Page 10 of Under Pressure

The first time his bat cuts through the air, he misses. It was a quick splitter to the bottom left corner of the zone. Without watching his next two swings, I put my focus back on the practice catcher and nod to continue. We throw two more practice balls before the lights are changing and I’m striding for the exit. I drag a knuckle along the back of my glove the same way I do every time I leave the bullpen and let my eyes adjust to the sudden flashes of lights before I stride forward.

“Back In Black” pulses through the stadium as I pick up into a jog with my eyes laser-focused on the hill and the umpire standing there waiting for me. The sound of my name being announced has my adrenaline throbbing in my veins. I soak up the cheers, letting them calm some of the energy beneath my skin before I start twitching.

I offer my glove and hands easily, allowing the ump to checkthem over. Once he’s happy with what he hasn’t found, he hands them back, and I give him a nod of thanks. Wes is already squatting behind home plate, changed into his catcher gear and making eye contact with me immediately. I flash him a grin and throw a few warm-up pitches once the lights return to normal and the music dies.

Our pitching coach, Kordell Bailey, is watching from the dugout, alongside Roman Shore, our manager. Finn is in discussion with Kellan, having covered his jersey with a Havoc hoodie after finishing the first seven innings today. The rest of the guys are chowing down on sunflower seeds and chatting, distracting themselves from the close game and any nerves they might have.

I steady myself on the mound and let the dugout fade to the background.

I’m facing the top of the order, and excitement burns through my stomach, making my fingers tremble around the ball Wes has thrown my way. My deep green glove blends into the fabric of my jersey as I adjust my belt and set myself. I watch the first batter come into the box and get adjusted. There’s no stress rocking through me as I wait for his nod.

This is what I do. The high-pressure stakes of this game, this inning, are what I live for. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Wes sets up, and I listen to his call, accepting it. My following pitch cuts through the centre at a speed too fast for the batter to catch a piece of. I feel the lurch of my heart when Wes catches the ball and clutch onto the swell of adrenaline, using it to ground me.

There’s a special relationship that you build with your catcher, especially one as elite as Wesley Hayes. One after another, I throw what he decides and let my fist pump toward the ground when I strike the first batter out after three pitches.

The second goes down a bit harder, catching a slider I couldn’t place quite right and fouling it off. I catch a new ball from Wes and shake it off, setting again. Looking behind me, Ihold my position for a beat before facing forward to send my next pitch.

Two outs.

The designated hitter leaves the circle and finds his place at home plate. He drags his bat over the dirt twice and rolls his shoulders while I pull my play card from my back pocket, looking it over. A beat later, I tuck it away and watch him closely, not shy when it comes to baseball. When Wes’ call comes in, I pause, recalling what I’ve just read.

My mind works for a second before I shake my head and wait for him to choose something else. The second is much better, and I nod at him before setting again. Five seconds count down on the pitch clock as I lift my knee and send the ball piercing through the air.

The sound of it hitting Wes’ glove fills the air as I blow out a rough breath and find my balance. It was a fast throw, somewhere close to a hundred and three, if I had to guess. Pride sparks before I extinguish it, not ready to celebrate yet.

The tens of thousands of fans attending today’s game stand and start to cheer so loudly it nearly hurts my ears as I register the two-strike count. My body moves nearly on autopilot as I bring my glove up and shield the ball behind it, my fingers spreading just right. The only thing on my mind is finishing this game when I let the ball go, watching it curve and drop just right. In a flash, Wes is snapping it into his glove and popping up, his eyes on the ump behind him and not the batter who didn’t swing.

My gut twinges, confirming the strike call at the same time the umpire does. I can feel my lips spreading in a grin at the same time my fist flies up and I jump off the hill. Wes abandons his helmet on the dirt as he rushes to me and smacks both hands against my back.

“Fucking legend, man,” he announces, eyes wild.

I grip the back of his neck and give him a light shake as our teammates swarm around us. We’re the only team left on thefield now, but I don’t pay the other a moment of my attention as my ass gets smacked and Finn plants a fat kiss on my head.

He’s beaming when I turn toward him. “That’s our boy. A near-perfect inning.”

“Near perfect?” I echo, scowling.

“Take the compliment before I revoke it.”

I ignore our manager as he steps up beside me and poke Finn in the cheek. “You can’t take back a compliment.”

“Ten balls for the three outs? Those are rookie numbers for you, Becky,” he drawls, already retreating to start a handshake line.

His teasing is familiar, so I let it go with a laugh. Roman settles beside me and claps a hand to my back, offering me a firm nod. I’m close to making a comment about him being so nice to me after the bitter cold shoulder he’s given me the last few days, but decide against it. His surly attitude isn’t anything new, but it’s been almost comical to watch him grow jealous of my friendship with Wes’ sister, Brielle.

I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but he’s obsessed with her. I’ve had the time of my life getting a rile out of him because of it.

“You happy, Coach?” I ask before he can slip away.

His hands find the pockets of his baseball pants, a stiffness causing his shoulders to rise a bit. “Hard not to be when my team plays like this. You did good, Beckett.”

“Not good enough for you to shorten my name, eh?”

“Not yet,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s joking around. If that’s possible for him.

Thank you, Brielle.