“You’re gonna be fine. You’ve got me.” Hayes talks him down as they head out to the field. He’s good at that, so I’m not surprised he’s such a good dad and partner.
I, on the other hand, do not share similar qualities.
“Does Hayes know how hot his sister is?”
My head whips toward Taz on the bench, and my fists clench at my sides.
“Her ass is…”
“Don’t fucking talk about her like that. Hayes will kick your ass if you try anything with her.”
My ass too, but that’s beside the point. Right now, I’m holding in all my anger, so I don’t pin Taz to the wall and knee him in the nuts for even thinking of Callie in that way. I can’t very well go caveman on him and expect Hayes not to notice.
I don’t even know why this dick is bringing up Callie.
It’s the eighth inning, and the call comes from the dugout. All eyes look at me. Damn it. I was really hoping I’d get tonight off, go to the doctor appointment tomorrow, and then after we tell Hayes and I’ve taken my well-deserved beating, I can work with him behind the plate again.
The lights in the stadium turn down, “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne plays, and my intro pops up on the Jumbotron. I love the song, and I love the fact that my nickname is Reaper, but sometimes I wonder—had Decker and I swapped places all those years ago, would it be him who’s seen as the darker brother? Maybe I just came out of the womb a grumpy egomaniac with a short fuse.
I jog onto the field and stop to have the umpire check me and my glove. He lets me go, and I meet the team manager, Ripley, and the guys on the mound.
I purposely don’t look at the stands. I didn’t see Callie arrive until the seventh inning stretch, but I’m trying to be at least halfway decent to Hayes, even if he doesn’t know what’s going on.
Ripley places the ball in my palm, and the infield steps back. Hayes jogs back to home plate, and I watch him, my eyes veering up.
Sure enough, Callie is sharing a pretzel with Lake. The two of them are laughing and talking. I love that she’s taken on the aunt role to those kids just as Hayes took on fatherhood. The Carlisle family is one I don’t deserve to be part of, that’s for sure.
I throw my warm-up pitches to Hayes, and he’s dodging a little.
“You good, Reap?” Easton asks. “You do see Carlisle’s glove, right?”
My teammates laugh from behind me, and I tuck my glove between my arm and body, shaking out my hand. Fuck, I really need to get myself under control.
Hayes jogs back up to the mound, waving for the infield to take their positions.
He puts the ball in my glove. “I’m going to catch whatever you throw, so don’t worry. All we need are two strikes, and we’re out of this. You’re the only one in that bullpen who can do it.”
“I bet you say that to all your pitchers.”
He laughs and doesn’t argue. We’ve always had a special bond, but I haven’t met a pitcher who doesn’t love having Hayes behind the plate.
“Your slider looked good earlier, but they’ll expect it, so let’s throw them off and do a curve.”
I nod.
“And we’ll strike him out on the slider.”
I nod again.
“Jesus, breathe. You look like McCarthy out here.” He goes back to squat behind the plate, and I’m thankful he’s not here psychoanalyzing me anymore.
My first pitch is so off Hayes has to get up to catch it. This isn’t a great sign. But Hayes steadily gets back into position and calls the same pitch. A curve on the inside.
I wind up and throw the ball. It doesn’t get as inside as I’d like, but Little does swing and miss.
I throw two more strikes. One more out and we’re up to bat.
The ball got in the dirt, so Hayes tosses it to the ball boy and asks the umpire for a new one. And damn if my eyes don’t drift up to see Callie again while I’m waiting for a new ball.
