Page 88 of Rain Delay

Chapter 32

Wyatt

ME AND THE MEDIA DIDN’T GET ALONG. I hated doing any sort of prearranged media engagements. Going into something blind where I wasn’t given even the slightest idea on what they would ask me.

I had never seen that new reporter, and the fact that her question was on such a personal level made me dislike her. I was expecting the typical baseball questions, not questions about my personal life.

No one needs to know what happens off the field in my life. They’re being paid to write about baseball, not what damn shower soap I used.

I know they’re just doing their jobs. I know they’re trying to make the big bucks based on whatever they could get for their headlines. However, in a situation as big as the playoffs, reporters needed to be staying focused and staying on the topic at hand – baseball.

The personal questions didn’t matter on the diamond. What mattered was whether or not the team was going to be good enough to prove themselves to be the best of the best once again.

I needed to focus on winning the game and being there for my team.

Tonight’s game wasn’t any different. I was on a hot streak, reaching base both times tonight, and was able to already snag a bag.

As I stood at first base, I kept glancing at home and at the pitcher to see if I would be able to swipe another.

I knew the second my spikes caught the corner of the bag, I’d made a mistake. I had slid into the base too late, trying to evade the tag on a wild pitch, and my ankle rolled inward with a nasty pop.

Red-hot pain seared through my leg, blinding me for a second.

Just my luck for me to get injured twice in the season.

“Safe!” The umpire yelled, his arms waving through the dirt.

I stayed down for a second, flat on my back as I put my arm over my face. The stadium was roaring around me, but all I could hear was my pulse pounding in my ears.

Not now. Not in fucking October. Not when we’re three games away from going back to the World Series.

“Mitchell! Are you good?” The first base coach asked, jogging over as I pushed myself to one knee.

“I’m fine,” I grunted, my jaw so tight my teeth ground together. I forced myself to my feet, putting most of my weight on my other leg. When I stepped onto the injured ankle, a spike of pain shot up, but I had to push through. There was no way I was leaving this game. Not now. “Just caught the bag wrong. Nothing big.”

I look toward the dugout. Coach was already standing on the top step, the team trainer halfway to the base when I held my hand out, shaking my head. We were already delaying the game enough, I didn’t need the trainer to come over and examine me. He’d for sure pull me out if he saw the state of my ankle.

I looked to the stands, finding where Eliana was sitting, and gave her a nod, letting her know I was okay. I had a gut feeling that she was freaking the hell out. They both saw my last injury on television and saw how long I was down for that hit.

Luckily, I was able to get myself up again, trying to shift my body from side to side and try not to put too much weight on that side of my body.

The game resumed, and I instantly dialed back in. I was looking to the third base coach, looking for any sign to see when I could make my move. Every time I took a secondary lead, it felt like someone was driving nails into my ankle. In moments like these, I needed to pull it together. I couldn’t let the pain win in this one.

If this had been me, say five years ago, I probably would’ve let them take me out. I probably wouldn’t have fought to stay in. But that was me then. I’m a different person now. I can’t let my team down. They’re depending on me, and the last thing I want to do is let them down and disappoint them.

I’ll ice the shit when I get home. I had a job to do, and I wasn’t a quitter.

The moment the ball left the bat, I ran. It wasn’t a sprint by any stretch; it was more like a painful hitch-and-go. The third base coach was already waving me home as the line drive Landon ended up knocking went back into the corner of left field and the Houston outfielder lost track of the ball for a second.

The center fielder swooped in, scooping up the ball and drilled it right at home. They were going to try and get me out and save a run.

I threw my weight forward, sliding on the right side of my body, my left leg trailing behind as my hand swept the corner of the base just before the tag came down.

“Safe!”

The dugout erupted. Liam and Miles were there at home, grabbing me by the jersey and hauling me to my feet. I leaned heavily into Liam’s shoulder, trying to disguise the fact that the adrenaline was wearing off and I was starting to feel every bit of the injury.

“You’re a fucking maniac, Mitchell!” Liam exclaimed, his hand slapping my back. “You’re out there limping like a peg-legged pirate.”