The Ninth Inning (The Boys of Baseball #1) - J. Sterling Page 0,32

stood up and watched the pitcher. I kept track of his pitches and the way he moved depending on the pitch he was about to throw as he warmed up. Reading body language was one of a hitter’s best weapons. That, and learning how a pitcher reacted to a batter and his ability. Nine times out of ten, you knew exactly which pitch was coming for you, but that didn’t mean you would be able to hit it.

We took an early lead, thanks to a leadoff home run by Chance Carter. That kid was a fucking amazing ballplayer. I high-fived him when he came into the dugout with the rest of the team before focusing my attention back on the opposing team’s pitcher, wondering if he was the type to lose control or pull it together after giving up a home run so early on. Pitchers were notoriously the most mental cases on any baseball team.

Chance had apparently pissed him off. And the kid threw better when he was angry, not worse.

Good to know, I thought to myself.

We had one out and one guy on base as I made my way to the on-deck circle. The crowd was loud, cheering and screaming, and I found myself wanting to do something I never did.

I wanted to look in the stands.

It was an unspoken rule among baseball players. You kept your head in the game, and you never looked in the crowd. I’d never even been tempted to do it before this moment. And I had no idea why the pull was so strong, but I gave in to it.

I looked.

Christina was here. My eyes went directly to her, and don’t ask me how the hell I knew where she was sitting because I hadn’t even been sure she’d be here at all. Our stadium was huge, sold out for every game, but there she was, behind home plate about twenty rows up with a baseball hat covering her dark hair.

Why did I know exactly where to find her? Why is she here? Did Logan give her a ticket? My eyes locked on to hers. Even through the shading of my helmet and her hat, I could still see her eyes. She was looking right at me. And she refused to look away.

Jesus, Cole, get your head out of the stands.

“Strike three!” the umpire yelled, and I refocused.

Looking at Coach at third base, I watched him go through the signs, waiting for what he would ask me to do. Hit away. Stepping into the batter’s box, I sucked in a quick breath and readied myself to watch the pitcher’s hand and grip on the ball. My stance felt good, but my head wasn’t in it. I was out of sorts, and I felt it in every part of me. He threw the first pitch, and I watched it pass me by. A perfect fucking fast ball that I should have hit out of this park, and I hadn’t even swung.

Tossing a hand in the air toward the umpire, I waited for him to shout, “Time!” before I stepped out of the box.

Coach Jackson stared me down from the third base line, a frown marring his features. I knew he was wondering what the fuck my problem was or what the hell I was doing. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second to clear my damn head. Her blue eyes appeared. Grimacing, I slapped the side of my helmet. Talk about being a mental case.

What if, all this time, I’d thought the draft and it being my last year were blocking me at the plate, but it was losing her that had messed me up? What if, in making sure I cut her out of my life so I could focus on baseball, I’d ruined my focus instead?

“Batter?” The umpire walked up next to me. “You okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” I said with attitude before making my way back toward home plate. Each step gave me more clarity until I saw it all so clearly. The realization was like a thousand arrows raining down from the sky, aiming to strike me all at once. Everything suddenly made sense, and the tension that had been present moments ago eased from my body. I felt strong, assured, confident.

I moved my legs into position in the batter’s box and waited as elation filled my veins. The pitcher knew I had been in a hitting slump, and I’d just watched a perfect fast ball go by without