Chapter 1
Hunter Reddick
I’m fucking good.
No. I’m the fucking best.
Yeah. That’s the mantra. I’m the best they’ve ever had pass through this place. After today, the press is going to buzz about how short my stint here will be. Texas will call me up after the first month. They won’t be able to deny how much they need me. I was the number one pick on purpose—with purpose. I came to dominate, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Starting . . . right . . . now!
I open my eyes and focus on the stocky three-hole hitter named Todd something or other. I tuned out the announcer when I marched around the mound after striking out the last batter, and I wasn’t focused so much on this kid’s name during my prep as I was his batting habits. He likes fastballs.Lovesthem, in fact. So he won’t see a hint of speed from me. He’s getting the junk.
I nod to Roddy, my catcher, and feel the threads on the ball inside my glove as I prepare to throw the best slider of my life. I give a quick sideways glance to the dugout to take stock of how many eyes are on me, and when I note the important ones, I step into my windup and set my attention on the invisible pathI’ve mentally planned for the ball. The batter flings his bat at my slider, both late and nowhere close to putting wood on the ball. His chuckle is the best compliment, so I smirk when our eyes meet.
“That’s nasty, Reddick!” He knows my name. Everyone does. I’mthatguy.Theguy.
“Saved it just for you,” I bark. “Todd,” I mutter when my back is turned, in case I’ve got that wrong.
The ump lifts his chin when I step back up on the mound. It’s a subtle check on me to keep the banter friendly. It’s early yet, the regular minor season for the Mavericks still two weeks out. Extended spring games are a bit looser, but I’m smart enough to know not to push the envelope, even when the league is giving us wiggle room to act like fools. Those eyes watching me from the dugout aren’t simply clocking my speed, they’re looking for reasons to hold me back. It costs the team less if I stick around Sweetwater Springs for a while. It also gives them an extra year on my contract before I get to ask for what I’m worth. I’ve seen attitude problems take down a lot of guys who can throw hard. They’re either in bullpens now or working in sales and living off their former-pro image.
I make sure to flash Todd my best smile, keeping it friendly as I listen in for the next call on the PitchCom.
“High fastball,” the robotic voice announces.
I shake my head at Roddy, and he repeats the same call in my ear. I pull my hat off and shake my head at him, calling him out to the mound as I fake a problem with the device. I’ll only have a second or two to get my point across before the ump trails behind him, so I’m ready with my words.
“It’s working fine. Quit calling for fastballs. Not for him.” My eyes meet Roddy’s, and I’m hit with the fatherly glare he’s known for. Roddy’s been catching for nearly two decades. He’s here to finish out his career. Maybe he feels as though he hassomething special to pass along to the youngins. Who knows? Like hell am I going to stand by and let him tank me, though.
“Everything all right here?” The ump eyes me, then turns his attention to Roddy.
“Yeah, it’s working fine. Little shit just wants to tell me he knows better than me. Let’s go.” Roddy leans to the side and spits in the grass before dropping his facemask back over his eyes and marching back to the plate with the ump.
Fuck.
I’m sure they’re still ripping on me. I can see the slight quiver in the ump’s shoulders. He’s amused. Two old dudes loving putting the young kid back in his place.
I take a deep breath and glance to the dugout again. Coach Shuster doesn’t seem to care about my rigged timeout. He’s still leaning on the railing alongside the pitching coach, Abe Burdick, and spitting empty seed shells onto the ground. I turn my attention back in Roddy’s direction, and the radar gun raises behind the backstop about a half second before I get the call through the PitchCom.
“High fastball.”
Goddammit.
I can literally hear the ump’s chuckles from ninety feet away. I’m sure Roddy said something. Rather than shaking off the pitch again and throwing a diva fit, I take my licks and will my arm to throw the hardest fastball of my life.
“One-oh-three!” the assistant with the gun shouts when the ball snaps into Roddy’s glove. It didn’t earn me a swing and a miss. It’s a ball. A fast, loud, pointless ball. But fine. I threw it. I got the lesson. My job is to listen to my catcher.
I settle back into my stance, foot dug into the divot I’ve formed at the front of the rubber and look to Roddy.
“High fastball.”
My eyes flutter shut. The lesson isn’t over yet. And more people are laughing this time. It seems coaches Shuster and Burdick are more aware of what’s going on than I thought.
“Brace yourself, kid. He’s throwing the high heat again,” Burdick shouts.
I roll my neck to brush off the frustration before readying myself for the windup. If I just clip the top of the zone, I can turn this around. I feel the ball, situating my hands for a solid two-seam toss, then unleash everything I’ve got toward Roddy’s glove. I manage to get the top of the zone; unfortunately, that seems to be Todd whatever’s sweet spot, and he sends the ball four hundred feet, over my head and into the grass area where local college kids sit on blankets.
“Shit!” I hiss through gritted teeth, punching the pocket of my glove.
