I wish I could say that was the first time that’s happened since the Grapefruit League started, but I can count on one hand the number of outs I’ve made throwing to first in the first two weeks of Spring Training exhibition games.
We finish out the inning, luckily leaving my error stranded, and I jog to the dugout. The skipper taps me on the shoulder and jerks his head toward the locker room.
I’m done for the day.
It’s not unusual. This is exactly how Spring Training goes. We rotate through the early games, no one starting two days in a row as we get back into the grind of playing every day. I was the starter today, and I’m not surprised to get pulled.
But we just wrapped up the third inning. It’s a bit early;usually it’s not until at least the fourth. And I know it’s because of my arm.
I try to stop myself from looking, but I can’t help it. My gaze seeks them out—those impossibly blue eyes that always dance with a secret joke. That blinding smile that makes his double-dimples pop. My replacement.
Our gazes clash, and my frustration catches fire. His smile turns lop-sided. Sympathetic. “Rough luck on that last throw.”
He blows a bubble, and I want to fucking fist it and pop the damn thing. I clench my teeth to prevent myself from saying something I’ll regret. I turn on my heel and head for the locker room.
As soon as I reach my cubby in the locker room, I slam my hand into the wall beside it. The sound thuds off the paneling. My head follows, forehead resting against the cool wood. A word whispers through my mind, haunting and horrifying.Yips.
I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm the way everything is moving too fast, working too hard.Breathe, Jed.
Sometimes players lose their ability to perform a basic skill—and they’re said to havea case of the yips.It’s all mental. We’re still capable, but our minds trick us into thinking we can’t. Yogi Berra wasn’t joking when he said that baseball is ninety percent mental. There was a pitcher a few years back who got it so bad he couldn’t pitch anymore. He became an outfielder. For some, it can be career ending. That’s how much your mind can turn on you.
Cold sweat prickles over my neck. I count my breaths. Slow. Measured. That won’t be me. I just need to learn to trust my arm again. I’ll get over this.
I just wish a certain up-and-comer with beach-blown blond curls and an easy smile wasn’t doing so damn good. That’s got to be it. It’s the extra pressure getting to me, throwing me off. The kid is fucking impressive. Something I’d normally appreciate—you know, if he wasn’t threatening everything I hold dear in this life.
Everything I have left.
“Stone!”
My head whips up, and my attention falls on Stephan, the Jetties’ head athletic trainer, standing in the doorway of the locker room.
“When you’ve got a minute, I want you on my table. Let’s take a look at that arm.”
I give him a nod, and he disappears. The coaches clearly spoke to him. Which means they’re worried I’ve re-aggravated my UCL. I push off the wall and make my way out of the locker room and down the hall to the athletic training room next door. My arm—my elbow—is fine.
It’s my head that isn’t.
Unfortunately, the mind is a lot more difficult to treat.
FOUR
JED
I flipmy sunglasses up into my hair and let my head fall back against my beach chair, closing my eyes. The sun’s rays sink into my skin, my eyelids glowing red. The team’s laughter and chirps mix with the subtle crashing of waves.
It’s our annual Jetties beach cookout. We have one every Spring Training, scheduled on one of our few game-less days. Most of us clocked in some training this morning, and some players were held back a bit longer for more one-on-one sessions, like our pitchers and the more green players who have promise.
Like Shane Michaels.
But I’m not thinking about him today. My throws are getting better. Ish. Fuck. Not really at all. I’ve been trying to manifest. I’m not doing a good job. I’ve never been into the woo-woo shit. But I’ll try anything at this point to get my throws back in command.
“Pebs.”
I turn my head toward the voice and squint open one eye. Mike Sanders, our current shortstop, grins back at me.His black hair is plastered to his head, water still dripping from it down his face and neck. His normally pale skin already holds the rosy hue of sunburn. The man burns in a minute flat.
His grin widens, and I don’t have any time to react, even though I know what’s coming. He shakes his head and cold water sprays all over me.
“The fuck, man!” But my words are light with amusement.
