I throw a warm-up pitch that’s high, making Hayes get up to catch it.
“You have to fix this,” Easton continues.
I whip around before throwing my next pitch and point my glove at him. “Stay the fuck out of it.”
Coach Cal runs onto the field. “Guys, let’s focus on the batter.”
I turn back around.
“We don’t know what happened. Why are you automatically blaming him?” Decker asks.
I’m shocked he’d even question whether I was at fault or not.
I throw another pitch, and it’s inside.
All I can think about is Callie and wanting her and wishing I wasn’t the fuck-up I am.
Somehow, I get out of the eighth, but we go three up and three down, leaving Pittsburgh up one run in the top of the ninth.
We’ve got two outs down when I walk a batter.
Hayes calls time, and I wave him off to go back to the plate, but he comes over anyway.
We step off the mound, and he covers his mouth with his glove. “Get your head out of your ass. I get that you’re all lost in your feelings, but you caused it, so suck it up and actually throw a strike and get us out of this.”
Hayes has never talked to me like this, and I thought he never would.
But what do I expect? I fucked over his little sister.
Blood is always thicker than water, and what does it say that my blood doesn’t want me?
“Why don’t you guys score some runs and make it a little easier for me?”
He shakes his head, and his eyes bleed anger. “It’s always someone else, right? When are you going to actually get over this chip on your shoulder?”
“It’s not a chip.” My words are delivered through clenched teeth.
I should back down. I’m in the wrong here. I’m the one who needs to apologize. I took liberties I shouldn’t have.
“You’re right, it’s a fucking boulder. So you had a shitty childhood. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t give you license to fuck around with other people’s feelings. You hurt her.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I shout.
Art comes up from behind the plate to interrupt and get us playing, but I want this over with. I want to have this out with Hayes for reasons I don’t understand, but I want it over and done with.
“Go back.” I point at Art to go back behind home plate, but he keeps coming. I step toward him, arm still extended. “Art, go the fuck back, we’ll be done in a second.”
“Foster,” he says, shaking his head. “This is a warning.”
Ripley steps out of the dugout, on the line ready to call time and cross, but I point to him to stay back too.
Decker jogs over, puts his hand on my chest, and I fling it off.
“Everyone, just go back to your positions, and I’ll fucking throw the ball.”
“Stop it,” Hayes says, but why would I stop now?
After all, I’m Foster fucking Davis. I fuck up everything. This is what I do. This is who I am, right?
