Brad Andres was the head pitching coach. He was an older guy with more gray than brown in his hair and a face full of wrinkles he got from coaching baseball.
They took the three steps up to the red dirt and grass, and Brayden’s chest expanded as he breathed in the scent of freshly mowed grass and wet dirt.
Coach cupped his hands around his mouth. “Gunner, come on over here.”
The kid held his ground. “Hang on a sec. I’ve got one more.”
Brayden blinked in surprise. He took in Coach’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. The only indication that Wolfe was upset was the tightening around his eyes that made new wrinkles appear. Brayden’s body tensed in reaction. When Coach said run, you didn’t ask how far; you just started running. This kid had a little attitude. He’d better learn to check it soon. The last guy who’d pulled attitude with Coach was sent packing. Not that Brayden was complaining. A.J. Peck had been poison for the team—getting rid of him was the right choice. He’d heard that A.J. wasn’t settling in in Seattle. There’d been several articles outlining his shenanigans online. It would be a miracle if he remained with the team next year. Some guys didn’t have the intelligence to know how to play nice, and they mocked the hand that signed their paychecks. If Brayden knew Coach, the new kid would be running laps after everyone else went home tonight.
Brayden couldn’t start thinking about the unfairness of life—where guys like A.J. threw away their talent and he’d give anything to have one day back on the mound. Okay, maybe not just a day … but still.
The kid threw the ball. From the way his hand moved, he was trying for a cutter, but the ball didn’t cut to the catcher’s glove-hand side. It raced straight down the middle. Brayden would have him fixed up in no time. And then he’d be out of a job again. But at least he’d show Coach that he could coach. Right now, this was his only chance to put his life back together.
He couldn’t ask Tilly to marry him until he had things figured out. Then again, the way they’d been circling one another, not making eye contact and hardly touching … He just wasn’t sure where they were headed, and that freaked him out.
She was here, at the stadium, wearing a Redrocks polo shirt and leading a bunch of third graders around the building—giving them an inside look at how the MLB works. The bruise on her face had faded to a yellow that she covered with makeup. Her lip was almost healed as well, and she had her natural grace back in her movements. She was still sore when she did certain things, like lift a heavy grocery bag. And he couldn’t lift anything for her, which sucked!
Having her work at the stadium was convenient for the both of them since he couldn’t drive yet. She used to leave for work with a smile of anticipation, knowing she was going to climb a mountain. She’d left today with her mouth in a straight line and her eyes full of resolve. His desert gypsy belonged in the canyons, not the front office.
He shook off his mounting worries as Coach made introductions. “Brayden, this is Gunner Pinch. Pinch, this is your cutter coach, Brayden Birks.”
Gunner offered him a fist bump by way of hello. Brayden tapped his fist and then held out his hand like a man for a handshake. Gunner grunted but complied. His hair was long enough to curl from under his ball hat. He was fit, had a cocky smile, but there was something rebellious in his eyes that said he’d be more trouble than Brayden needed in his life right now.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to get started.” Coach patted Brayden’s shoulder and headed back into the locker room to make the rounds. He usually checked in with the batting coach about this time. Brayden had seen his share of the cages. His batting wasn’t all that great. It was one thing to throw a 98-mile-an-hour fastball, and a completely other thing to hit it.
Gunner turned and headed back to the mound without saying anything.
“Hang on,” Brayden called after him. He wanted to cover some fundamentals, break his cutter down to the basics and build it back up—stronger. “Let me see your grip.”
Gunner didn’t turn around and he kept walking. “My grip’s fine.”
“Prove it.” Brayden folded his arms. The movement tugged at his neck muscles. He was looking forward to getting back in with Elise after this session was over.
“Yeah. Like I’m going to fall for some lame reverse psychology thing.”
Brayden rolled his eyes. “That’s not reverse psychology, dummy.”
Gunner took the mound, digging his cleat against the rubber. “My cutter’s fine.”
“Dude. If your cutter was fine, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
“Why don’t you stop worrying about my cutter and take a seat? I’ll give you a show.” The cocky smile was back.
Brayden looked around and found an empty bucket next to the backstop. He walked over, picking it up by the handle and greeting the catcher. “Hey, Newton.”
Tommy Newton lifted his mask, revealing a face full of freckles and an orange beard. “’Sup?”
Brayden made a face.
Newton laughed and jerked his head towards the mound. “Tell me about it. This guy’s a piece of work.”
“Put him through it, then. Let’s see if we can wear off a little of his shine.”
Newton grinned. “Gladly.” He squatted. “And by the way … he doesn’t have a cutter.”
Brayden laughed. He stepped out of the way, turned the bucket upside down, and took a seat. Newton gave Gunner the first sign. Gunner shook it off.
“Throw the ball!” yelled Brayden.
