Greer squats again, making him one of the most selfish catchers in the league. There’s no harm in giving your pitcher a little pep talk to get through the last batter. But all Greer wants him to do is throw a damn strike and go home.
The next pitch comes in and again, it’s in the dirt, but this time, Greer can’t get down fast enough. The ball hits his shin guard, shooting out toward their dugout. He goes to chase it down, and our entire dugout goes ballistic as Decker sprints to third.
All my teammates are up on their feet, cheering him on, and the pressure that was at a level I could manage is now rising so fast, my heart might leap out of my chest.
You can do this, Hayes. You were meant for moments like this. Hell, you’ve been in this same situation numerous times, from rec league to now. Just get in that box, swing the bat, and run like hell.
“This one is going to make you look stupid,” Greer says as the pitch leaves Ramos’ hand. It’s a little high, but a strike, nonetheless. I should’ve gone after it.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, not going to get the ladies excited with that one.”
I ignore Greer. My teammates are shouting, Vega looks concerned, and Decker takes his lead off of third, eyes Ramos.
Inhaling a deep breath, I think about what Greer will call and how tired Ramos’ arm is. Then I reprimand myself for trying to predict and just go by what I was taught early—if I think I can hit it, swing the damn bat.
Ramos winds up, side-stepping, and releases the ball. Everything slows as the ball barrels toward me. It looks good, just outside and right in the zone. My zone. I shift my weight back, my hands in the perfect position, and swing for it. My swing feels right, the one I’ve been perfecting all year. My bat makes contact, and I see it sail right between left and center.
I drop the bat and run like hell to first base.
Decker must score because the entire stadium roars. I tag first base, the ball coming in right after my foot hits the bag.
God, this feels incredible.
The umpires call the game, the Colts win, and everyone is shouting and clapping. I forgot what it feels like when the entire stadium is on your side, the adrenaline from feeling that sense of accomplishment that comes from contributing to your team.
Easton hops over the fence, running right at me, and we jump and hit shoulders. “Way to fucking go! Fuck the DICs!”
I laugh, and Decker does the same, all three of us running and jumping into one another. We celebrate as if we won the division title.
Now I kind of understand what Jagger was talking about—I want to take this celebration out on the town with my teammates tonight and, yeah, bring a woman home. It just wouldn’t be the one I really want.
As we walk off the field, Vega puts his hand up to us. “You three, interviews.”
It’s the first time this season I’ve been requested to go into the media room.
Maybe Drew’s right, and someone did shove a horseshoe up my ass.
Chapter
Seven
Hayes
* * *
The three of us go to the locker room to shower and change.
“Reservation at seven, boys.” Easton points at Drew, Ian, and Camden. “You have nice suits, don’t you?”
“Fuck off, Kodiak,” Drew says.
“That’s Mr. Kodiak to you.” Easton laughs and strips down before heading into the shower. He lives up to the stereotype that shortstops come with egos.
Camden doesn’t seem to give a shit, undressing and preparing to head to the shower. He’s quiet, a little like our Decker.
“Those two are going to come to blows at some point this season,” Decker says next to me, slowly unbuttoning his jersey. “I bet that hit felt good.”
