“STEELE FU-RY! STEELE FU-RY! STEELE FU-RY!”
I allow myself a breath.
Let the moment sit.
This is the part I used to love, with the entire stadium holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next. The power trip of it all. Knowing that for these few seconds, nothing in the world matters except my arm and the ball.
Lately, though? It’s starting to feel like going through the motions. Same game, different day. Same roar, different crowd. Even the rush is becoming predictable.But I bury the thought and focus on Webb.
He’s crowding the plate now, trying to take away the outside corner. Smart, but it won’t matter. Garrett goes through the signs slowly, deliberately drawing out the tension. Finally, fastball, high and tight.
Perfect.
I bring the heat, ninety-eight miles per hour, right where I want it. Webb has to bail out, nearly falling backward to avoid getting drilled. The ball smacks into Garrett’s glove with a sound like a gunshot.
The umpire hesitates, then punches the air. “Strike three!”
The stadium loses its mind.
I walk off the mound as my teammates rush out to meet me, hands slapping my back, voices yelling “Congratulations,” I barely hear. I give them the requisite fist bumps and nods, playing my part, but my eyes are already scanning the dugout. Cold towel. Water. Seven more outs to get.
“Yo, Steele!” Rodriguez, our shortstop, jogs up beside me, grinning like an idiot. “Opening night and you’re already in thezone. Webb looked like he wanted to cry.”
“He’ll get over it,” I say, grabbing a Gatorade from the cooler.
“Dude, you’re ice cold.” Rodriguez laughs. “How do you not get pumped after a strikeout like that? It’s game one!”
I shrug. “It’s just another out.”
It isn’t false modesty. It really does feel routine now. Strike out the side, get the win, do it again in five days. Rinse and repeat for six months straight. Don’t get me wrong, I love baseball. Love the craft of it, the precision, but somewhere along the way, the thrill has dulled to something closer to autopilot.
Maybe I need a challenge that doesn’t involve over sixty feet of open air and a catcher’s mitt at the end of it.
Or maybe I need to get laid.
We win 5-2.
By the time I finish my post-game interview, giving the usual sound bites about‘team effort’and‘taking it one game at a time,’the stadium is emptying. I can hear the diehards still lingering in the concourse, their voices carrying through the tunnel as I head toward the players’ lot.
“Steele’s gonna have an insane season.”
“Think he’ll finally get Smith Warren?”
“He better. Guy’s a machine.”
I push through the side exit into the cool night air, and the noise from inside the stadium fades to a dull hum. The players’ parking lot is already half empty, most of the guys long gone. I prefer it this way. I can slip out after the crowd thins, avoiding the autograph seekers and the women who hang around the exit hoping to catch someone’s attention.
Not that I mind the attention, usually, but I’m not in the mood tonight.
I’m halfway to my car when I see her.
She’s across the street, outside a storefront with dark windows and a half-rolled security gate. Ink District Studio, the sign reads in bold, edgy lettering. It’s a tattoo shop, by the looks of it. The woman is locking up, her back to me as she wrestles with the gate mechanism.
I wouldn’t have noticed her at all except for two things.
One, she’s gorgeous in that effortless way that makes you look twice, with long dark hair pulled into a messy knot, black leather jacket over a dark tank top, and ripped jeans that fit like they’re painted on. Ink covers one bare shoulder where her jacket has slipped, trailing down her arm in intricate patterns I can’t quite make out from this distance.
Two, she glances back toward the stadium and rolls her eyes.
