Be My Game Changer: A Sports Romance(2)

“Yeah, sure.” I grab the paperback I’d been reading while waiting on him and tuck it into my bag. “I have a cure for your boring pursuit.”

“That’s what I’ll do. I’ll sit and read with you for an entire day. It sounds utterly horrendous.” He grabs my bag and holds it up. “I brought Mom’s clear bag for you to use.”

“You really did plan ahead with the assumption I’d say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I knew my charm would wear you down eventually. Although, I thought it’d take a little more convincing.” He gives me a cocky smirk that would make any other girl melt, but for me, it’s like looking at my annoying brother who knows he’s going to get his way.

“We’re not there yet.” I grab my bag from him and head out the door. I might be planning to go along for the game, but that won’t stop me from complaining the entire way. Though I’m excited to spend the day with him, why’d he go and pick two of my least favorite activities? Baseball and shopping, bleh.





2





CARTER





“You ready to go?” Coach Dundee asks. His stance widens, arms folding over his chest as he tilts his head slightly to the right. It’s my pitching coach’s typical posture when he’s evaluating me, and I’ve seen it too many times over the last few weeks.

“Yep, all warmed up,” I say, turning my attention to the field. From the bullpen, I can see the stadium is packed. That’s never bothered me before, and I can’t let it now.

“Warmed up and ready are two different things,” Dundee says as I turn my attention back to him.

“My arm’s good, Coach. All those minor league games you had me pitch in should’ve showed you that.”

“Your arm is the least of my worries today. Stepping on the same mound as your father is your biggest challenge today. Combine that with all the other bullshit …”

Damn. I’ve kept my feelings for my piece of shit father well hidden from everyone except the man assessing me right now. And he sees right through me. “I got it. I have nothing to prove to him or his ancient fan club.”

Dundee gives me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “The only person you have to convince today is yourself.” He nods towards the field. “Need another rundown of the lineup?”

“Nope. I got it.” I point to my temple. I’ve memorized the batting order and every stat possible on each hitter. Knowing my opponent is the best way I can prepare myself, so that’s what I’ve always done. I probably know their stats better than they do.

“Alrighty. Let’s get out there with our team.” He motions towards the dugout.

Our team. Never thought I’d be donning the royal-blue uniform or referring to the Coyotes as “my” team. But here I am, a year after being cut loose from the Evergreens, the tools who released me two months after my surgery. But I came back, you bastards. Clenching my fist, I extend my arm, remembering the tightness, recalling the range of motion I’d lost, and compare it to how I feel now—confident, at the top of my game, best shape of my life. Now it’s time to prove it.

Stepping out of the bullpen, my mind clicks into game mode as I join my teammates. After the national anthem and team introductions, it’s finally time to step on the mound. I attempt to keep emotion off my face, but it’s everything. No matter that it’s the mound my father stood on, it’s home, and there were times I thought I’d never be here again. But I was hell-bent on a homecoming, and thankfully my body agreed.

When the first batter steps up, I nod to my catcher, Lynch, accepting his pitch call. Sliders aren’t the ones I’m known for, but it’s the best one to use against the player I’m up against at the moment. And sure enough, three pitches later, I send his ass back to the bench as the second batter makes his way into the box.

Lynch won’t call a splitter, the one I’m most well-known for delivering with perfection every time. The hitter’s expecting a splitter, but I know how to work that to my advantage, and Lynch is with me when he calls for a sinker. I nod and deliver with more side spin than the batter expected. When I told Dundee I knew these players, I meant it.

Strike one.

I throw a changeup on the second toss, and he fouls it away before I deliver a clean strike with the third throw.

Yes. I knew I was back, but this proves it. Glancing around the stadium, I absorb the sea of blue, fans on their feet cheering me on—not my father, me. And I wrap up the top of the first after three more pitches, striking out the third batter. One-two-three inning. Let’s go.

Making my way off the field, I take in the enthusiasm of the crowd around me and the announcer’s booming voice. Damn, I missed this. I scan the stadium rows in front of me, seeing fans on their feet. Clapping, cheering, whistling. Well, all except one. Bafflingly, a brunette sits in the first row behind the dugout, catching my attention only because hers is focused on the book she holds, ass firmly planted in her seat, completely oblivious to the chaos and shouting around her.

Squinting and shaking my head, I step down into the dugout, and plop onto the hard bench. One inning down, hopefully six or seven more tonight, and many additional games to go. A few of my teammates give me an encouraging word as they pass, pounding my fist, but Dundee doesn’t bypass me and instead parks his ass on the bench next to me.