Bernie:I double-checked, Ollz, and yes, somehow it is. Frize deals from the stretch. Ball. They’re really not doing themselves any favors this game either. Frize sends another one—way outside. Nice catch by Nebiolo. No idea how he snagged that one.
Oliver:Not a good time for the Clippers to be having trouble on the mound. Frize is laboring out there.
Bernie:Another ball. Let’s see if he can come back from this. He deals again…ball. That’s a walk, runners on first and second.
Oliver:The errors by Stone and Michaels are really going to cost the Clippers.
Bernie:Not just the Clippers, Ollz. They’re costing Stone too. The Jetties can’t be watching this and think he’s ready for The Show.
SIXTEEN
SHANE
I’m livid.Stone’s livid. Our coaches are livid.
So what, we just ran into each other and totally fucked that play. It’s fine. Won’t happen again. Shake it off. T-Swift that shit. The adjustment period has been…tough. Things are improving…at the speed of snail. But my reactions are a bit more instinctual.
One thing I haven’t gotten used to yet? Not being the one calling the shots. When it comes to the infield, short is like the general calling out orders. We defer to him. So, if Stone says it’s his, it’s his. Which he just did a moment ago. But I also called for it, and I’m used to everyone listening tome. Which is why we just ran into each other.
We. Ran. Into. Each other.
Someone pleaseMen in Blackme and erase my memory of that horrible play.
Somehow, Jed managed to get his feet under his ass and scoop the ball fast enough to prevent the runner from deciding he could get to second on our error. It should have been an out. The end to the fucking inning.
Don’t get me wrong, plays that horrible they’re almost comical happen even in the big leagues. Miscommunications happen. It just recently happened in the World Series—the fucking World Series—but the center fielder caught it despite the two crashing into each other. They laughed it off because no harm done. We weren’t as fortunate.
Stone and I haven’t found our rhythm yet, and it’s causing problems. I know part of it is me still gaining my bearings, but I can’t help thinking another part of it is how on edge I am around him. I’m so keyed up I’ve actually been debating taking Frankie up on his offer. Maybe he’s right. I can get over this preoccupation with a perpetually frowning shortstop if I get under someone else. And Frankie’s offered—multiple times.
Frize, our starting pitcher for the night, walks the next batter, and now we’ve got runners on first and second. Fucking great. That’s how quickly this shit can change. We went from no one on base, easy out, to a runner in scoring position. We’re already down two runs. The last thing we need is to cushion their lead. I play close to the bag so the runner doesn’t get too comfortable and think he has a shot at stealing third. Not on my watch. I’ve fucked up enough this game.
The next batter steps up to the plate. Frize checks in, then turns back to home. He fires one. Big swing—crack!It’s a high pop-up in the infield. I rush forward to get under the ball.
“I’ve got it.”
“Mine!”
Stone’s deep voice mixes with my call. It takes my feet a beat longer to register, but this time I do. Not mine. I defer to him and backpedal.
I glance at him, and our gazes lock. Which means one thing.Fuck!
The ball drops between us. You have to be shitting me. The minute ball hit bat, the runners had taken off. That’s what you do with two outs on a force. I dive for the ball, and my gut instinct has me firing it home. Nebs is in position. My gut proves right. The ball smacks the leather of his mitt the moment the batter slides into home. It’s so close I have no idea if I got it there in time.
The ump jerks his arm over his shoulder. “Out!”
The opposing team calls for a review.
My stomach eats at itself as we wait for the final verdict. I chance a glance at Stone. Anddd quickly look away. Woof. He’s surly on a good day. Right now? The Clippers might need to start looking foranothersecond baseman. You know. In case I go missing. I should probably give Paulie and Easton a heads up that Stone should be a suspect in my murder case.
The umps separate and walk back toward the field. The head ump gives the signal. “Out.”
I melt in relief. Thank all the baseball gods and the mothers who birthed them.
I jog to the dugout, and as soon as my attention falls on the skipper, all relief evaporates. Dominguez ispissed. His arms are crossed so tight they might never come undone, and his usually kind eyes look ready to shoot death rays. I flash him a smile, hoping to soften him a bit.
“Don’t smile at me, chacho,” he growls.
All right. That’s not going to work.
