted, petty anger buckled my arm to my body. The child within me refused to lift it up as Leo and I parted for our spots.

But fear got the best of me. We had been doing this for so long. I couldn’t stop now, no matter how much I wanted to fist-bump his face.

I started with a fastball that got smashed to Romo in centerfield, but Mr. Perfect, Romo, caught it for the first out.

I got two strikes out of the second hitter from a fastball and a curveball.

The third pitch sent a line drive that inched into foul territory.

A curveball got strike three. A lefty came to bat next, and I sent my own call to Leo before he could send his suggestion.

That marked the first time I had done that.

I had my own remote at my hip but had yet to use it since I still considered myself under Leo’s guidance.

He didn’t put up a fight. A sent a series of sliders and curveballs at the batter that worked him up to a full count. Then, I gave it to him—a fastball that he only managed to ground to third, where it was fielded and thrown to first. Third out. We closed the inning without allowing any runs.

“We didn’t agree on that,” Leo said to me as we walked back toward the dugout.

“Felt right. And it worked out. Get over it.” I left him in the dugout to return to the bullpen for a breather.

The Assholes pointedly left me alone, as they had been prone to do lately since I showed them their antics wouldn’t work.

I bided my time by leaning against the fencing and watching Romo smash a homer.

Leo was phenomenal as well. I couldn’t deny that.

Where Romo was a tiger, fine-tuned and spirited, Leo was a bear, gruff and forceful.

He made it to third on a line drive to left field.

Felt like he had all the time in the world to make it there.

They extended my performance for the seventh inning. Management said I was hot and there was no way in hell they’d want to stop me from showing my meddle. Once again, I stood with Leo while he geared up.

“Newell is up to bat first,” Leo grunted at me. “He’s aggressive. Bat outta hell when he’s up first. We should—”

“PitchCom exists for a reason,” I interrupted. “So use it.”

I jogged onto the field. That petulant, stupid, idiotic child in me really doubled down on wanting to keep my arms at my side.

But my inner sportsman just wouldn’t allow it. I fist-bumped Leo and went to my spot.

My control was sharp. I started with a fastball and slider that gave us two strikes with Mr. Bat Outta Hell.

A got a ball out of a curveball on the third throw, and then he smashed a fastball that drove into right field.

He singled on that one and my ego took a hit.

Leo was right. The guy was aggressive and hungry.

Leo called a changeup to keep the second batter guessing, since there was a runner on first. After a foul ball, he hit a grounder to Freddie who fielded it and tagged second for a force out.

And, with that Freddie speed of his, he threw to first for a double play.

He danced on his cleats like he wanted to wine and dine the dirt itself.

The third batter came up and I felt my confidence build.

I was hot and I needed to keep striking with that red poker.

Leo called a curveball, but I rejected it and suggested a fastball.

He accepted and I sent it his way. Strike one.

Then, a slider just off the plate. Ball one.

Another fastball, this smoking its way to Leo’s mitt and a second strike.

I felt the previous play in my bones and felt easy about it. Leo wanted a fastball. I wanted a changeup.

And my changeup got us our third strike.

I jogged back to the dugout. Plenty of ass-slaps and congrats to go around. The skipper pulled me aside for a personal note of how proud he was. I felt the comment hit me square in the chest, fill me with helium, and send me to the sky. I floated down the steps of the dugout into the corridor.

By the end we had won the first game of the series and people continued to give me smiles and words of praise in the clubhouse. Even Shoji of the Assholes reluctantly gave me a backhanded compliment, which I reversed and wrote down in my book of accomplishments.

After showering and dressing, I stuffed my backpack with my things and got ready to leave.

The skipper was in the clubhouse having a quiet conversation with Romo and a pitching coach.

Romo’s eyes found me and then he nodded his head for me to come over.

I hefted the backpack against one shoulder and walked up to them.

“Hey, kid,” the skipper said. “Gonna start calling you the Anchor. Great game kid, great game. Come in a little earlier tomorrow, all right? We need to chat through some strategies.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. Romo patted me on the shoulder and congratulated me on a good game for the hundredth time.

The night was hot and sticky. The sun had long since set and heat wafted from the pavement that had baked all day under a cloudless July sky.

As the door slammed shut behind me, I gave myself a moment.

The staff parking lot had only a dozen cars dispersed throughout designated spots.

Tall lamps dotted the hardscape with overly bright lights.

A siren briefly shouted in the distance.

I dropped my head back and looked up. I couldn’t see a lot of stars due to the stadium lights, but I saw a half moon hanging out just fine and happy.

I blinked, as if the movement could take a picture for me and burn it into memory.

I knew I was not yet through the gauntlet and obstacles would still try and knock me from my path.

But I was just as far in as I would be out and when you’re there in the middle, really, what was the only option left?

The door to the clubhouse swung open behind me. I knew it was him without ever looking. Funny how that always happened. Almost like the spectral hand of fate continually nudged our directions…

He stepped up next to me. In his left hand he carried a duffel bag.

He wore those damn shorts again and a loose tank that gave me full view of the tattoos on his chest. Not that I needed to study them much anymore.

The cap on his head was pulled down low, as if he expected paparazzi waiting for him.

I spotted his behemoth of an SUV not too far from my own car, a midsize sedan in the closest color to Riders’ blue I could find.

Leo moved forward without saying anything, made it two steps, then stopped. He turned and said, “Review the playbook tonight. Brush up on my setup man notes.”

“Sorry I snapped at you,” I said, then shut my jaw. Where the hell did that come from? Who made me speak like that?

He turned out his lower lip and gave a slight shake of his head. “Don’t apologize, Hill.”

Because you never would? “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” I nodded sharply, as if that would dismiss a man who did whatever he wanted. “Setup man notes. Got it.”

He spun about, then paused, turned back around. “I meant what I said. About reliable mechanics. It wasn’t a dig to say you’re not clever. I’m sure you are in your personal life but I see everything through the lens of the game. Okay?”

I about fell to my ass. I think that was the closest to an apology I would ever hear from the man, but I’d take it.

“I know. Thank you for clarifying.”

And then we simply stared at each other.

I had a novel of things to say. Instead, I took all of him in.

The way he stood there with his straight back, Spartan beard, every inch of skin covered in indecipherable tattoos.

The look on his face, one that so many people thought was all contempt, that I slowly came to realize was just a front.

Something within him burned with sorrow that he hid from the world.

I broke away first. Awkwardly, we walked together for the first few feet before meandering to our cars.

The buzz of the day stayed in my system like a nicotine pouch. I stared out of my window as I lay in bed, eyes wide, fully alert. Weary but strangely buzzed. A kaleidoscope of Leo and the game created snowflake patterns in my mind. Always shifting, never the same, but always there.