Page 4

CHAPTER 4

CADE

C losing my eyes, I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs until the scents are imprinted in my brain. Sweat, grass, sand, leather, and a faint touch of Icy Hot seep all the way into my system. It’s not like I stop training during the offseason, but it hits different to do it at a gym or in my house than at the team’s training field. And what makes this even better is that today is pitching practice, baby.

“Starr.”

I twitch just a little but I’m sure he notices. Logan Kim isn’t an All-Star catcher for no reason. His eyes are scary because they don’t miss a thing and they have the power to light up an outfielder all the way from home.

“Are you aware what us forming the first battery in practice means?”

Popping an eye open, I say, “That I’m finally being recognized for my talents?”

“That we’re shit out of luck and stuck with you.” He nods sagely and I shrug. It’s kind of a dig but at the same time it isn’t—the truth be like that. “So, keep in mind that everyone’s watching and pitch your best ball from the get go or go home.”

“I can’t run home if I’m pitching,” I shoot back, dripping with sarcasm.

He makes a big show of sighing while he puts on his catcher’s cage back on his head. Even stops halfway to look back at me once more, shaking his head like a whole drama king. Maybe once his knees make him retire he can audition for a play.

As he settles back in his place and does some minimal stretching, I toss the ball in the air without paying much attention to it. I don’t need to move my head to catch sight of the onlookers in the periphery. This is supposed to be pitching practice, but none of the other pitchers are even close to ready for the mound. They’re huddled under the shade with the pitching coach, all watching me.

On the other side, the manager, at least half of the training staff, and part of the medical team, also have their peepers trained on me.

I lift my glove to hide half of my face so they don’t see that I’m smiling like I should star in a horror movie, pun intended. After clearing my throat, I wipe my face clean and hide the ball with my glove.

Everyone and their mom knows that I pitch a mean and clinical fastball. It’s the reason I was drafted straight out of high school into the minors, and moved up to the majors in a year and some change. But being able to land a hundred miles per hour fastball wherever the hell I want as a southpaw isn’t as effective as someone may think against professional batters whose sole purpose in life is to hit it out of the park.

Sadly, I’ve struggled a lot more with the curveballs. It’s why I’ve been a closer most of my professional career. Most starters have about three different balls they can play mind games with, and I’ve managed to secure a couple of serviceable curveballs that get me enough strikes and outs to justify my five-million salary. The problem is that I just haven’t mastered one enough to make it a real weapon.

However, my personal trainers and I have been busy in the offseason. Rather than pitching something reliable but boring, like my fastball, I’m better off showing them what I’ve been working on—even if it’s far from perfect.

“That’s been way more than fifteen seconds!” a female voice shouts from the dugout.

Slowly, I turn to Hope Garcia right as she hides behind her boss. She’s been avoiding me ever since the cozy restroom chat the other day, like she’s embarrassed at her own actions. I guess she couldn’t contain herself anymore, huh?

“Yeah, dude. This isn’t the nineties. Just throw the damn ball,” Lucky heckles with his characteristic megaphone voice. That’s when I notice that the fielding practice hasn’t even started, and they’re also peeping like little kids around the fencing.

It’s like the whole team wants to know if I can cut it as a starter or not. Ha, another pun right there.

I take my sweet time winding up like there are cameras trying to capture the motion of every muscle group. My pitching form is a bit weird, like me I guess, because I naturally lift up my right leg a lot more than average. It helps me hide my hand from the batters to really make them guess where the release point is going to be. But it also makes it hell for catchers.

Not this jerk, though. Kim’s glove whips up right in time to catch the best pitch I’ve thrown in years.

I land half turned away from him, which means the first reactions I gather are from the bench.

Ah, damn. No one’s impressed.

Wait, Garcia is. Her eyes are as wide as a cartoon’s. Maybe this wasn’t terrible.

Except that Kim rips off his mask, throws it in the dirt with way more aggression than necessary, and gets up to stride over. His eyebrows are so tight that they form three vertical lines in between.

That’s not the expression of a happy catcher. I spread my feet wider to brace myself for impact.

Good call because he smacks my chest with his glove hard enough to topple a building. “A cutter ? Really?”

“Yeah?” I ask, confused out of my mind.

“Since when can you pitch a cutter?”

“Man, I don’t know. I woke up one morning right after Christmas and said, you know what my life needs right now? A cutter for my knife set.”

“Shut up, clown.” He runs his free hand down his face. “Are you telling me you’ve only been pitching this for two months?”

I hide my face with my glove, because this is pitcher-to-catcher only. “Of course not, you bonehead. I’ve been trying to make the cutter happen for like two years. I’m just finally getting the hang of it.”

Somehow that calms his tits a bit. “Oh. Okay, that’s better. I was about to drag you for messing up your form this close to the season.”

“Nope, same form as always. In fact, that’s why it’s not fully game ready.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “I knew that was a fluke.”

“And yet I bet on it working. Fifty-fifty fluke.”

“This is why I can’t stand pitchers,” he mumbles with a slow shake of his head. “You’re all cocky bastards.”

“Bless your soul.”

“Excuse me, do you need some tea for your little chat?” Rob Beau, our manager, calls from the bench. In case we misunderstood, he mimics the act of pouring tea into an imaginary teacup.

“Fine,” Kim grouches. “Give me only cutters. I’m going to personally write a report on whether you have what it takes to carry the season.”

“Just don’t miss them. I’d hate to write a report on how you don’t have what it takes to be my catcher.” I smirk.

He tosses a middle finger and once he gets in position, we get to work.

I wish I could say I threw one perfect cutter after another, but that would be a lie and lying is bad manners, which is one of those things orphans get in more trouble for than anyone else. Like I guesstimated, about half of my pitches are absolute tire fires that would’ve cost us bases or runs. By the string of expletives coming out of Kim’s mouth, I’d say runs.

The other half, though, were solid strikes. And that’s good enough odds for me.

Larry Socci, the pitching coach, calls it for me once I’ve hit my average count. I can keep going but there’s no point in pushing myself this early. I’m not one of those reckless daredevils who have to be dragged away from the mound. I’m not in this for short term success.

Beau rubs his salt and pepper beard, eying me like he can’t quite tell what species I am as I approach the bench.

“Cool down your shoulder,” is all he says as I step under the shade, his attention back on the rest of the pitching practice.

Boo hiss , I think to myself. Where are my words of affirmation, coach?

“Wait.”

We all turn to the female voice.

This time it’s not Garcia, who pauses from pulling the shoulder ice pack from a cooler. Instead, it’s Rosalina Mena, our social media girl.

“Can I record a couple of videos with Starr before he takes off his shirt?”

I refrain from asking if it wouldn’t be better to record them after that, because I’m a damn gentleman.

“Fine.” Beau nods at her before turning to me. “But ice right after.”

“Yes, sir.” I pick myself up and stride after Mena.

“Hey, Garcia. Come here,” someone else calls from the field and she takes off so fast, she cuts through my path.

Back to avoiding sharing oxygen, I see.

I continue following Mena until she points at me to stand at a random spot in the grass. Or not so random, when she trains her camera so that the fielding practice—and not the pitching area—shows behind me.

“Okay, so this is going to be for a few different clips, so I’ll try to get you at different angles to pretend like it was shot on different days.”

“Efficient, I like it.” I tip my cap to her.

She offers a brilliant smile, the kind I’ve heard won her a Miss Florida pageant while she was in college. “Great. So, question one: if you had a sister, who would you let her date from the team?”

“No one,” I say right away, not only because I don’t have a sister that I know of, but also because every guy on this team is a dirty horndog.

“Geez,” she mutters amid chuckles. She shifts to the side, motioning with her finger for me to follow. Now the fences are behind me. “Question two: who from the team has the most game with the ladies? And you can’t say yourself.”

“Hmm.” I press my glove between my elbow and my ribs to free my hand, and remove my hat to comb through my sweaty brown hair while I think. “Probably Rivera. The accent drives them wild.”

Mena doesn’t remark on my spectacular pun, instead she says, “That’s funny, the guys were pretty unanimous in voting for you on both questions.”

I reel back. Pretending like I’m not as shocked as I am, I ask in a casual voice, “Oh yeah?”

“And Rivera also pointed out your accent. He said the whole southern gentleman thing you have going on gets you all the ladies without even trying.”

Maybe. Until they get to know me a bit better and figure out that I’m not husband material. Or family material, for that matter.

I can feel my face splitting into the smile that I offer to fans when they catch me in the last moment I want to be perceived—like say, in the restroom. “Why, I guess I should thank the team for the compliments. Are there any other questions?”

“Yes, last one.” She takes a quick look around and I guess she doesn’t find another decent background in the vicinity, because she settles for zooming closer to my face. To the camera, she says, “Question three: if you could have any girlfriend in the world, who would it be?”

This is the question that stumps me.

As much as I like women, I don’t actually dream of being with any single one long enough to call her my girlfriend . Maybe I should name drop some impossible celebrity, but some fans have a way of spinning that way out of control. Maybe I should just name a random quality in women instead and call it a day.

Hope Garcia dashes across the green on her way back to the bench. It inspires me to say, “I want to date a woman who keeps it real no matter what.” That’s the first thing that flashed in my mind when I saw her. The second one was powerful thighs, but that kind of answer would probably have made Lou want to quit from being my agent.

There, generic and still decent. Mena’s eyes lift from the camera to my face, her mouth opening until she changes her mind. After a moment, she tucks the camera away and says, “That’s it for now. Thanks, Starr.”

“Welcome, princess.” I put my hat back on and head over to get my shoulder iced.