Chapter 36: Kelley

Chapter 36

Kelley

As opposed to this trade as I was, I have to admit, it’s been good for me.

LA is daunting, mainly because it’s another area I’m not used to—like New York—and its traffic is enough to give me a headache, but without sounding elitist, the facilities here are better, so far the team hasn’t shown any homophobic tendencies, and I mean, it’s California. The weather is great, and there are Pride rainbows on every corner.

Okay, exaggerating that part, but it feels a lot more openly accepting than Pennsylvania.

The transition has been smoother than I imagined, but that doesn’t mean much because I imagined a fiery hellscape in which my game, my mental health, and my all-around will to live took a massive dip.

I’m happy to say that maybe Philly did me a favor. Even if it hurts to admit that when I’m single, alone, and missing Thad, even though we rarely got to see each other as it was.

Or maybe it’s that he’s the only person I’ve ever felt more than sexual attraction to, so it’s harder to move on from that emotional connection.

A few of my new teammates have offered to go to gay bars with me so they can play wingman, but I haven’t taken them up on the offer. Mainly because I think they’re only doing it to assure me they’re cool with the gay thing. Because every single member of the team telling me that on my first day wasn’t enough.

It’s a stark contrast to when I came out to Philly, and I can only think it’s because with them, they felt like I had deceived them for a year by keeping it a secret. This new team have known from the second I became one of them, and they’ve gone out of their way to make me feel welcomed. Sure, it’s made me feel more awkward, but they’re trying. That’s much better than ignoring me and dropping slurs on social media.

I’ve gone to text Thad a billion times since I’ve been out here, but I don’t have much to say. My game could still be considered in a slump, but I’ve had a few breakout games where my body and my head have been in sync. He’s sent me congratulatory texts after those games, so I know he’s still watching me, but other than “Thank you,” I don’t reply. Part of me is worried if we get to talking again, go back to those flirty messages, I might not be able to keep biting my tongue.

I might not be able to hold back all the feelings that have only intensified since I left. The ones that make me fantasize about going on a road trip playing against New York, and Thad turns up to watch with a huge sign that says, “I’m here for you, baby,” and then, because it’s a fantasy, we have sex on the pitcher’s mound in front of everyone, and we don’t even get dirty from it.

Yes, I definitely do not want to scare Thad off with those kinds of thoughts when our interaction has been reduced to polite but short texts.

As if knowing I’m thinking about him and his texts though, my phone vibrates, and I get the notification that I have a message from him.

Another thing I’m not going to let him know is how embarrassingly fast I reach for my phone every time that alert goes off.

Thad:

How are you feeling about the next three games?

Ugh. He had to ask that, didn’t he? Tonight, I’m facing Philly for the first time since being traded. At least it will be a home game for me, so I don’t have to go back to the city that once held my heart, but at the same time, I’ve been trying to avoid the knot in my stomach.

When I was traded, I vowed to show them the mistake they made. I’m certainly not doing that with my game lately.

It’s not that I’m having a totally poor showing, but come on. Why is it impossible to just say you want to be the best, and then it happens? What is this actually having to work for it crap?

I hit Reply but don’t know whether to be completely honest or stick to what I have been doing and not putting any emotion into my texts.

Me:

I feel like if Cooper is up to bat, I might lose all of my natural talent in my arm and give him a dead ass with my curve ball.

Thad:

I would pay to see that. You know, if I had any money.

Me:

Oh no! Wylder trouble again?

Thad:

Nah. Just poor intern still. Though, being promoted to junior agent is coming up fast. I kind of can’t wait, while also silently shitting myself.

He’s either extra chatty today, or he’s trying to make me feel better about my upcoming game. I hate that my pitching day has landed on the first game against Philly.

I have no doubt Thad’s messaging for my benefit, and that makes me miss him even more. This is why we can’t have texts. Because with only three, he has me fawning all over him again.

I reread his text and feel appalled at myself. He’s talking about shitting himself, and I’m all aww, look at the love hearts in my eyes.

Pathetic.

Me:

Are you worried you won’t get the job or worried you will and will be bad at it? Because I can tell you now, if it’s the latter, you’re going to do great. I dare say after the last time we saw each other, you might have even been able to be my agent after all. You handled my meltdown like a professional.

Thad:

Nah. I handled that unprofessionally.

Me:

Is that what Damon thinks?

Thad:

No, it’s what I think. Had I been your agent, I probably would’ve told the Philly execs to go fuck themselves. That would be highly unprofessional. Warranted, but unprofessional. How’s the new team treating you?

I don’t want to boast about how amazing it is here because while I do love it, there is one tiny bit of resentment that lingers from it. I resent that it ended our chance. So I go vague. It’s the truth, but it’s vague.

Me:

They’re great. Very accepting.

Thad:

Maybe the trade was a blessing in disguise then?

Even though I’ve been saying that, it doesn’t make the sting of it coming from him any less. It takes a while for me to respond to that because I have to refrain from telling him I wish he missed me as much as I missed him. Luckily, I’m in a good headspace and can manage to pretend to be an emotionally stable human being. I’ve been pretending most of my life, so this should be a walk in the park. Then again, it’s not like I’ve been pretending very well. People like Brady and Damon could see right through me from the beginning. Thad took a while, but even he could read me like a book by the end.

Me:

Maybe.

Okay, so I didn’t quite hit the mark, but instead of dragging out the conversation any longer, he replies with a simple:

Good luck tonight. I’ll be rooting for you.

That makes one of us.

Actually, no. I am rooting for myself, but that doesn’t seem to matter when I’m out there on that mound, facing loaded bases with a power hitter at the plate. When it gets to that, I always think of Thad watching me, and then I do my best to make him proud.

Sometimes it works, and sometimes it really doesn’t.

By some miracle, tonight, it’s fucking working. It’s working so well that I’m scared to change anything up in case it all begins to go downhill.

Whether I’m thriving under the pressure or my petty bitterness over being traded has superpowers, I don’t know, but by the bottom of the seventh, when the only base Philly has gotten was by a walk, I’m trying to keep all my teammates’ mouths shut when it comes to saying the thing that starts with N and H . I won’t even let myself think it.

My nervous energy has moved from failing in front of my old team to kicking their asses so hard they walk away embarrassed.

I have two more innings to go, and I can’t stand still. With us now up to bat, I head to the locker room and shove hand warmers up the sleeve of my jacket and keep a hold of one to make sure my arm stays warm.

Pacing helps calm my mind, but I’m a jittery mess. I can’t say I hate it when it’s from anticipation instead of anxiety.

This isn’t a brand-new feeling for me, but it is rare, and it’s like a drug. I want more of it .

I hear some yelling come from the dugout, some cheering, so I’m guessing one of our guys crossed home plate or had a good hit. Whatever it was, I internally cheer, “Woo! Go us,” and then get back to focusing.

Is it bad that I want us to strike out so I can get back out there and finish them? All this waiting around has the ability to make me begin to doubt myself.

While I’m pacing, our assistant manager pokes his head in from the dugout.

“Afton. Skip wants to talk to you.”

Oh, fuck. No, no, no. Don’t do this to me, Skip.

I head back to the dugout, where our manager is still watching the game play out. His arms are folded, he has a full-on seventies porn mustache, and he looks like an older Freddie Mercury. Minus the giant teeth. Skip doesn’t have that.

“How’s your arm feeling?” he asks.

“Good. Better than good. You can’t pull me out.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the play. “With the amount you’ve thrown tonight, there’s no shame if you want to hand it off to Barstow.”

“I know. I just really want to finish out this game. If I can’t continue with my streak, then bring out the closer.”

“I know you think you have something to prove to us and to them, but you don’t.”

“Oh, this has gone so far past that now. Because you know why.”

“Don’t want to jinx it, huh?”

“The minute there’s a hit, take me out, and I’ll be sure to rest up completely tomorrow.”

“Deal. Now, go make sure you’re warmed up properly because we’re two strikes down, and Fresno hasn’t been able to hit anything all night.”

I swear the next few minutes move in a blur, along with the next inning, but when my streak continues into the ninth, the jitters are gone, and it’s replaced with an eerie calm.They try to come back while it’s our turn to bat, but there’s something that settles in my gut. Something I can’t describe because I don’t think I’ve ever felt it before. Not on this level.

Is it confidence? Faith? Whatever it is, it’s never been this strong. I’ve also never been so close to a Nmm hmm-mm before. I’m still refusing to say it.

When I’m eventually called back out to that pitcher’s mound, I have only one thought in my head. I only need to focus on getting these fuckers out one person at a time.

Just one at a time.

The first to come up against me is Hunter, my old friend. The first two strikes are easy. The third isn’t so much. He has a keen eye when it comes to judging if the ball will be over the plate or not, and even when it’s super close, he doesn’t swing. And then, on a perfect pitch, he swings. It makes contact. My heart sinks. Right up to the point they call the foul ball.

Thank fuck.

I might be running out of steam, but I can’t let it get to me. I can’t let the pressure of having the best goddamn game of my life make me crumble, even if I’m on the edge of it.

That confidence I had fifteen minutes ago? It’s on shaky ground.

That’s when my arm decides to cooperate.

Hunter goes down on my next pitch, and then Zaka heads to the plate.

He takes his practice swings, switching to lefty after having batted right-handed all night. It’s probably to throw me off or try something different, seeing as I’ve already struck him out tonight. A few times.

First pitch: ball.

Second pitch: strike.

Third pitch: he almost gives me a heart attack with a hit deep left field. Just when I think my streak is over, that my confidence is going to shatter into a million pieces and my lifelong dream doesn’t come through, Natsen gets under it, and it lands in the safety of his glove .

My heart thunders in my ears while I try to get my mind wrapped around only needing one more out.

One more, and I could claim that my career is complete. Not that I’d want to retire after only my second season, but I never thought in a million years I could do this. Not yet. Not now. And not against Philly. I should still be playing for them, damn it.

Skip calls a time-out, and he and the assistant manager come out to the mound.

“Don’t get in your head now,” Skip says.

I shake out my arm. “Kind of hard not to.”

“You’ve come this far,” Walling says. “Whether you get the out or not, all I can say is I’m thankful you’re playing for us now.”

He’s right. I’ve played my damn heart out, and it doesn’t matter if I get this next out or not. It doesn’t. Do I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life? Yes.

Though, I’d argue I would contemplate giving it up for a fighting chance at following my heart with Thad.

The bottom line is this is important. So fucking important. But if I don’t get it? I’m still the hero of this game.

Time runs out on the break, and my managers head back for the dugout.

And then? I face the one guy who has the power to make me falter. The one who made my coming out less than ideal and the one whose face is so punchable I’m tempted to give him a base just to throw this ball right at his nose.

Maybe I should go for the leg and give him a walk so I don’t have to face someone who makes me anxious. But at the same time, the thought of striking Cooper out in this moment feels like the right petty revenge for his bullshit.

He moves to the plate, and I take a deep breath.

I try to focus on only the strike, but thoughts of Thad watching, the thought of succeeding, it all races through my mind on a runaway train.

I take my stance, close my eyes, and even though I’m having flashbacks of Little League, where my coaches gave me step-by-step instruction on how to pitch, it’s like I forget how to throw a ball at all .

The first pitch almost does hit Cooper, and he has to jump back. Okay, ball one down.

I kick at the mound, dig my cleats in real deep, and try again. I so badly want these next three pitches to be perfect I’m almost tempted to throw fastballs and hope that he’s too slow for any of them. When my catcher calls for my curveball, I consider it an option too. Cooper has more misses than hits on them, but when he connects with one? That thing is going over the fence.

I shake my head, and Alverez signals for a fastball, and I nod.

At the pitch, the second I release the ball, I close my eyes. Not smart, but I can’t look.

“Strike.”

Yes.

One down, two to go.

Of course, because that worked, this time, I close my eyes again. And when that “Strike” hits my ears again, I almost freak the fuck out.

If it weren’t for having to wait for Cooper to be ready, I’d probably have the next pitch flying through the air already to get it done before I can overthink it.

I tell myself to watch this time. This is the pitch. The pitch of a lifetime.

Yet, when that ball leaves my fingers, darkness covers my face.

And then I hear it.

All my dreams coming true.

“ Strike .”

I fall to my knees while the rest of my team runs toward me and picks me back up. My cheeks feel wet, and everyone is screaming in my face, and when I glance over at the visitors’ dugout, Zaka and Hunter haven’t disappeared inside with the rest of their team. They’re on the top step, applauding and cheering for me. I’m overcome by their sportsmanship and their true friendship.

I give them an up-nod, and they return it with wide smiles that match my own.

“Fuck yeah,” Natsen says. “Way to show Philly they never should’ve let you go. ”

My teammates hoist me on their shoulders.

This is the highlight of my career and something I’ve only ever dreamed about.

I’ve pitched my first-ever no-hitter, and life doesn’t get much better than that.

And although I’m surrounded by countless people, my only wish is that I had one special person to share this moment with.

I wish I had Thad.