3. Remington

THREE

REMINGTON

Lifting my knee up and rotating it out until I feel a soft pop in my right hip, I get ready for my place in the lineup. It's the bottom of the third, and I'm counting the plays down until I can hit recovery. At thirty, I'm not exactly old by baseball standards, but after spending twenty-five years in a deep squat, with my ass mere inches above the dirt, some days I feel old. Old and creaky like well worn stairs

The micro tears in my hip aren't helping either. They have my joint feeling as if the bones in my socket are grinding against each other. Worse, my span of flexibility is a fraction of what it normally is. So every drop or extension of my leg pulls on the tears, leaving my body reluctant to comply with what I tell it to do. Just four more games and a month of postseason remains though. Then glorious rest and recovery until February.

As Shaw swings and connects for a base hit landing him on first, Allen moves from the on-deck circle and into the box, Atlanta's pitching coach making a mound visit. Grabbing my bat to take his place when it's time, Jones, Jennings, Scar, and the little shit Jones has forbidden us from hazing out of the program so he'll leave my girl alone, Hendrix, follow me, each of them talking about how best to preserve my hip in the coming sprints if I pull off a base hit.

"I think you should use Kelley," Scar nearly whispers, her hand on my elbow drawing me down to her. "Just to be safe. It's what the front office pays him for. We shouldn't risk it. We need you behind the plate, not scoring runs."

"In case you missed it, blondie, you aren't in charge," Hendrix sneers.

"No, but his career is our responsibility," she snaps, fire blazing in her eyes as she moves in front of me. "Remi is a bolt, everyone knows it. Because of that, Atlanta isn't going to walk him. They're going to go for the strikeout. And if his bat makes contact with a fair pitch, they're going to come after him with a highly aggressive play in order to get him out, which will force him to push well beyond what he should with his injury in order to be called safe."

Flexing his hand at his side, Jones clenches his jaw as he tries to not interfere with his daughter's battle, gritting out, "Up to you, Tate. We're backing whatever play you want to make."

Feeling good about the odds despite the persistent twinge and locking in my hip, I bounce on my toes, shaking out my arms as I roll my neck and decide, "I can do it. 90 yards at a time is nothing."

Huffing as her tongue pushes against her cheek, Scar nods and walks back to the dugout, her hands going up in the air as she begins gesturing wildly to Roman who's been standing at the top of the stairs watching us.

"You good with this, Jennings?" Jones clarifies.

"He says he can manage, so I trust him."

"Then get your ass on-deck."

Alone in the circle, I warm up my swing. With each slice through the air, I fine tune my concentration so all that will exist when I step up to the plate is me, the pitcher, and the knowledge that the diminutive girl sporting pink sneakers as she leans over the rail gnawing at her thumb is watching me. Then before I know it, the crack of a bat is raining out through The Nest, and Shaw's advanced to second with Allen replacing him on first.

Tapping my bat in the dirt, I look over to where my girl is, meeting her eyes and awaiting the calm. One… two… three… the seconds infinite as I watch her relax. A subtle nod coming my way as she, too, backs me up. Her soft smile has become an essential part of my at bat ritual.

One strike, two foul balls, and a beautifully arcing curveball that connects with my bat in a sharp, cracking kiss and I'm off.

90…

60…

30…

Running through first, I'm officially safe and looking to second and third, I confirm we have the bases loaded. Then trotting back up to the plate and bending over to remove my guards, I see Scar vibrating with excitement as her fists push against her mouth to stifle her dimpled smile. I let my eyes linger on her for a moment, my keyed up energy over a potential grand slam calming until she finally looks down, her cheeks no doubt tinted pink. Refocusing my attention on the game, I twist the ball of my foot in the dirt to draw out the frenetic charge that comes racing back through me.

Trying to shake it all loose while I await our first base coach's signal to run like hell upon Richards's hit, I greet Sweeny, Atlanta's catcher from last season turned first baseman.

"How's the transition going?"

"Can't complain, Tate; I can't complain. Still get to be in the game but with less fucking stress on these old joints."

Snorting at his use of old, I drum my fingers on the outside of my thighs as I reply, "Yeah, I mean what are you, thirty-three? Practically ancient."

"Hey, if we want to keep playing, we gotta hang up the pads at some point. Haven't you been considering it?"

"Not a chance. They'll have to drag me out from behind that plate and carry my ass off this field."

Looking over at our dugout where Scarlet's sitting on the bench behind Roman, digging her elbow into his left shoulder, he jests, "Yeah, if I was looking at that view every day, I'd probably be just as reluctant. Tell me, is she seein' anybody?"

"Don't even fucking think about it, Sweeny."

"Wait, is something going on there? I didn't think Daddy Jones would let any of you horny fucks near the princess."

"And you think he'd let you?" I scoff. "Try thinking with the head north of your belt, Sweeny. Your southern one is making you look stupid. Scarlet is too loyal to the Nighthawks to be seen with the likes of you Atlanta dipshits."

"Hey, no one said anything about being seen with her."

Beginning to stand up from my readied crouch, I all but growl, "Come again?"

"Woah, man, hold up," he backpedals.

Swearing as I catch our base coach's signal to go, I snap, "Gotta run," the burn of anger at Sweeny's comment propelling me faster as the crowd erupts into riotous cheers from Shaw crossing home plate.

The chants of "RUN! GO! FASTER!" are deafening as I hit second and glance out to the field to judge if I should keep going. Before I can fully read the field though, Allen is waved to continue on from third and preparing to execute a perfect slide across home plate. And right behind him, our coach is all but screaming for my ass to move faster. Years of training taking over, I blindly follow the order as Richards sprints for all he's worth at my back onto second, our fans screaming the stadium down.

Breaking through the wild frenzy and haze of tunnel vision is a train wreck unfolding before my eyes on third. Atlanta's communication is going to shit in real time as their baseman, left fielder, and for some godforsaken reason their pitcher, all vie for the ball and the chance to tag me out. A fucking catastrophe waiting to happen, one that, thanks to physics, I can't avoid no matter how quickly my mind has already processed what's about to come. I have too much traction and not enough time to safely react, so the only thing I can do is brace for impact.

The hyperextension in my hip as I skid to a stop is acute and radiating. The collision with one, two, possibly all three players as gravity takes us down is teeth clattering brutal. My mind is filled with visions of my labrum ripping completely as I feel an excruciating pop less than half a second after being on the receiving end of one of Atlanta's players landing with the full might of his body weight on top of my lame joint.

Not a single sound escapes me as I lay there, the noise of the field and stadium a forgotten buzzing. I leave the probable questions being asked by the coaches and umpire unanswered as I breathe through the pain and attempt to keep its evidence free from my face, keeping hidden the fear over the fact that my career very well may have just ended.

It's only when I hear Scar's voice that I crack, my lips loose as I say, "Hey, baby girl," before I'm rushed and flooded with the volume of noise being turned back on. The only thing clear in my mind as I begin answering questions about my pain is the irony that not 90 seconds ago, I said they would have to carry my ass off this field when my time in baseball was up.