I hate it.
Maybe because I’ve lived it. I’ve been the setup man for Jake Rodgers since I was ten years old.
Lucas doesn’t hate it, though. He’s leaned into it—made it part of his brand. On the surface, he’s all bounding energy and easy charm—a golden retriever, as the romance novels would say.
But that version of him is incomplete.
It completely ignores the intensity, the edge, the kind of focus that could carry a game from the first pitch or shut it down in the ninth. His stuff plays anywhere—movement that makes hitters swing at ghosts—and the Firebirds are too busy filling a gap to see it.
They want him to be a bridge from the beginning of the game to the end.
They don’t see he could be the destination.
Fools.
I bring my hand up to adjust my glasses when I remember I already took them off.
Nothing is blocking my view of Lucas Fischer.
His moisture-wicking tee clings to the broad expanse of his shoulders as he picks up another ball from the bucket. His fingers dance over the seams with a frantic, practiced speed, and then he winds up.
The force of the movement is jarring. When the ball hits the vinyl, it sounds like the crack of a whip.
I glance at the iPad mounted on the tripod next to the net. The Rapsodo screen is glowing with a heatmap of his last ten pitches. The spin efficiency numbers are dipping into the red—the tech’s way of screaming that his arm is cooked. He isn’t just throwing hard; he’s throwing tired, and tired is how you end up in a surgeon’s waiting room.
“You’re going to blow out your arm if you keep throwing like that,” I say.
Lucas nearly loses his footing. He spins around, chest heaving, ball clutched in his hand like a weapon. Sweat drips off the tip of his nose, and for a second, his eyes are wild—sharp and unsmiling.
“Scottie,” he breathes, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”
“I was dropping off your itinerary,” I say, stepping into the harsh light, holding the thick packet up like a shield. “But I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a multimillion-dollar asset trying to devalue himself.”
The Lucas from last year would have flirted so hard—made a joke about my choice of words that would’ve made me fight off a blush—but this Lucas does nothing of the sort.
“An asset, huh?” He wipes his forehead with a sweat-soaked sleeve, his eyes never leaving mine. “Careful, Scottie—wouldn’t want anyone knowing you think I’m worth something, even if I’m just a line on a spreadsheet.”
He doesn’t apologize for the edge in his voice, and I hate that I like him more for it.
I haven’t led him on over the last year, but somehow he’s been able to read between the lines. And the message he’s read says I’m compromised.
If that story about Jake and me hadn’t broken over Christmas, I would have caved the next time he asked to fly out. I would have let myself believe he’s exactly who he’s spent the last year showing me he is.
I would have said yes.
But would we have lasted if I’d never seen this steel rod in his spine—the part of him that refuses to bend?
I wouldn’t have known he can’t be managed or pushed around. Not when it counts.
I wouldn’t have known that I’m worth getting mad at.
Why does that idea make my eyes sting?
“You’ve been in here for two hours,” I say with warning in my voice. “Don’t you dare throw another pitch.”
He digs his index and middle fingers into the seams, wipes his forehead with his forearm, and holds my eye, like he’s deciding between whatever’s driving him … or me.
I can’t decide if I want him to throw that ball or not.
