A couple heads turn, including Mel’s. He looks at the gun and then at me. “What was that?”
I flash him a grin. “Got bored.”
He doesn’t smile back, but his eyes narrow. “You should get bored more often.”
I could.
For a split second, I think about it, think about how good it felt to unleash in the tunnel a couple of weeks ago. Seeing the gun flash one-oh-two that night.
Should I let myself hit it now?
I wind up, start to reach for it?—
And that’s when I spot Logan looking at me. He should be worrying about his own pitches, not mine.
I turn back to the plate—and that’s when I spot Scottie cutting across the back of the complex toward the stadium entrance, phone in hand, not watching. Then a mitt cracks, and her head comes up, her eyes finding mine.
For a second we’re both just there.
I feel the next pitch in my shoulder as I wind up—the full version, the real one, one-oh-two sitting right there waiting—the thing that would make her know how serious I am?—
Where Logan could see?—
Thwap.
Ninety-eight.
Clean. Controlled. Exactly what they asked for.
Mel nods. The bullpen coach makes a note. Scottie looks at me for one more second, then looks back at her phone and keeps walking.
She saw. She saw the gun and she saw me pull back.
Two mounds down, Logan lets out a low whistle through his teeth—a signal only we share. When I glance over, he isn’t focused on his own catcher. He’s looking at my radar readout.
Then he looks at me.
He doesn’t say anything, but he knows I’m holding back.
He just doesn’t know why, not on the mound, not off.
But Logan’s knuckleball goes sideways when he’s got too much in his head, and I’ve watched him tie his shoes twice this morning already. Even if I hadn’t sworn to Scottie I wouldn’t say a word, handing him my mess on top of his own, in the middle of Spring Training, with Doug watching both of us—it wouldn’t be honest. It would be cruel. My burden would double on his shoulders.
I’ve been trying to save him from that my whole life.
I throw two more at ninety-eight and try to convince myself I know what I’m doing.
That you don’t unload everything on day one. That there’s strategy in restraint.
“That’ll play,” Mel calls to me. Then I hear him say to the bullpen coach. “He’ll be a good bridge.”
Bridge.
I step off the mound, grab a towel, and wipe the back of my neck, letting the word sit. It’s not an insult. Being the bridge means every pitch I throw matters—and then I hand it off when it’s done.
It’s an important job.
And if they ever decide they want more, maybe I’ll show them what else my arm can do.
