Pitcher's Baby

Pitcher’s Baby

Saylor Bliss

COPYRIGHT 2016   Prism Heart Press

ALL    RIGHTS RESERVED

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rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
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This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual     place, are used
fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does
not have      any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party
websites or their content.

Dedication

To my amazing husband, the one and only man who speaks
to my soul.

Description

Lucas
always thought that when he fell in love it would be easy, like catching the
perfect pitch. The right girl would slide into his life as seamlessly as a ball
into his glove.  That's what he wanted.  A typical boy meets girl, girl falls
for jock story.

But
that's not what he got.

He
had to fall for the one girl he couldn't have.  The one girl he shouldn't
want.  His best friend Aaron's younger sister, Charlee.  How could he not?  She
breathed fresh life back into his empty soul just by existing.  Loving her was
as simple as breathing.  He just did and nothing would change that.

Now
if only he could convince her of that.

Charlee
Cooper isn't interested in starting another relationship.  The scars from her
past left her feeling like it would be impossible to ever truly love someone. 
It was a part of her life she had come to accept.  She has her daughter and
that is all the love she will ever need.

When
secrets from the past are revealed, the subtle sparks between Lucas and Charlee
ignite into a fiery passion neither can ignore.

Will
the heat destroy everything she is? Or will a chance at love prove the greatest
victory of all?

You
decide.

Yours
Truly,

Saylor

“But if I sit in the rain

maybe
I can drown

in
something other than

            my
own thoughts” . . .---Anonymous

Chapter One

Lucas

The ball in my hand feels so light
compared to the heavy bag of sand I had been tossing in the air moments before.
I wrap my fingers around it, rubbing against the rugged threads raised against
the soft leather. I love the way a brand new baseball feels in my hand before
the first toss—before it’s been hit over and over again, abused by the batter.
Right now, it’s perfect, easily molded in my grip. I toss it into my glove and
relish the sound of leather hitting leather. This is my calming strategy, my
way of focusing before I have to look out across the mound to Aaron squatted
down behind home plate.

It’s time.

I take my position on the mound and look
at Aaron, my catcher and best friend, to see which signal he’ll give me this
time. I’m in total control of this. Barry Mendes, the first hitter up, is one
of the best in the game, but he doesn’t scare me the least bit. My catcher
finally decides on a two-seam fastball to start this new battle on the field.

What most people don’t know about baseball
is that the game is as much strategy and statistics as it is talent and fun. I
have to out-think the hitter, stare him down, and make him wonder what pitch
I’ll be sending his way. Just when he thinks he’s got me figured out, I change
it up on him. Aaron and I work great together, because he knows how I think and
respects my opinion in the game. Nine times out of ten, he’s already guessed my
pitch choice. We just click together like that. Thank God I’ve never had to
pitch against him. I don’t want to see how that would turn out. He’s one of the
best hitters on the team. It would be a tough one for sure.

And here we go.

I shut down all thoughts circulating
through my mind and focus only on Aaron and his glove. All the noise from the
stands ceases to exist. All the dumbass, drunken, arrogant fans shouting and
throwing peanuts are gone, right along with the screaming children and
announcers overhead. I hear nothing now. I hear everything. For the amount of
time it takes me to pitch the ball, I transcend reality and live for that
moment on another plane.

It’s between me and big ugly.

I go through my wind up, pulling my arm
back, lift off my right leg, and then I push forward, extending my left arm.

It’s beautiful, the perfect two-seamer
fast pitch right on the left corner, way low, my favorite.

"Strike one," the umpire
screams. This is the way it’s gonna go today. I’m all in, on top of the world.
Nothing else matters. They won’t get the chance to touch even my weakest pitch
today. I can feel it. Today is going to be a good day.

Aaron throws the ball back to me and
crouches back in his position. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up while the batter
warms up for his next pitch. It’s pointless. He could spend an eternity warming
up today, and I’d still strike him out. I didn’t get an ERA of 2.23 by sucking
on the mound.

I repeat my wind up and throw the pitch.
This time, I curve the ball. He’s not expecting that. He jumps backward and the
ball glides over home plate. A perfect strike. I love it. The batter is getting
angry, either with me or with the game. It’s hard to tell, and to be honest, I
don’t really care. We are all here to do a job. It’s why we get paid millions per
year. I try not to ever take a bad game too seriously, but it happens to us
all. Sometimes, it’s not so easy to shut everything out and find that perfect
place in your mind between here and there, where you can exist but not exist.
Sometimes, this world won’t let you leave, not even for five seconds.

I pitch again. This one is straight down
the middle, so he has no excuse not to hit it, except for the fact that it
flashes past him at 94 miles per hour before he even has the chance to swing.

“Out,” the umpire calls. The batter throws
the bat to the ground and stomps toward his team’s dugout. Aaron stands and
grabs the bat, tossing it toward the fence and the waiting ball boy. He turns
back to me, and I see his grin behind his catcher’s mask. Raising my glove to
hide my face, I grin back and nod toward the next batter walking to the plate.

Two more outs to go, and then it’s our
team’s turn at bat.

Aaron throws the ball back to me. I catch
it with ease and then step off the mound, kicking up the dust around my feet. I
remember the first time I ever stepped up to the pitching mound. I was seven
years old. The way my heart beat in my chest with anticipation and excitement.
I knew I was meant to be there, I just had to show my coach and make him
believe in me the way my mom did. From the first moment I picked up a ball, I
knew I wanted to pitch. I told her every day. She went above and beyond to make
sure that my dreams came true—something that I will always remember.

When I first signed with Phoenix, I had
just graduated college the year before and was drafted straight out of college
into the minor league, Class A. I pitched two games there before moving up to
Class AA three weeks later in Gwinnett, Georgia, before I moved up to the Class
AAA minor league, where I met Aaron. He had just been signed from the sweet
town of Tuscaloosa, Alabama. We spent that first year in the minor leagues
doing everything together. He became the brother I never had.

My adoptive mother raised me all on her
own. There is nothing in this world stronger than a single mother. She gave up
a lot for me when I was growing up, a lot that I didn’t even realize until I
got older and looked back on things, which is why when I was signed to Phoenix three
years ago, I made sure she was taken care of. They gave me five million per
year for the first three years. By sheer luck, Aaron was signed with me. I
don’t know if they saw the bond we had and the way we worked together or if it
was something else, but I’ll be forever thankful that he is here with me.

Last week, I re-signed my contract. Four
years this time—sixty million dollars. I’ll never be able spend that amount of
money in one lifetime. Even after taxes, I’ll still bring home over forty
million. It’s absurd.

My pitch flies high and the batter swings,
catching it with the tip of the bat. I need to get my head back in the game and
quit reminiscing about the past before I give up a run. Aaron catches the foul
and the umpire calls our third out. I pull my glove from my hand and run into
the dugout with the rest of the team.

“Good job, man. You’re on fire today. Did
you get laid last night or something?” Aaron says, tapping me on the shoulder
with his catcher’s mitt.

“Ha-ha, screw you.”

“Aw, I’m just playing, sunshine. We all
know you’re exercising your right to be celibate.”

“Just because I don’t wanna bang
everything with a pulse doesn’t mean I’m celibate, ass-wipe. I’m picky. That’s
all.”

“Yeah, I hear ya. Fine with me. I get all
the girls you pass up.”

“Be careful, or you’ll end up bringing
home more than a good time,” I say, scratching at my crotch.

“Gross. If a bitch is itching, she better
keep on looking. I don’t need no critters around my junk.”

I laugh with the other guys around us
while Coach Masterson, our head coach, calls the batting order. Aaron is up
fifth, batting right after my designated hitter. As one of the starting
pitchers for the team, I’m not required to hit . . . ever. I have a designated
hitter, or DH as we call them, who does nothing but hit. Shane Bellows is my DH,
and he is one hell of a hitter. His batting average is .316, meaning that for
every ten times he is at bat, he gets a base hit at least three times. That’s
spectacular. He’s batting fourth today.

Fourth on the batting lineup is usually
reserved for homerun hitters, or if we are lucky, grand slams—when all the
bases are loaded and he hits a ball out of the park. Those are much rarer, but
so, so sweet.

I lean back against the block wall and
place the ice pack on my shoulder, letting the coldness seep in and work its
magic while our team takes over the field. My mind wanders once again to my mom,
and I make a mental note to call her soon and check in.

The game ends at the bottom of the ninth
with a score of 4 to 1. The closer came in at the bottom of the eighth inning
to relieve me. After pitching 120 pitches, I am happy for the break, even if I
would have loved to end the game on my own. Part of the game is knowing when to
step down and let another member of my team step in. My arm hurts like hell,
but I am proud of the amount of runs I gave up tonight. It’s been a good day. I
wish they could all be this good.

“Ready, man?” Aaron asks, stepping out of
the locker room dressed to the nines in a suit and tie. It’s part of our
league’s policy when we’re on the road. If we’re not on the field, or headed to
or from the game, we wear a suit and tie. We look like gentle, well-bred and
home-grown men of America. Or in my case, Canada, since that’s where I was born
and raised.

“Yeah, where are we meeting Casey at?”
Casey is the catcher for the Rangers, the team we just finished playing. We met
him a couple of years ago when we were still playing in the Class AAA minor
league, and all three of us became quick friends. It sucks the way this sport
separates you from the people you know and care for, but at least we are given
the chance to hang out and catch up when on the road for a series like this
week in Texas.

“He said to just swing by his place. I
guess he’s having a big party there for his twenty-fifth birthday or something.
I don’t care as long as there is booze and ladies present.”

“Sounds good to me. You driving, or am I?”

“I’ll just follow you in case I decide to
wander off later,” he says, meaning in case he finds a woman who catches his
eye. I just shake my head and walk over to my rental. I got a nice ass 2016 black
Mustang this time, and I love the way the engine rumbles through my seat when I
turn the key.

It’s been three years, and I’m still
getting used to the benefits of being in the major league. On the road, we get
a spending allowance for food and snacks that we may want, our room is paid
for, and our rental, if we need one, is covered. Hell, I can’t think of
anything not covered by the league or one of the sponsors. All of my uniforms
are free, my shoes come straight from Nike or Under Armor, my glove straight
from Rawlings, and hell, even my underwear are paid for. The only thing I have
actually had to go out and buy in the last three years is toothpaste, and it
probably won’t be long before someone is knocking on the door wanting to shoot
a commercial for that too.

When we pull in the drive of Casey’s
sprawling estate, the first thing I notice is the noise. Music is blaring from
the open windows and patio doors. Half-naked women dance drunkenly across the
yard, and a few of them are even hopping around in the fountain in the front of
the yard. I climb from the car and wait for Aaron to park.

“Woohoo, come on, man, let loose and have
some fun. You only live once,” Aaron yells, running toward the house. In a way,
I resent that statement. I have fun all the time, just a different type of fun.
I don’t see the point in sleeping my way across America. I want to do something
more fulfilling with my life. I just don’t know what that is yet.

It takes me forty-five minutes to find
Casey, and when I do, I almost wish I hadn’t. He’s wedged between two equally
naked women on the sofa in the basement, watching porn on the big screen in
front of them. One of the women has pulled his pants down and is busy going to
town on the friendly member between his legs. I debate turning around and
walking back out, but then the last forty-five minutes would have been wasted.

“Hey, man. Happy birthday,” I say, walking
in the room. He glances over the back of the couch and then beckons me forward.

“Hey, bro. Thanks. You want in on this? I
got plenty to go around,” he offers, gesturing to the numerous women lying
around.

“Nah, man, it’s your birthday. You enjoy.
I just wanted to find you before I head out.”

“Oh, you leaving?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna get a head start back to
Phoenix tonight.” I shrug my shoulders. “What can I say? I miss my bed.”

“Ha-ha, I bet that’s not all you’re
missing back home, is it?”

I don’t bother answering his assumption.
The truth is, there is no one back home, and there hasn’t been in over five
years, but I don’t need him knowing that. That’s my personal life, and I’d like
to keep it that way.

“I’ll see you later, man.”

“Stay safe, bro.”

Walking back up the stairs, I keep my eye
out for Aaron so I can let him know my plan, but I don’t see him anywhere. I text
him and let him know I’m heading out rather than search for him. He’ll get it
eventually. More than likely, I’ll already be back in Phoenix before then, but
hey, at least I let him know.

Climbing back in the Mustang, I tap the
clutch and double shift to second, spinning the gravel up behind me. It feels
good to be on the road and alone. It gives me time to think and not worry about
putting on a happy facade for those around me. I plug my iPhone into the stereo
adapter and select my rock playlist. Avenge Sevenfold fills the speakers around
me. I crank up the volume and roll the windows down, letting the warm Texas air
flow through the interior of the car. Pushing the pedal to the floor, I leave
everything behind.