Page 103 of Fair Ball

Two more, that’s it. Two more for the out to finish off the inning. Bettina had told me he only needed one more from me, and then he’d bring Yadi in to close.

“We need to save your arm for the play-offs,” he’d said, so sure we’re making it that it’s impossible not to believe him.

With the ball back in my hand, I shake out my arm. Rutch calls for another curve ball, and I lick my lips, picturing it in my head. The throw and the swing.

I do exactly as I imagined, and it’s another strike.

Pivoting on the mound, I practice the box breathing that has served me well and see my teammates cheering me on. The outfielders signaling to one another, the second baseman and shortstop knocking gloves.

We’re close.

We’re so close.

Rutch calls for a slider this time, and I fix my ball cap on my head. Wipe my chin.

Breathe.

Stance.

Picture it.

Release.

“Out!” the ump calls, and the Thunder fans, all wearing blue and yellow, cheer.

Bryce Horton runs at me from first base. “Way to fucking show ’em!”

He slaps me on the back over and over as the rest of our team joins, nearly carrying me to the dugout, where Bettina shakes my hand, tells me to relax, that Cruz will take it from here, and I collapse on the bench with a water and granola bar.

Each of my teammates individually congratulates me on a job well done, and I settle in to watch the rest of the game. I hate to admit it, but that whole…therapy thing—it works.

In the short amount of time I’ve been talking to a psychologist, he’s helped me to remember the things I love about the game and let go of my past. It’ll be a long road, but if how I’m feeling now is any indication, I could ride this wave through the rest of my career.

And by the time Yadi’s out on the mound for the last inning, I’m up by the railing, clapping and shouting encouragement, and he finishes the game for us, giving up only one run.

The celebration in the locker room is wild, with music so loud we can’t hear one another and goggles to make sure we don’t take any eyes out with all the champagne bottles popping. Yadi pulls me in to dance with him, some Bad Bunny song blasting, and I give in to his infectious energy, doing some poor salsa moves next to him.

The party lasts almost an hour until a lot of the players filter out to take part in the steak dinner the team chefs have prepared, which leaves me time and quiet to think about Millie. Wonder what she’s doing. If she watched. If Noah and Shannon did.

I hope they’re proud of me.

Before I can second-guess myself, I pull my cell phone from my locker and dial Millie’s number. She answers on the second ring, voice soft and surprised.

“Austin.”

“Hi.” And then nothing. Because I’m the one who called her, but I don’t know what to say now that I have her. All of my practiced words with Yadi evaporate from my brain.

She’s the one who fills in the blank. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating or something?”

“You watched?”

“We all did.”

I set my elbows on my knees, holding my phone to my ear with my right hand, and rubbing my forehead with my left, trying in vain to blink away my blurry vision.

“You played well,” she whispers. “I’m really proud of you.”

I sniff and clear my throat, though my voice isn’t any steadier when I tell her, “I miss you. Fuck, I miss you so much, baby.”