Page 49 of The Battery

Leo called for a fastball inside by the time I reached the mound. With my foot on the rubber, I adjusted the nicotine pouch under my lip as the first batter walked up. I blinked against the blaring lights of the stadium. Pushed out the roar of the crowd. Zeroed in on Leo. Then I threw.

The hitter fouled off for strike one. I pitched a slider that missed low for ball one. Leo called for a curveball next and the hitter singled on it.

Dammit. Runner on first.

Leo called for a changeup, which was taken for ball one. A fastball caught the corner for strike one. Then, a slider grounded to Freddie, who threw to first for the first out. But the runner on first had advanced to second. One step closer.

The third runner stepped up. A hulking man bigger than Leo. He was a well-known powerhouse, always chasing behind Rome’s homer count. We’d have to be cautious with this one, but I put all my trust in Leo. The man could read batters like a fortune teller with tea leaves.

I threw a fastball high, which was called for a ball.

Curveball next, fouled off for strike one.

Slider for my third throw, missed outside for ball two.

Then a fastball, taken for ball three. Another fastball…

and another case of mistaken identity by a blind umpire.

Ball four. The batter advanced to first base while the runner stayed on second.

I could feel his itch to steal for third as if he screamed his intentions for all to hear.

Again, I put my trust in Leo to let me know when to take action. For now, I had to focus on my target.

Batter four was up next. Leo called for a fastball that I sent to the edge.

Strike one. Changeup next, swing and a miss for strike two.

I wiped sweat from my forehead. Adjusted the nicotine pouch for the hundredth time.

Leo sent his next call—a slider. I sent it his way.

The hitter swung wildly for a sharp foul pop fly.

Leo ripped his mask off and adjusted his stance as his eyes tracked the ball where it ascended, peaked, then glided down into his mitt. Out. Only one more to go.

Batter five. A pipsqueak of a man but wickedly fast. He had hair as red as Freddie’s. The fucker singled on my first throw, as fastball outside. In the blink of an eye, the bases were loaded. First, second, third, all occupied by the enemy, all gunning for a run.

The sixth batter stepped up to the plate.

A moment of clarity hit me as he walked up.

I couldn’t see Leo’s eyes, but I could feel him.

His presence. Like we stood in the dark next to each other.

All I had to do was reach out for comfort.

He was there. Urging me to stay strong. I rolled my neck and felt a few things pop.

Relief flooded my system. I tasted the cinnamon on my tongue. The sweat on my upper lip.

Fastball high , Leo said, so I sent him the best damned fastball I knew.

Ball one.

Curveball next. Caught the bottom of the zone. Strike one.

Slider. Fouled off. Strike two .

Fastball, missing the outside. Ball two.

Changeup. Blind-ass-mother-fucking umpire called ball three.

My heart about beat out of its protective casing. Three balls. Two strikes. Bases loaded. I braced myself for whatever pitch Leo would call. Probably a fastball, if I—

Knuckleball.

It took everything in my power to not visibly react. In a game where microexpressions mattered, I felt like I deserved an Oscar for keeping a straight face.

I sent back my own command. Fastball.

Almost as quickly as I sent it, Leo commanded back. Knuckleball. Knuckleball. Knuckleball.

I hadn’t thrown one at the level of majors. Ever. The only time I did was in the minors when I was having fun. Carefree and enjoying life.

Kinda like you are now.

I put my foot against the rubber. Yes. I was having fun. Despite the pressure. Hearing the crowd, feeling Leo’s confidence in me pulsing off of him like a sun gone supernova.

I nodded. Took my position. Hit my grip inside my glove. Adjusted once. Twice. Until it felt comfortable. The tip of my tongue burned into the spicy nicotine pouch. The smell of leather and oil in my glove so close to my face. The halogen stars around me.

Leg up. Extended. Leaned in. Craned my arm back.

Whipped that fucking knuckleball.

And I saw the confusion in the hitter’s eyes.

The confidence he had as he entered into a swing, followed by the hesitation that would be his undoing.

The ball streaked away from me in a smooth, nasty path that looked like it was fake.

Impossibly still. Zero rotation. Inching closer to the plate. Leo leaned… the batter swung…

And hit nothing but crisp, clean air.

Strike three.

Third out.

I threw my glove to the ground at the same time Leo popped to his feet. His mask was off as his cleats dug into the dirt. We were sprinting toward each other like beams of light. His face, that consternation that not even a pennant win could crack. Mine, a wide blubbery mess of a smile.

Three steps away I leaped. We slammed into each other at our breakneck speeds. Leo’s arms around my body, face buried in the crook of my neck as I wrapped every limb I had around him.

The crowd’s cheering drown out my thoughts.

The announcer tried to break through to declare the New England Riders had won the pennant, but the crowd wouldn’t let him get a word in.

Our team emptied onto the field, many of them ecstatic knowing we’d be heading to the World Series.

But Leo and I celebrated for another reason entirely.

I finally untangled myself from him as the pressing bodies of our teammates crowded around.

Everything was a jostling mess. I saw Rome make a determined pace toward us, attempting valiantly to cut through everyone.

My eyes were on Leo’s. His on mine. I had my hands on his shoulders, looking up at him.

“We did it,” I said over the roar of the crowd.

He blinked. Looked up. Something shifted in him then. I could almost see the unraveling of whatever hideous, soul-crushing knot tangled his heart. Suddenly released into the wild. No longer a burden. Only a reminder now, as all good lessons are, no matter how hard the trial.

“I knew it’d be you,” he finally said as bodies made us stumble about. Too many teammates had been screaming with joy in our ears, trying to get our attention.

But this battery would never break.

“What would be me?” I said through a smile as Freddie leaped onto my back, his screams filling my ears.

“You’ll see,” he said, cryptically.

The jostling teammates moved as a singular entity toward the dugout as the natural climax of the cheering ebbed.

We had won the pennant. I prayed that somewhere, Uncle Andy was smiling at his nephew for pulling off the impossible. Proud. Amazed.

Because I sure as hell was.

*

We celebrated with the Riders. Word had spread on the pennant significance for Leo—his fourth, a milestone not exceedingly rare, but rare enough.

As the newest member of our team and proving himself as one of the most critical members, the Riders popped champagne mixed with jets of streamers, all while a bass-thumping rendition of “Fastball-Fastball” boomed over the speakers in the clubhouse.

Most, understandably, were simply excited that the Riders were going to the World Series.

While celebrating, I caught Leo pulling Rome aside as he confided in him.

The two hugged. I could only imagine Leo told Rome of the other significance of the win.

Finally— finally! —someone else knew. I marveled at Leo’s growth, opening up to someone else about his self-imposed trial that had harried him for months.

At home, we celebrate by ourselves. Vodka on the rocks, with a twist for me (which still tasted like citrus gasoline), that we enjoyed in the hot tub. The win’s excitement abated by the time I finished my drink, but a twinkle existed in Leo’s eyes that flickered as indefinitely as the stars above.

Later, he showed me how much he loved me. I had expected his usual intensity, especially after an incredible win. Instead, Leo leaned into the gentle side that no one saw but me. How could I not fall deeper in love with this man?

After, in the late hours of the evening, we lay in bed with nothing but the light of the moon to illuminate our sweat-slicked bodies. We whispered ideas of years to come, formed by trust and promises, careful words stacked upon one another like bricks for a foundation.

Leo’s confidence, unwavering as always, filled me with hope for a beautiful future.

Built one pitch at a time.