When they stepped onto the field, his stomach twisted and he broke out into a sweat.
Alicia took a baseball glove and ball out of her bag. Garrett’s heart leaped in his chest.
“What is that?”
“My glove. A ball. Kind of obvious, don’t you think?”
She pulled his glove out of her bag and tossed it to him. He frowned. “Where did you get that?”
“From your coach.”
He hadn’t brought it along, figured they wouldn’t get far enough for him to need it.
“I thought we’d play a little catch today.”
He arched a brow. “You play catch.”
“Of course.”
“Like the kind of catch a pitcher can throw at you?”
She laughed. “You’re not ready to throw a fastball yet, stud. We’ll take it slow to begin with, then start working on your mechanics.”
She moved behind the batter’s box and waited. Garrett stared down at his glove, then over at the mound.
“Well?”
He shifted his gaze to Alicia, who was throwing the ball up in the air and catching it in her glove.
“Let’s warm up that arm,” she said, then tossed him the ball.
Instinct took hold and he caught it, then walked to the mound.
He stood on the mound, the palm of his hand curled around the ball, his target a short ninety feet away. Everything was so familiar yet felt so fucking alien to him. Where he’d once felt so comfortable—the pitcher’s mound was like a second home to him, after all—he now felt like he’d never stood here before. Like this was his first time.
In a way, it was a first time. It would be the first time he’d throw a ball since he got hurt, since he’d felt that twinge of pain that had blossomed into something bigger and threatened to sideline his career.
Sweat rolled down his brow. He swiped at it with the back of his sleeve and focused on Alicia waiting patiently for him to toss her a simple, slow, underhanded pitch. She didn’t know, had no idea how goddamned monumental this moment was.
Or maybe it really wasn’t a big deal at all. He was making more out of this than it was.
Just throw the fucking ball, dumbass.
“Everything okay out there?” she asked, her voice light and easy, but he knew she was concerned.
“Fine. Just getting . . . my head organized. I’m a little rusty.”
“Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
It had been a hot day like today—only the heat of summer and in Cleveland—when he’d reared back and thrown the slider that had started it all. He flipped the ball around in his hand, remembering that day like it had been yesterday instead of months ago.
“It’s just catch, Garrett. No pressure.”
It was more than catch. This was his future, his career. If he couldn’t do this, something simple like this . . . it was over for him. He squeezed the ball in his hand, frozen, unable to move.
“You want to try it again another day?” She started toward him.
He straightened, held out his hand. “No. Just gimme a sec.”
She stopped, then nodded. “Sure.”
He’d never pitch again if he didn’t throw—if he didn’t at least try. She was right. It was just catch.
He swallowed, or tried to—his throat had gone sand dry.
He was sweating, and his goddamn legs were shaking, but he held his head up and nodded. “Okay.”
“No pitches yet. Don’t put any finesse on the ball. Just toss it to me. Start underhanded.”
“What? This isn’t softball.”
“I know that. But we need to warm up your arm, including all those muscles and tendons that haven’t gotten use in a while. We’ll throw a few underhanded, then we’ll move on from there.”
Not exactly the pitching clinic he was looking for, but it was a start.
He took a shaky breath and tossed the ball—underhanded—to her.
“How did that feel?” she asked.
“Girlie.”
She rolled her eyes and threw the ball back to him. “Good. Throw me a few more girlie pitches.”
He did, his arm not as stiff or sore as he expected. And it didn’t hurt.
“Can I throw one overhanded now?”
“No. I’ll let you know when.”
Frustrated, he threw more pitches. Underhanded. Weakly. Twenty-six more times until his teeth were clenched so hard his jaw hurt.
Alicia finally nodded. “That’s good. Now throw one overhanded. Gently. I can’t stress the word gently enough, Garrett.”
“So you want me to rocket a fastball so hard into your glove that I’ll knock you on your ass?”
She leveled him with a glare. “Not if you want to pitch this year.”
He finally relaxed his shoulders and smiled, some of the tension lifting. “You have no sense of humor.”
“Not when I’m working, I don’t. Gently.”
She’d even lowered her voice when she said the word, as if he was so dull witted he didn’t understand the concept. He hadn’t gone through months of grueling rehabilitation to fuck it up with one throw. He rolled his shoulder, which felt good, then threw the ball overhanded. Gently.
It didn’t hurt. Goddamn, it didn’t hurt to throw a ball, even if he had thrown it like a *.
“How did that feel?”