Saint Augustine, FL 32092
Copyright © 2018 by Samantha Christy
All rights reserved, including the rights to reproduce this book or any portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover designed by Letitia Hasser | RBA Designs
ISBN-13: 978-1986756105
ISBN-10: 1986756106
For Jeannie.
You were the first person to ever lay eyes on my books.
Thank you for giving me the courage to go forth.
Books by Samantha Christy
Be My Reason
Abstract Love
Finding Mikayla
Purple Orchids (The Mitchell Sisters Book One)
White Lilies (The Mitchell Sisters Book Two)
Black Roses (The Mitchell Sisters Book Three)
Stone Rules (The Stone Brothers Book One)
Stone Promises (The Stone Brothers Book Two)
Stone Vows (The Stone Brothers Book Three)
Catching Caden (The Perfect Game Series Book One)
Benching Brady (The Perfect Game Series Book Two)
Table of Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the author
Part One
Brady
Chapter One
Don’t think about it.
Do. Not. Think. About. It.
Fuck.
The funny thing about trying not to think about something is that it inevitably becomes the one thing you do think about.
I step off the mound and look at Caden, who is my catcher behind the plate. He nods at me. He gets it. He’s one of the few people who does. He’s also the only person I’ll let talk to me when there is even the slightest possibility of a no-hitter, let alone a perfect game. Of course he’s the only person. He’s my catcher. We might as well be married with as much time as we spend together – on the field and off. And, both on the field and off, he’s the only person who can talk me down or pick me up, depending on the need.
I glance up at the scoreboard. Seventh inning. This is when the absolute improbability of either a no-hitter or a perfect game starts turning into a remote possibility.
I pitched a no-hitter two years ago, and that alone is incredible. But a perfect game – a game in which there are no runs, hits, walks or errors – that is the Holy Fucking Grail of baseball. Only a handful of major league pitchers have ever thrown one.
I look back at my catcher who is raising a scolding brow at me from under his facemask. I don’t need to see it to know he’s doing it. I know it’s there. And in all fairness, he should be raising a brow at me. I’m going to completely screw this up if I overthink the game.
Don’t think. Just throw. Caden gives me a good target every time. Just play catch with the catcher. Don’t even think about the batter. Get your sign and do your job.
I glance around at the crowd. Forty-thousand strong today. Saturdays always draw the best attendance. There are a few girls holding up signs behind the dugout declaring their love for me.
It doesn’t help. They are only saying that because I’m a bad-ass pitcher. It does nothing to get my head out of the game. Why can’t one of them hold up a sign with a joke on it or something?
I close my eyes and count backwards from five. I clear my head as best I can. I step back on the mound and look at Caden for the sign. Breaking ball. It’s his go-to call when things are getting hairy.
I wind up for the pitch and release it down the left side, watching the way it curves across the midline and ends up on the inside right corner of the plate. That’s why batters hate lefty pitchers – we practically graze the hair on their sacs with our curve balls.
The ump pulls his right arm across his body, and in a short, sharp motion, makes a fist next to his head as he calls the guy out.
The fans go crazy as we go back to the dugout.
I get a few pats on the back. But no one speaks to me. No one but Caden. My other teammates barely even look at me. It’s bad juju and nobody wants to jinx it.
“Murphy wanted me to invite you for dinner. She’s making pot roast.”
I laugh. That’s what I like about Caden, he reads me like a damn book and always knows what to say.
“Your fiancée’s pot roast is amazing. So, hell yes.” I put my jacket on to keep my arm warm on this cool fall day.
Caden puts on his batting helmet and heads out of the dugout. It’s then that I notice there is a larger buffer around me than usual. In the dugout, we all seem to have our assigned spaces. Baseball is a game with a lot of superstition. We sit in the same spot every time. But today that is not the case. I’ve been given a wide berth like a force field is around me that people are afraid to penetrate. And when I get up to stand at the railing to watch Caden at bat, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea. I shake my head and laugh quietly.
I watch as Caden’s hit brings in Conner, adding yet another RBI to his growing number. But then they double-up on Spencer, getting him out at first and Caden out at second, ending the first half of the eighth inning.
Spencer comes back into the dugout, throwing his helmet against the far wall. Caden offers him a few words of encouragement while putting on his catcher’s gear. Then Caden turns his focus to me as I remove my jacket and loosen up my arm.
“Let’s do this,” he says, giving me a chin up.
It’s what we say to each other every time we take the field together. Nothing is different about this game and it’s his way of telling me that.
I make my way to the mound, careful not to step on the foul line.
I throw my warm-up pitches and I can tell the crowd is feeling the excitement. They all want it. They want a perfect game. And I want to give it to them more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.
Well, almost anything. I frown and shake the bad thoughts away.
With each strike I throw, the crowd gets increasingly boisterous. They are all on their feet and the stadium has come alive.
The second batter of the in
ning comes up. I clear my head and step up to throw a fastball that gets fouled into left field. Conner runs over and catches it, getting the batter out to the collective cheers of the stadium. The fans want this to happen as much as I do.
Who am I kidding? Nobody wants this as much as I do.
I start counting them – four batters left. Twelve more strikes to glory.
Stop it!
Again, I step off the mound and take a breath. Caden walks toward me with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“We leave for Chicago tomorrow,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, wondering why the hell he called time to come tell me the obvious.
“Tanya’s in Chicago, isn’t she?”
I can’t help it when the sides of my mouth curve up into a smug smile.
“What’s your record with her?” he asks.
“Five.”
“Damn, Brady, even I haven’t been able to give a woman five orgasms in one night.” He holds out his glove for me to tap with mine. Then he turns and walks back behind the plate, never having said one thing baseball related.
I shake my head at his unconventional ways. And I think about all the things I can do to break that record tomorrow night as I strike out the third batter of the inning.
Caden smiles at me as we walk back to the dugout. He knows Tanya doesn’t mean anything to me. None of them do. Not really. They are just something fun to take my mind off things when I visit each city. It took me a while, but I finally did it. I finally have one girl in each city where we play ball. Well, except New York and Tampa where I spend most of my time. It’s not like I have thirty girlfriends or anything. They all know the score. I’ve told all of them not to expect my loyalty, my sincerity, and most definitely not my heart. All those things died five years ago.
We take our seats in the usual places as Sawyer gets ready to go to bat.
“Put one out there, Mills,” I say.
He pats his chest right over his heart. “For you, dude.”
All eyes turn to Sawyer, mouths agape that someone other than Caden would speak to me at such a critical time. But what the hell do they expect when I spoke to him first?
“Fuck you,” Sawyer says to all of them before leaving the dugout.
A few empty cups and a can of chew get thrown at him before he makes his escape, and we all hear him mumble, “Prima donna pitchers and their stupid rules.”
I laugh. Sawyer Mills is one of my best friends, along with Caden, and he’s the least likely to put up with my shit. But the thing is, he’s as superstitious as the rest of us, and I really think he only spoke to me out of respect. Damn – did I just put a hex on the whole thing?
I step to the railing and watch him do exactly what I told him to, putting one deep into the left-field stands. I turn to watch Caden cringe, something he’s done ever since he hit a fan with a home run ball. The fan who is now his fiancée. But when he sees on the JumboTron that nobody was hit and the man who caught the ball gave it to a kid, he lets out a relieved sigh and high-fives some teammates.
When Sawyer comes back into the dugout, he doesn’t say anything to me, he just points at me and smiles. We look at each other like we both know what I did, what he did. I walk over and pat him on the back. “Nice job. It’s all on me.”
He nods. Good. I need him to know that if I fuck this up, it has nothing to do with him responding to my comment.
I sit on the bench and try to zone out for the rest of the inning. I think of Murphy and her award-winning pot roast. She’s pretty much the only female friend I have who I’m not sleeping with. And Caden would have my balls on a platter if I even looked at her the wrong way. But frankly, I no longer think of her like that. She’s become more like the sister I never had.
I know she feels sorry for me. She’s one of the few people who knows about my past. And even she doesn’t know the whole story. After she got engaged to Caden, I think she took me on as a project. A charity case. But she’s so damned nice and sincere, I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t want anyone’s sympathy. So I take it begrudgingly and over the past year, she’s become one of my closest friends.
Murphy thinks she’s going to fix me. But I’m broken beyond repair. Baseball is my life now. It’s my one and only love. The one thing I can’t live without.
Someone touches my shoulder. “We’re up,” Caden says. “Let’s do this.”
I take in a deep breath. Deeper than any other breath I’ve ever taken. I count backwards from five as I blow it out. I throw my jacket on the bench and grab my glove. I nod at Caden as we part on the field, him going one way and me going the other.
It’s the ninth inning and I’m nervous as hell. Caden has already had to come out to calm me down after I struck out the first batter. I’ve done everything I can to stop thinking. I’m tapped out.
Two more batters. Six strikes. I’ll go down in history.
Shut. The Fuck. Up.
I try to calm myself, but damn it if Jay Jarrison – the biggest, baddest, most intimidating son-of-a-bitch to ever walk up to the plate – isn’t sauntering out onto the field like he knows he’s going to break me.
I dig deep. I think of Tanya. I think of Crystal and Abby and Jenn and Holly. Hell, I think of me with Tanya, Crystal, Abby, Jenn, and Holly – at the same time. Anything to shut up the shitstorm in my head.
Strike one.
I’m shaking. Literally shaking. I can’t pitch like this.
Caden gives me the sign for a fastball. He studies the hitters. He knows where their weaknesses lie. He watches hours upon hours of tape before we play each series. I trust him.
Strike two.
I step off the mound because my hand is shaking too hard to pitch. I look into the stands hoping someone, anyone will do something to distract me, but all I see are people on their feet. They want to witness history in the making. I look back at Caden. He points to me. I know what he’s saying. Let’s do this.
I shake my head at him. I know he sees me trying to hold it together. He can’t keep calling time to baby me. I have to do this myself. I look up to the sky and think of the one thing I never think of when I play ball.
I think of Natalie and Keeton.
By the time I count backwards from five, I’m calmer. Caden gives me the sign for a breaking ball. He wants to end this and get the guy out. He wants to wipe the smug smile off his big hairy face. I wind up, release the pitch and watch it all the way to the plate. This is it, this is the one.
But then I hear a crack – the distinct sound of wooden bat on ball – and before I can even comprehend what has happened, I hear another crack – right before I hit the ground, pain searing through my arm from my elbow to my fingertips as I see the baseball slowly roll away from me.
Damn it, it burns. My elbow feels like I hit my funny bone times a thousand. And along with the excruciating pain, numbness is working its way down my forearm, right to my fingers.
I look up to see the end of the play. Caden must have run up and gotten the ball before throwing it to first base, narrowly missing the runner as the guy steps on the bag, beating the throw. The stadium erupts in audible displeasure. Then Caden helps me up and off the field as Cole comes out to relieve me.
Caden shakes his head as we walk off the field to where the athletic trainers and team physician are waiting to examine me. “Nothing you could do about that one, man. It was the perfect pitch, Brady. No way is that ball getting hit more than one in a hundred times. It’s not your fault.”
I look over at him, pissed at myself for letting Jarrison get the best of me. Pissed at myself for not getting out of the damn way. Pissed at myself for thinking of them. It is my fault. It’s always been my fault.
I stare down at my left arm – my pitching arm – as I hold it in my right hand, knowing that not only did I lose my perfect game, I might have just lost my whole fucking career.
Chapter Two
Her hand feels so soft in mine. It fits perfectly. I give her a squeeze.
My eyelids are heavy, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see her. Just knowing she’s here with me, touching me – is everything. God, I’ve missed this.
I hear myself moan in pain. “It’s okay, Brady,” she says, lovingly. “Everything is going to be fine.”
Brady? Natalie always calls me babe. I try to open my eyes, but I can’t. My arm hurts and I’m confused.
“Nat?” I say, squeezing her hand again as I feel myself falling into a haze.
Natalie comes up behind me, jumping onto my back, wrapping her long athletic legs around me.
“Today is the day, babe!” she squeals excitedly. “The final game in the College World Series. You made it all the way. One more game and you’ll be a champion.”
I crank my head around so I can see her. “I’m not a champion yet?” I tease.
“You’ve always been a champion to me, but now the world will see you as one, too.” She punctuates her words with a kiss on my cheek.
“If we win,” I remind her.
“Oh, please. You’ll win. The University of Nebraska has the best baseball team and everyone knows it. I’m just so glad the World Series is in Omaha and we don’t have to travel with Keet.”
She slides down my back and puts her feet on the floor just as our three-year-old son comes running through the apartment swinging a plastic bat. My instinct is always to tell him not to do that. But I’m a ball player, so it would be kind of hypocritical of me. Plus, I’m hoping he’ll follow in his old man’s footsteps.
“Are you sure your sister is okay with keeping him for the entire day? If we win, there will be all kinds of celebrations.”
“When you win, babe.” She grabs Keeton’s bat before he swings it into the television. “And Katie loves watching Keeton. All she has to do today is study for her summer class. She can call me if she needs me and I can be home in forty-five minutes. You could ride the bus back if you had to.”
I laugh when Keeton pouts for a second at the loss of the bat, but then he runs in the other room to grab his tiny glove and kid-friendly baseball.
Benching Brady (The Perfect Game Series) Page 1
