“I think we’re doing a little better than that. Coach Wolfe is pretty great at bringing the guys together.” He was deflecting from the Tilly issue. The last thing he needed was another lecture about how great she was—like he didn’t know.
“I’ll give him that.”
“Okay.” Brayden got to his feet. “Thanks for the chat.”
Andres stayed in his chair. “This job takes a lot out of you. But you know what kind of a schedule you’re getting yourself into.” He smiled ruefully. “The only guys who work harder than the players are the coaches.”
Brayden smiled at the jab. “Hey now.” He shook hands with the coach and headed out.
He made his way down the hallway, his hand trailing along the concrete wall. The paint was smooth and the surface cool to the touch. He didn’t want to think about what he’d said to Andres about not leaving Tilly, about how she was always his first thought. He rarely made a decision lately without thinking of her; not even ordering dinner came without her face floating across his mind’s eye and her voice in his head.
What would she say about taking this new path? He closed his eyes and brought forth her image. She was standing at the trailhead, two paths open before her. The early morning sun lit her from behind, throwing her curves into beautiful silhouette. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a mass of twists and turns he couldn’t begin to understand. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes full of mischief and adventure. “We’ve taken that trail—let’s explore.” She winked and was off.
He opened his eyes and his vision cleared. He suddenly felt like being a great coach.
Brayden spent the next two days reading every book on coaching he could get on his phone. He didn’t have time to order the hard copies—he needed info now. He had a game plan for Gunner, and Gunner was going to get on board or the punk was going to meet the toughest coach of his life. He wouldn’t be able to walk for the sprints Brayden would put him through.
As usual, Gunner was in the pen before Brayden arrived. He had a decent work ethic. The idea that practice makes perfect must have been something Gunner picked up along the way. A ball flew into the net behind the catcher. Of course, there was the counterstatement that perfect practice makes perfect.
“Gunner!” he called, holding up a palm to stop him from winding up. Brayden wasn’t about to interrupt a guy in the middle of his windup. That could mess with his mechanics. Sure, it happened in a game, but a game was a different mentality than a throwing session.
“Great. You’re here.” Sarcasm dripped.
Brayden ignored it. He’d decided to work on the curveball first. A cutter was a little harder to master, and the curve only needed a tweak. They could then build on that success. “Hey, I watched your film from the minors. You looked good.” He carefully monitored his tone and found that it took effort to keep it light, professional. He needed to sound authoritative but not angry. That wasn’t easy, especially with the way Gunner barely tolerated him.
“Thanks?” Yeah, it was a question. One that said Gunner didn’t know quite what to think about this new “nicer” version of Brayden.
“How’d you feel going into the seventh inning?” Gunner had pitched the seventh and eighth on the road—thrown two wild pitches, one that hit the batter, and been taken out at the start of the ninth. Brayden had gone over and over how to approach this conversation and, after consulting the books, decided that acknowledging Gunner’s strengths would be a place they could find common ground.
“I felt good.”
A generic answer. Fine. “Your arm was loose? Your head was in the game?”
“Yeah. I was good.”
“Good. You did great against Patel.”
“He was easy.”
“Why?” Brayden put his hands on his hips. The answer was important.
“Because he couldn’t find his swing.”
“He was having an off night. New pitchers can do that. He doesn’t know your rhythm.” Brayden attributed all of Gunner’s success on the mound that night to that exact thing. He threw just a tad slower than the other guys, which was hard for hitters to adjust to when they weren’t expecting it. He’d bet that by the time they’d run through the lineup—in the two innings Gunner threw—they had him pegged. That’s why Hughes got the home run off him in the ninth. And the home run threw Gunner’s head out of the game, and that’s why he hit the batter. But he couldn’t say all that to Gunner. Not yet. “They’ll have it next game. And so will the rest of the league now that there’s film on you.”
Gunner glared at the backstop. “So what?”
“So we need to give them something they haven’t seen yet. Keep them guessing.” Brayden held up a pair of balls screwed together. He remembered doing something similar to what he was about to show Gunner in high school. The guys at Home Depot were totally cool about figuring out how to make the strange contraption. “Your curve.”
Gunner eyed the balls. “It’s fine.”
“Right. It’sfine. But it could be amazing.”
Gunner huffed, but he didn’t go back to throwing or tell Brayden to jump off a bridge.
Brayden brought the balls up into his line of sight. “Okay, get your grip right. If you throw a curve, then the balls will spin one over the top of the other. If it’s wobbly, then you’re not throwing right.”
Gunner grabbed the balls. “Stand back, old man.”
