“He called a slider.”
“Can your imaginary batter read those?” Brayden fired back. They were the only ones out here.
Gunner glared. “Yeah. Listen, I call the pitches during practice.”
“Oh. Well, then.” Brayden waved for him to continue and tentatively leaned back against the wall. The position wasun-comfortable. He watched Gunner throw for about five minutes and then started calling pitches before they crossed the plate. “Fastball.” “Fastball.” “Changeup.” “Fastball.” “Curve.”
Gunner threw his mitt in the dirt. “What are you doing, man?”
“I’m reading you like a book.” Brayden got to his feet. “You have tells. When you throw a curve, your knee hesitates.”
“No way.”
Brayden lifted a shoulder. “Watch the tape.”
“Look, old man. I don’t need this. Okay? Get off my case and stay out of my head.”
Brayden glared. “I’m here to help you.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
Brayden’s blood boiled. He hadn’t asked to be crippled, but he’d gotten that anyway. A few pitching tips weren’t going to kill the kid.
He was about to lose his crap, and that wouldn’t do his job prospects any good. He clenched his fists until he felt the slight spasm in his bicep. He could handle the pressure of working contract to contract, of having his performance evaluated and his future decided. That’s what a baseball professional dealt with season after season. So he put a lid on his steaming anger and said, “You should ask for it. You’re brand-new to the league. If you think what you’ve been throwing will stand up against a Betts, then you’re delusional.”
“I don’t need to listen to this crap.” Gunner stormed past him, disappearing in the shadow of the doorway.
Brayden watched him go. He blew out his breath.
Newton walked over, his face mask tucked under his arm and his hat on backwards. “That was fun,” he said sarcastically.
No. No, it wasn’t. “All in a day’s work.”
“It will be with that guy. Better you than me.” Newton lifted his hand to smack Brayden’s back and pulled back at the last second.
Brayden jerked his chin in response—one of the few moves he’d discovered when the brace came off. Newton gathered the rest of his gear from the dugout and left.
Once he was alone, Brayden walked out to the mound, stopping a couple feet before the dirt. The mound was unlike any other patch of dirt or grass on the field, in the world. To Brayden, the mound was the center of the whole game. Every great play in baseball started right there—with a pitch. The dirt was sacred.
He growled. He wasn’t worthy to stand there anymore. He was officially sidelined, aconsultant, unable to wear a uniform like an official coach. He turned away, his head lowered as much as it would go.
Inside the locker room, he found his old locker. Gunner had moved in, his jersey hanging there, pressed and bright. He’d rather have it be empty. To see that guy’s last name on a jersey was just a punch in the gut. Gunner didn’t have the speed. He didn’t have the technique. He didn’t have the brains. All he had was a neck without screws in it. Brayden ripped the jersey off the hanger and threw it on the ground.
“Whoa.”
He spun to find Tilly, her eyes wide and her hands out in front of her. “What?” he spat. “Haven’t you ever seen a has-been have a tantrum?” The pressure of this new position, Gunner’s attitude, and the wrongs that couldn’t be made right pressed on him, and he couldn’t seem to stomp them back down.
“You’re tired.” She slowly lowered her arms. “I am too. How’s the pain? Do you need meds?”
“I’m not tired. I’m pissed.” He kicked at the ball of fabric at his feet. It flopped over in an unsatisfactory manner. He turned back and grabbed the first bat he saw, slamming it into the locker divider. The bat splintered, and shards flew. “I’m useless.” He threw the jagged wood in his hand against the wall. The sound was satisfying—like he’d summed up his life in that crashing bang.
Tilly’s eyes turned pink and then red as tears built up. “You’re not. You’re still Brayden Birks, and that means something around here.”
He couldn’t stand what he was doing to her, couldn’t stomach that he’d made her cry, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. “You don’t get it! I’m through. No one will remember what I did here. No one cares. I don’t care.” He headed for the door, his arms and legs aching from the tension straining his body. Tilly cringed away from him as he passed, and his heart sank like a rock. It felt like a rock, all hard and bitter. “Take me home.”
She sniffed, swiping under her eyes. “I can’t leave yet. I have an appointment with Elise.”
He did too, but it would have to wait. “I’ll find my own way.” He threw the door open, almost hitting Blake and feeling tightness in new places.
