Page 18 of Convincing the Catcher

“Is against Casco Bay, and they hate my guts,” I say, finishing his sentence and looking up at the hundreds of fans who have traveled from Maine just to be here so that they can yell taunts out to me. “Yes, I’m aware.” I inhale, setting my shoulders back. “I’m fine.”

His mouth opens, but before he can say anything, I cut him off.

“Let’s go. Game’s starting soon.” Jogging toward him, I knock my glove against his when he stands up. “Let’s do it, Lockhart.” I jerk my chin toward the stands. “Just tune it out, okay?”

“All right,” he utters.

I know he’s about to have an off game because of who we’re playing. I just hope he can pull it together enough for us to win.

With two outs in the top of the ninth inning and a runner on second, Casco Bay’s last at bat, and their best hitter, Hayden Murphy, walks out. Mentally, this is one of the hardest games I’ve ever had to play in. We’re winning by two runs, and if I can strike him out or get him out, we’ll walk away with the win. But, fuck, just the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he hates my guts.

That’s okay because I hate his too. He was one of the dudes who trashed our dugout first.

I’d love more than anything to strike this dude out, but honestly, anything will do even if it’s picking his ass off at first base.

Lockhart isn’t having his best game. He’s struck out every time he’s been up to bat, and he’s had two passed balls, which literally never fucking happens to him. This may just be a scrimmage, but it still matters to every one of us.

Settling myself down a bit, I throw the first pitch, and it’s a strike. Liam throws it back to me, and I inhale before letting the air out of my lungs. I need to strike this guy out. We’re in a good position to win, but things could still fall apart quickly. I’ve already let my team down enough this season; I can’t lose the game for us.

Hundreds of Casco Bay fans yell shit out to me, and even though some NEU students and fans cheer me on, it’s not nearly as many as usual. Almost like they don’t want to claim me.

Blurring it all out, I throw in the second pitch. He swings, makes contact, but fouls it off.

That’s two.

Liam gives me the sign for what pitch comes next, and I shake my head. The next sign he gives is a high fast ball, and I nod once. It isn’t enough for most people to see, but Liam gets it.

Taking one last breath, I step onto the mound, and seconds later, I fire a pitch at him, praying for no contact.

The ball hits Liam’s glove, and NEU luckily erupts into cheers—despite their disdain for me, it seems.

I know it’s Huck lifting me up, and soon, the entire team is rallying with me, but my eyes remain on the batter as he glares in my direction. His own way of sending me a secret message before he turns around and heads back to the dugout, I suppose.

When Huck sets me down, I break away from my team and rush toward the other team’s dugout.

When I stand in the doorway, Murphy looks at me first, stepping forward like he thinks we’re about to fight.

“I just … I wanted to apologize,” I say quickly before he or any of the other players has the chance to punch me in the face and then my coaches end up being more pissed off at me than they already are. “I took a prank to a stupid level, and I’m sorry for that.”

They all eye me over, but no one steps up to say a word, and after a moment or two of just being stared at, I excuse myself awkwardly and walk toward my own team.

“What the hell was that about?” Coach grumbles, looking past me at the opposing team. “What did you just do?”

“I apologized, sir,” I utter, looking down. “Figured I should.”

I don’t know what I expect Coach to do. Probably yell that I could have made things worse or just walk away. Instead, he stares at me for a few seconds before he lifts his hand and grips my shoulder, giving it a pat.

Then he walks away. And for the first time since the whole fucking dugout bullshit, I feel like maybe he doesn’t think I’m the biggest fuckup in the world. And seeing as my dad, before he died, always stressed how important it was to be a good man, someone who people could look up to, I sigh in relief. Because I really do care an awful lot about what Coach thinks of me.

HARLEY

With my headphones on, I walk along the sidewalk. My sugar has been a little funky, but I’ve continued checking it, and slowly, it seems to be improving.

I’ve gotten plenty of exercise today. But my mind is restless, and in between classes and homework, I figured I could squeeze in a light walk too. It’s probably not healthy to always feel the need to be on the go, but it’s how I cope with life. And so far, it’s worked for me.

A text from my mom comes through, asking if it’s an okay time for her to call. Disconnecting the headphones and sliding them onto my neck, I don’t even reply before I call her instead. My dad is sick enough that I understand each phone call could be bad news, as much as I hate to think about it.

“Guess it’s a good time,” she says sweetly. “Hopefully I didn’t scare you.”