Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,41

With the ball in the back of my hand, I make sure my grip’s just right. Wind up. Pitch.

SMACK.

The ball barrels toward me. Shit. I throw my glove in front of my face. The ball slams right into the middle. The crowd’s on its feet, but all I hear is the blood slamming in my ears. Releasing a heavy breath, I force a smile to everyone pointing and cheering and clapping. A ball flying at your nose is never not scary as hell.

But another batter down. Two outs. And I still have my face. Works for me.

As we file into the dugout at the bottom of the seventh, I’m convinced my arm’s about to fall off. It’s no surprise, considering I haven’t pitched seven straight innings in nearly a year, even during summer and fall ball. But dang if the thing doesn’t throb like a son of a gun. Nevertheless, the score’s tied at 2-2, and I’m up to bat. I could ask Coach to send in an alternate, but that isn’t happening. Don’t fail me now, arm.

Jay slaps my back as I tug on my helmet. “You got this, bro. Smack that ball to kingdom come, and we’re knockin’ back shots at the river within an hour.”

Easy enough.

I grab my bat and head for the dugout’s opening, where Coach waits. He gives me a quick nod. “You good?”

“Yes, sir.”

He eyes me up and down. “Uniform’s too clean,” he says, guiding me out of the dugout. “Go get some dirt on it.”

I smirk along with him. Roger that. I stride to the on-deck circle, allowing myself a quick glance to the stands. Marisa’s hanging over the top of the fence with Hannah and Bri, cheering along with them. Screw the shots; I want that after the game. Jay’s right, though. I’ve got to get the job done first.

After a couple practice swings, I start toward home plate, sending the crowd into a deafening uproar. It’s freakin’ glorious. There’s no stopping my grin as I ready myself at the plate.

Until I catch sight of the pitcher. Oh, hell no. Staring straight at me with a smirk on his face, the scrawny punk’s making a show of kicking the dirt on my mound. He’s digging a hole in my dirt. You don’t screw with a pitcher’s mound, especially on his home turf. That’s fightin’ territory.

I narrow my eyes. He gives the mound one more kick before preparing for his pitch. All right, then. Let’s fight. But he should know better than to challenge someone who knows the game better than he does.

I’ve been studying this guy all night. He’s got a tell: he takes about two seconds longer to prep his fastball than any other pitch. He’s been clinging to that precious fastball all night, and he’s gearing up for another one. I square over the plate. Windup. He fires the ball right down the middle. I swing with all my might.

Crack.

The ball shoots toward the outfield, and I take off to first. My pulse slams as I round the bag and, with a quick peek to the outfield, take the chance. I pump my legs as hard as they’ll go, drop to the dirt, and slide into second. The ball smacks against the second baseman’s glove above me.

“Safe!” the ump calls.

Damn straight. Keeping a foot on the bag, I push to my feet. My white pants are smeared with dirt. Finally.

Brett strides to home plate as I hunch down, ready to take off. As our lead-off man, he’s one hell of a powerhouse. Tunnel vision. Watch. Wait. The pitcher glances over his shoulder, keeping me in place. Once he turns, I inch off the bag. A little farther. A little farther.

Sucker.

The bat’s crack echoes across the field. I’m already halfway to third when the ball soars over my head. A quick glance to Coach tells me to push toward home.

On it.

Push harder. Faster. The catcher’s crowding the plate, his glove at the ready. I slide into home beneath him, dirt flying everywhere. The tag hits my chest right as the ump yells, “Safe!”

Game.

I jump to my feet. Brett trots toward the plate and high-fives me. And out of nowhere the guys are crowding around us, hootin’ and hollerin’ and slappin’ places hands have no right slappin’, but whatever.

We fall into our post-game lineup. The Cardinals do the same, and our teams make our ways toward one another. We shake hands down the line, muttering, “Good game,” over and over like a