Page 54 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

MIGUEL

I t’s hard not to feel some type of way when someone like Lucky Rivera gets a potential career ending injury on a decisive game like this, where the result can dictate the rest of the series.

Especially when it happened during one of your plays.

The logical part of me keeps trying to explain how it wasn’t my fault.

I didn’t bat the ball into his knee, nor was I the overly excited baseman who got in his way too early, making him slide off the wrong direction.

I also wasn’t the base itself that caught his shoe at a weird angle and ensured the snap of Lucky’s knee.

I sure watched the whole thing unfold… after I was the one who set that play in motion.

These things happen in the game of baseball.

It looks very easy and low contact compared to something like hockey or rugby.

But freak accidents can happen anyway, with long lasting impacts.

Or worse. A pitch to the wrong spot of the head can kill.

An accidental collision can incapacitate.

And people in the stands are also not always safe.

We all know this. We practice to prevent this.

We hone our bodies to our own peak to be more flexible and stronger.

It’s still a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus when it happens. Makes a guy wonder when his turn will come.

So after that inning I made a big error that got a run for the Riders. Then our relief shortstop made another one. And that set a chain of events in motion that has taken us right into this moment.

Bottom of the ninth. Our last chance at bat.

We’re trailing four to one, with two runners on base.

Our captain is next at bat, and then it’s my turn.

No one knows that my side’s really bothering me. It’s why the hit that led to Lucky’s injury wasn’t a home run.

Right now we’re on a time out, huddling around the on-deck area with Beau, McDonald, Logan, a base coach and at least five other players.

Beau wants us to go for broke, be as aggressive as caged wild animals that are hungry.

A few of us glance down at our alligator feet socks.

I bet Lucky’s screaming the same at us from the medical ward.

“No wussing out,” Beau says with more calm than I’d have in his position. “We haven’t come this far to crumble like cookies. Our rivals out there are hoping and praying that we do, so how the hell are we gonna give them that satisfaction?”

“Who are we?” the base coach shouts above the noise in the stadium.

“The Wild!” all of us scream in unison.

Logan takes a single step forward, it brings him into the middle of our messy circle. He turns slowly, staring at each of us in the eye and stopping when he faces me. “Lucky would get so angry at us if we screw this up now.”

My shoulders slump a little. “Yeah…”

“Did he just use Rivera’s first name?” someone whispers.

“We can’t afford going into another game where he won’t play,” our captain continues, “because that would piss him off even more. We have to finish this tonight to make it worth it.”

My eyebrows climb. I hadn’t thought about that aspect, even though it rings as true as the earth being round. I’ve just been focused on how shitty it would be to lose because his injury rattled us—me especially—when the real nightmare for him would be to watch us lose like damn fools.

Cono, seré pendejo .

I smack my cheeks hard enough that everyone’s attention turns to me. Even better, all the capacity for pain in my body now concentrates on my face. My mind hasn’t been clearer all night than at this moment.

“Get on base, Logan,” I command as if I was the boss of this operation.

“Only if you get enough of us home to salvage this,” he retorts with a sharp look in his eyes.

Three runs would tie this. If I can hit the ball nasty enough to frazzle the fielders, I can get the next guys at bat to come up. Scoring a run of my own would be even better.

“For Lucky,” I say, putting my paw in the air.

Logan smashes his over mine. “And for your marriage.”

“And for the pizza.” We turn just as surprised to see that Cade came out of the dugout for this, even while he’s half undressed and cooling his shoulder. “What? I’ve also worked hard, I deserve a few slices.”

“For the pizza!”

“And the socks!”

“And for a sixteen-hour-long nap!”

Snorting, I shake my head. The circle begins dissipating and, for the first time since I’ve met him, Logan Kim shoots me a Lucky-style grin before heading to the batter’s box. Shit has hit the fan when our grump of a captain starts looking like our favorite class clown.

But this team is more than stereotypes. They’re brothers, warriors, and strategists.

I haven’t met a single Orlando Wild player who doesn’t think at least two steps ahead, some even as far as ten.

Logan holds that record, and I have no doubt that this guy’s gonna make something happen during his at bat.

I crouch, holding myself up with the bat. My heart beats so furiously, it’s almost like every fiber’s screaming. My whole body tingles and burns. The last time I felt like this was when I was kissing Audrey.

While I watch Logan bait the pitcher with balls and fouls, I practice some breathing exercises and kind affirmations to myself.

“Your daughter’s gonna be so embarrassed if you swing and miss like a pee wee,” I mutter to myself.

“Audrey’s gonna reconsider giving the time of the day to such a loser.

The internet will rip you apart. The team’s gonna trade you to the worst one in the majors.

Or even send you down to minors. SPORTY is definitely not gonna air that ad where you act like a big shot. ”

I know what’s gonna happen the second the ball leaves from the pitcher’s hand. I rise back on my feet. Logan’s front foot stomps the dirt hard. The voices in the crowd get louder. I give the bat with the doughnut one last warmup swing.

Clank!

“Damn.” I watch the ball launch like a rocket from Logan’s bat, and it’s so beautiful that I can’t help copying the Lucky grin. “What a reliable jerk. Anxiety,” I say to myself, “I can’t let you make these guys lose.”

Tossing the heavy bat, I pick up the regulation one and wait.

Logan reaches the base before the fielders can make sense of his hit. Our other two runners have advanced.

“How the turns table,” I mumble in my dad joke voice.

My walk up song starts playing and I no longer see the look of disappointment in my mind’s Marty version.

She’s telling me that I better not hold back.

“I won’t,” I tell her. Reaching for the chain at my neck, I lift up the pendants and bring them to my lips.

The fate of the whole team isn’t on my shoulders.

There are three runners on base hungry for glory, who will do whatever it takes to achieve it.

Dozens of men are in the dugout and in the clubhouse, sending me all their fighting spirit.

There’s one in particular who is probably doing the same, via quite a few strong words in a strong Boricua accent.

My parents and the rest of my family back home are watching on TV, which might or not be hooked to the family car if this catches them in the middle of a blackout.

They, too, sacrificed everything so that I could have this moment.

And my girls are in the stands. I know that no matter what happens, they’re going to be my soft landing place. This is all for them.

The first pitch curves inside, far out of the strike zone. The umpire calls for one anyway, but I’m not bothered. Life gives you more chances than you realize.

Next, the pitcher shakes his head. And again. Running down the pitch clock. Finally he throws. I can practically see the trajectory of the pitch in the air.

“Ball!”

People start booing, but my blood roars even stronger in my ears. I check my stance—and move a little closer to the catcher.

Okay, a lot.

“Don’t blame me if you get hit,” the guy says before crouching down.

It would suck if I get beanballed again. One run is not enough to win. The baserunners would have to work even harder. The Riders will only be too happy. Ben Williams would feel like the king of the world.

Ain’t no way.

I’m going big so that everyone can come home, even if I break in the process.

The hairs at the back of my neck stand up.

My arms flex. My hips start rotating as the ball launches.

My brain zeroes in. It’s like everything else fades away—except for the ball.

I can see each red seam. The spin changes.

A cutter. As if I didn’t practice with Cade Starr everyday.

Every part of my body acts. I twist in tune with the violent centrifuge.

The percussion point of the ball has never sounded clearer.

It’s the only sound that filters through.

The ball explodes out of the bat. The wood stick keeps going into an arch. So does the ball—into the night sky.

“Eso es,” I tell myself with complete chill, as if I was watching the play from the comfort of my living room.

I drop the bat, and the thud snaps me awake.

The stadium is going down. Thousands of voices screaming. Blowing whistles. Vuvuzelas? Damn, that was a pretty wild hit, huh?

I start making my way to first base as the ball disappears behind the stadium screen. The Riders outfielder closest to it melts against the wall in defeat.

So, a grand slam… Surely this makes up for how bad I played tonight.

The base coaches follow me as I circle the diamond, stepping on each base like this is just a drill. The Orlando Wild dugout empties, a gaggle of men turning into children as I approach the home plate—and jump firmly on it.

We win, five to three.

And as someone douses me with icy sports drink, I realize that I have earned the biggest reward of my life.

I get to ask Audrey out now.