Hitching the Pitcher (A Belltown Six Pack Novel)

by Rebecca Connolly

  If only he would give to her. Insight, for one thing, and a direction he needed her to take.

  Despite the depth of it, their relationship was still so new. The feelings from college had never gone away; they were both well aware of it, and so she could excuse the speed at which they had reached their current state. But with that speed also came the risk of missing so many crucial developments.

  She felt like she was missing a few now.

  She heaved a sigh of relief as the game ended, applauding with the rest of the crowd and rising from her seat. She glanced over at the dugout again, only to find Sawyer gone.

  Strange, he was usually up on the field at the end of the game, high-fiving his teammates as they came in and giving encouraging words, if not joking around.

  Something was wrong, and she needed to find out what it was.

  Ryker. Ryker would be able to draw him out and bring him back to himself. The Six Pack always met up after the games against each other; they would owe dinner one way or the other.

  Brightening, Erica tossed her purse over her head and across one shoulder, moving out of the stands and down towards the player locker rooms. It would be a bit before she saw either Sawyer or Ryker, but she refused to risk missing a single moment.

  She took up position leaning against a support pillar, eying both the doors to the visiting team’s room as well as the clubhouse for the Black Racers. She kept a polite smile on her face as people came and went, mostly stadium crew and other family members. Then she saw some of the Black Racer bullpen come out, all of whom greeted her with wide smiles and nods.

  Any time now. Sawyer was usually pretty quick with showering and changing. The only holdup might be last-minute coaching reminders or meetings, but he usually texted her if those were happening.

  She checked her phone just in case.

  Nothing.

  She frowned at the screen, then pocketed it, forcing herself not to think too much of it. Overthinking would get her into the same sort of problems that Sawyer was undoubtedly getting into. She would be in no state to help him if she was also tangled up in knots.

  Strange how being in a relationship made one both more comfortable and more insecure at the same time.

  She’d never been a fan of that.

  Not that she had a reason to be insecure with Sawyer. She absolutely believed that he loved her; she felt it with every look he gave her and every brush of his hand. He was sincere in everything he did with her, and there was a warm familiarity to being with him that she would not get with anyone else. If he ever thought that he was making her insecure or worrying her or giving her any reason to doubt, he would have been mortified and ashamed. He would have moved heaven and earth to prove himself to her.

  That was the thing about Sawyer Bennett. He was as intense with everything in his life as he was about baseball. He was hard on himself in every aspect and expected the best of himself at all times, though he was forgiving, generous, and exceptionally patient with other people.

  Why he couldn’t extend the same mercy to himself that he did to everyone else, she would never know. She loved him, but she wished he would give himself a break.

  He deserved one.

  The visitors’ locker-room door opened, and out strode Ryker Stone, his white-blond hair darkened from the shower, his blue eyes a muted shade in the shadows of the stadium. He looked around, then saw Erica, and he grinned his trademark grin, hefting his duffel onto his shoulder as he moved in her direction.

  “Well, well, well,” he drawled, “maybe I’m a lucky guy after all.”

  Erica smiled back, shaking her head. “That line is so old, Ryker.”

  He shrugged, still grinning. “I prefer the term ‘classic,’ if you don’t mind.” He dropped his bag and opened his arms, and she practically ran into them, giggling as he lifted her off the ground. “Oh, it’s good to see you, Teach. Seriously, it’s been way too long.”

  She patted his shoulders as he set her down, then took his face in hand as though she were his mother. “Wow, you’ve gotten old.”

  “Hey!” he protested, swatting her back lightly.

  She rubbed under his chin teasingly. “And this? Come on, Ryker. You look worse than Axel.”

  “I do not! Axel’s is nasty. This is very dashing and scruffy, and it all comes off when preseason starts anyway.” He grinned and shook his head. “You’re just as gorgeous as ever. How’s life? Skeet says you’re teaching for Belltown?”

  She nodded, shoving her hands into the small pockets of her shorts. “Adjunct professor.”

  “Oh-ho.” He held up an imaginary eyeglass to one eye. “Professor. I say…”

  “Stop,” she groaned, laughing. “It’s basically a part-time job. But better than nothing. You’re looking good. Great game today, though I’m sorry about the loss.”

  He shrugged again. “Wasn’t a great game, but I did what I could. We’ve got a lot of new guys, so we’re working it out. Not too worried. I can pay up as soon as Skeeter gets out. I feel like pizza. You game?”

  Erica nodded. “Pizza works.” She looked over towards the locker room. “He should be out soon.”

  “Before he is, come here.” He pulled out his phone and pulled her close. “Smile for the boys, Teach.”

  She gave a wide-mouth grin with a wave while Ryker merely looked smug, which was kind of hilarious. Ryker was never smug unless it was with the Pack. Even then, it was rare.

  “Perfect,” he said, fingers flying as he typed. “Jealous replies in three… two… one…”

  On cue, his phone dinged, making Erica laugh.

  “Axel,” Ryker informed her. “He didn’t say anything; he just sent three flame emojis.” He winked at her. “Probably for me.”

  “Probably,” she agreed.

  The locker room door opened, and Sawyer finally came out, hair damp, no bags in sight.

  Erica frowned at that.

  Sawyer waved as he approached, managing a small smile. “Rabbit, that was a beautiful hit in the fourth. And I hope you pay the guy who washes your uniform after that stunt in the seventh. Ugly stuff, man.”

  Ryker barked a mock laugh. “Doesn’t have to be pretty if it gets the job done. You ready for me to pay up? I’m starving, and Erica wants pizza.”

  Erica snorted softly. “I’ll eat anything.”

  “You’re an exceptional woman,” Ryker replied at once before returning his attention to Sawyer. “So?”

  Sawyer shocked them both by shaking his head. “Can’t tonight, buddy. Got film and meetings. Take Erica, though. It’ll count, and she needs dinner.”

  “I can wait,” Erica insisted, coming over to take his hand. “I don’t mind.”

  He shook his head again. “Sorry, babe, it’s going to be a late night. Lots of work to do. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” He gave her a quick kiss and stroked her cheek. “Love you.”

  “Love you too,” Erica murmured as Sawyer pulled back, giving Ryker a fist bump.

  “Bring my girl back, Rabbit,” Sawyer teased, though there was something forced in it.

  Ryker nodded, not joining in the joke. “Sure thing. Later.”

  Sawyer headed back to the team room, leaving the pair of them alone.

  “I don’t know what that’s about,” Erica said softly. “At all.”

  “Skeet does his own thing,” Ryker reminded her. “He’ll be all right. Come on, let an old friend feed you.”

  Erica went with him, but she glanced back towards the team room, not at all convinced.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Good eye, Skeet. Nice job.”

  “Thanks, Sarge. Anything you see that I can improve on?”

  Sarge raised a graying brow. “Val says you’ve been putting in extra time in the cages with Gru. You’re already getting pointers.”

  “I know, but you’re the coach.” Sawyer shrugged. “You might see different things.”

  The older man eyed Sawyer with a suspicious glint in his knowing eyes, and he chewed his
gum silently. Then he dipped his chin once. “You hesitate before the swing more often than not, gives you a momentary jerk before the motion. Make the decision and execute. Smooth swing, connect, follow through.”

  Sawyer nodded, pressing the bat into the ground and twisting in thought. “I can see that, right. Okay, thanks, Sarge.” He tapped the bat hard, then kicked it up from the ground, swinging it up to his shoulder. “I’ll go for a few more. Wanna be ready for LA.”

  “Skeet, you’re done.”

  No, he wasn’t. He had so much more to do, more to improve, more reps to take. There was plenty still to practice and work on, and he pitched again tomorrow. He wouldn’t be able to do much in tonight’s game; he had to rest up, so this was his last chance to redeem himself and get confidence back. He had to keep working. He had to…

  “With batting,” Sarge went on, looking at Sawyer in confusion. “Head on over to the bullpen for a few reps, okay? Nothing hard. We need you tomorrow.”

  Sawyer nodded, but he wasn’t happy about it as he handed his bat over and jogged over to his cap and mitt. Batting was his biggest weakness on the field, and he needed to improve on that more than anything if he wanted to help out his team. He’d watched hours of film of his batting alone to check what he could improve on, and Gru had been generous with his time and his experience, helping him fine-tune his swing and stance.

  If he’d been out of season, he’d have spent hours in the cages, too, taking rep after rep until he could barely lift his arms.

  He wanted to push hard, to ache with his efforts, to really feel throughout his body that he was improving.

  Most of the time he just felt sluggish these days.

  He yawned as he moved over to the bullpen area, where the rest of the pitchers were practicing with their practice catchers, some throwing harder than others, and some having intense discussions with each other about strategy.

  “Hey, Skeet!”

  Sawyer turned to see Mace jogging over from batting, taking off his helmet and rolling it towards the dugout, stripping off his batting gloves. Sawyer lifted his chin in greeting.

  “Wanna go?” Mace called, smiling wide. “You and me. Show up the rest of the gang, eh?”

  “Yeah right, Mace,” Indy called. “I can hear your knees creaking from here!”

  “Need to take your aspirin first, Mace?” Jesse added as he shook his arm out.

  Mace’s look turned mischievous. “First one to nine strikes doesn’t have to shag balls for a week.”

  Whistles and low sounds of appreciation raced across the group, and everyone prepped for the challenge.

  Sawyer scowled and adjusted his cap as Mace started putting on his gear. “Why would you do that?”

  Mace looked up as he attached one leg guard. “Do what?”

  He gestured to the line of waiting teammates. “Strike throwdown. Why make this a competition?”

  “Because it’s fun?” Mace scoffed as he grabbed the other leg guard. “We always do crap like this. What’s the big deal?”

  Sawyer grunted to himself and shook his head. “Nothing. Just would rather take my reps and work out kinks, not goof off during good practice time.”

  Mace squatted down, stretching into his position, then rested his forearms on his knees as he held, looking up at Sawyer. “What’s got your teeth in a grind? You never miss an opportunity to mess around.”

  “Not when it interferes with work.” Sawyer exhaled, punching gently into his mitt. “There’s too much to do. LA is really good, and they owned the Knights yesterday.”

  “LA?” Mace repeated, slowly straightening and shaking his legs out to loosen them. “That’s tomorrow. We’ve got the Grizzlies tonight.”

  “So I’m thinking ahead,” Sawyer snapped. “I don’t pitch tonight, so I’m not that worried about the Grizzlies. I’ll let Vandy worry about them, all right?”

  Mace stared at Sawyer in silence, then whistled down the line. “Hey Vandy, how you feeling, bro?”

  “Feelin’ good, Mace!” the pitcher shouted back, swinging his left arm in wide circles.

  “Worried about them bears tonight?”

  “Nah,” Vandy sputtered. “Gonna be fun. Take a nap today, Mace. I‘m going with my man Johnny B, all right?”

  “Sounds good, man.” Mace tilted his head towards them, his eyes on Sawyer. “He sound worried to you?”

  Sawyer scowled, pulling his hand out of his glove and working his fingers. “It’s not my job to think about Vandy’s mental state. If he feels good, that’s wonderful. I’ve got to get my head ready for LA, so I’d appreciate not throwing my arm out in a stupid competition.”

  His friend put his hands on his hips, his chest protector still on the ground. “Who said anything about throwing your arm out? Nine strikes, that’s it. Nobody’s throwing that hard right now, not with a game tonight.” He stepped towards Sawyer, his brow furrowed. “What’s up, huh?”

  “Nothing.” Sawyer shook his head and shoved his mitt back on. “I’m good. Didn’t sleep much.”

  “I can tell,” Mace replied. “You look like hell.”

  “Nice,” Sawyer snapped. “You made a rhyme.” He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling. “Sorry. Been studying film, and studying… other stuff…”

  Mace nodded in understanding, his eyes darting quickly to the others. “Uh-huh, got it. You sure that’s all?”

  Sawyer nodded, lying with every bob of his head. “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” Mace thumped his arm. “Snap out of it, huh? Nine strikes, Skeet. Get creative, okay?”

  Knowing he couldn’t get out of it, not if he wanted his teammates to leave him alone, he nodded and turned to the rubber set out for him.

  “Come on, boys,” J-Rob hollered from his position. “I’m losing power the longer we stand here.”

  “Yeah, Skeeter, line ’em up!” someone else yelled.

  “Great,” Sawyer muttered to himself. “Just great.”

  If it wasn’t the Six Pack barking at each other with taunts over their records and ridiculous stats, it was his teammates eying him as though he were supposed to deliver something epic.

  Epically awful was more like it. His arm hadn’t felt the same since the night he came in for Hanksy, and it terrified him.

  He couldn’t lose his arm. He couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.

  Nine strikes. He could throw nine strikes without blowing anything; it was just for practice. He’d been throwing the ball nearly every day since he was seven, and he had pitched regularly since he was thirteen. He’d had his rounds with tendinitis, but that was ages ago, and he’d recovered great. He took great care of his arms and never exceeded his max reps. He was a smart player and listened to his body.

  Or he thought he did.

  At the moment he wasn’t entirely sure where most of his body was, but three hours of sleep would do that to a guy.

  History of Sport was kicking his tail when he wasn’t actually studying his own sport. It was way more involved than he thought it would be, and he was beginning to question everything he thought he knew about sports in general.

  Then there was studying his old sports psych notes from college, and his own notes from sessions with Dr. T back at Belltown. They’d all been required to meet with the sports psychologist regularly, and Sawyer had learned a lot from the guy.

  He wasn’t teamed up with a sports psychologist now, though he probably should be. He’d heard that one of his old teammates had gone into sports psych and was doing really well with it, but he didn’t know how he felt about reaching out at this point.

  It would just be one more thing for his plate, and he really didn’t have space.

  Or time.

  Nine strikes. He could pitch nine strikes.

  He looked down at Mace, waiting for Damien to start them off.

  “No rapid fire,” Damien instructed. “Clean calls, Catch. Got it?”

  All of the catchers grunted in unison.

  “Pitch, no more than sevent
y-five percent. Got it?”

  Sawyer and the pitchers acknowledged the instruction with a mixture of grunts and squeals, depending on the current degree of ridiculousness the individual was feeling.

  Damien rolled his eyes. “Right. First to nine clean strikes, raise hands. Set. Go.”

  Sawyer came set, exhaled, and threw, roughly seventy-percent effort on a two-seam.

  Strike.

  A thrill of elation hit his gut, and he acknowledged Mace’s nod with one of his own.

  He caught the ball, circled the rubber, and looked at Mace again.

  Came set. Exhaled. Pitched.

  Ball.

  He gritted his teeth as the ball barely missed the dirt, shaking his head at himself.

  Catching the ball, he circled again.

  Set. Exhale. Pitch.

  Ball.

  Too wide.

  Circle again. Set. Pitch.

  Ball.

  “Dammit,” he hissed, catching again.

  Circle. Set. Pitch.

  Ball.

  Sawyer shook his head, waving off Mace before he could throw the ball back to him, and strode away from the bullpen, yanking his mitt off his hand, keeping his eyes on the ground.

  * * *

  Can you come over?

  Erica stared at the text longer than she should have, sitting on her patio in the warm Arizona morning.

  There were just too many emotions.

  After the horrible game against LA last night, Sawyer had hugged her without a word, holding her for so long she actually thought he might have fallen asleep holding her.

  Then he’d said he had to go, and he left without her.

  Again.

  It was becoming a pattern now, and she hated it. Win or lose, he left the game alone, and so did she. He spent all his time watching film, studying players, and practicing. He never texted her unless it was about schoolwork, of all things, but he never pushed her away either.

  He always said there was no time.

  He apologized, but he had no time.

  For her.

  Old fears were resurfacing, as were old feelings and memories she’d rather not have back in her mind. Insecurities that had plagued her senior year of college, swayed her away from teaching, and shaped her life to what it now was returned, and she second-guessed absolutely everything.