THIRD STRIKE SMITTEN
KILLIAN
“You’ve got a bad case of sticky balls, Haynesy! You need an ointment for that?” The heckle comes from somewhere near first base, but I try like hell to tune it out.
We’re up three to one in the bottom of the fourth and I just pitched two balls in a row. Bishop gives me the sign for a curve ball again but I shake my head. My curve’s been garbage all night, and Bishop knows it. That familiar twin look of annoyance crosses his face from behind his mask. I know it well. I’ve seen it a few thousand times over the years.
It’s not that I don’t trust my brother. He’s been my catcher ever since I can remember. We grew up playing together and moved up through the ranks side by side. He knows the game and he knows my strengths and weaknesses. He never fails me, but I fail him left and right on the regular.
I wipe sweat from my brow with my forearm. The late afternoon sun is doing its thing and the diamond feels ten degrees hotter than it did even an inning ago. I’m aware of every single person in those stands in a way I shouldn’t be. There’s a guy in ayellow shirt three rows behind the dugout, a kid with a foam finger near third base, and a woman with bright red hair behind first base. Ten thousand people and not one of them is here to watch me fail. They want to see a home team win.
And that’s all on me.
I nod and wind up trying to focus on the grip of the ball in my hand and nothing else. Just the grip. It feels slick in my fingers. Slicker than before. My release is a fraction too early and the pitch hangs in the air like it’s got nowhere to be, fat and slow and obvious. I know before it even gets there. The Rattlers’ cleanup hitter knows before it gets there. Hell, the kid with the foam finger even knows. The crack of the bat is less a sound than a feeling in my back teeth. The ball soars over the left field fence and the crowd splits in half—cheers on one side, groans on the other—as the runner takes his sweet time around the bases, tying the game.
Fuck my life.
“Jesus Christ, Killian!” Bishop yanks off his mask as he storms toward the mound, his catcher’s gear clanking with each angry step. Callan, the pitching coach, is already halfway out of the dugout before thinking better of it and stopping.
“What the hell was that?” Bishop asks once he nears me.
“Bad pitch.” I keep my eyes on the dirt in front of me. The crowd’s already letting me have it.
“Bad pitch.” He repeats it back to me like I said something stupid. “You hung it, bro. You hung it and you knew you were going to hang it before you even let go.”
“And you’re the one who fucking called it when I told you not to!” I shout back at him, my blood pressure rising. “You know damn well my curve has been shit today but you couldn’t let it go.”
Bishop’s the only person alive who can speak to me that way to my face and still be standing there a second later. He’s alsothe only one I know who will willingly take my shit when I turn it back on him.
Brotherly love and all.
He’s not wrong though, which makes me feel even worse. I fucked it up and knew it would happen before it left my hand and he called me on it. I should be apologizing. But I’m in the middle of a fucking game and I’m the ace pitcher for this team, not him.
Killian Haynes doesn’t fucking apologize.
“I’m fine. Just let it go.”
“Yeah, you look great.” He rolls his eyes before glancing back at the dugout, then drops his voice. “You’re doing it again, Kill. Your brain’s writing the headlines before the pitch even lands. You have to stop.”
“I said I’m fine,” I bark forgetting to raise my glove to my face to mask my words and expression.
“Uh huh. And I said you look great. We’re both lying assholes.” He holds my gaze for a beat, long enough that I have to look away first, which I hate. The umpire circles a finger in the air and Bishop tucks his mask back under his arm.
“Is Callan going to pull me out?”
The last thing I want is to be pulled in the fourth inning. I know I’m having a bad night…okay, a bad string of nights, but I’ve got this.
“If you keep pitching like you just did? Fucking right he will.” He taps my arm once with his glove. “Come on, man. You’re Killian fucking Haynes. Act like it.”
My brother walks back to his position and I take a deep breath, trying to find my center, but the tightness in my chest only worsens. The next batter steps up to the plate, a cocky rookie who’s been trash-talking the entire series. I need to shut him down, show everyone I’m still the ace, still the guy who can handle the pressure. Bishop is right. I’m Killian fucking Haynes,the starting pitcher for the Portland Lagers, and I’ll be damned if I let this rookie take me out. Though my fingers feel numb as I grip the ball, I wind up and release, and the pitch sails high and outside.
Ball one.
Fuuuck.
The crowd’s murmurs grow louder.
“Put that one away Haynesy,” the same voice from a moment ago calls out again, brighter now, like she’s settling in for a full conversation. “That curve’s got a kink. Bring her back once she’s been a good girl.”
