Two more strikes and we had our first out. My nerves began to settle. Second batter stood up and experienced the same fate, the crowd going crazy as he slunk back to the dugout.
This was the part many people, and players, hated about baseball. Although I’d never admit it out loud, the game could sometimes be boring as hell.
I got into position, and the third batter swung, and the ball came off his bat with a loud crack. Rushing to my base, I watched it take a hard bounce, but Ace stopped it, coming up with a fireball at my chest.
“Out!”
Grinning, I headed to the dugout, pointing my glove at Ace. It was a helluva throw. He tipped his hat and took a little bow. The crowd went even more crazy with his antics.
By the fourth inning, the score was still zip to zip. I’d gotten thrown out at second my first go around, then hit a damn popup the second. I was eager to get back on the plate, but we were going through batters too slow. It wasn’t until the sixth that I had a bat in my hand again, and I decided to mix it up and hit with my left.
The pitcher didn’t like it, I could tell. His expression just made me crowd the plate a little harder. I watched his hand as he wound up, and his fingers were straight over the top of the ball. By the time the ball was leaving his hand, I was expecting his fastball and… fuck! I hit the dirt as the bomb came directly at my head.
In the MLB, pitchers average about ninety-five miles an hour, which means it only takes about four-tenths of a second for a ball to travel the sixty feet, six inches from hand to plate. By the time the ball was a dozen feet in front of the pitcher, the batter had better know if he was going to swing, hope for a ball, or hit the dirt like I’d just done. That was why hitting three out of ten was considered a fucking good average. The reaction time needed to be incredible.
Position was important too, of course. A millimeter too high and you had a grounder. A millimeter too low and that damn thing was popping up and falling into a glove.
I stood up and brushed the dust off, taking my time. I glanced into the stands to see Eliana’s hand clamped over her mouth. I smiled. Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got this.
Back at the plate, I crowded it again and kept my eye on the pitcher’s hand. Another fastball was okay with me. It launched, and within a heartbeat, I’d made my decision to swing. It wasn’t even a real decision, just an instinct created from standing in this spot a thousand times.
Crack!
My hands went numb as the ball left the bat. It felt good, but I didn’t trust it to be a homer. I took off, keeping my eyes on the first base coach. He was smiling, and I slowed down, enjoying the rest of the jog.
When I rounded third, something flashed in the corner of my eye — a literal freaking flash. A man, bare-assed naked, was streaking across the field.
I didn’t know where he came from, but I could tell where he was going — straight for home. And he seemed excited to be doing it, again literally, because his dick was leading the way.
Oh, hell no. If he was heading home, I wasn’t taking another damn step.
Glancing into the stands, I barked out a laugh. Eliana’s mouth was sagged open while Mom had covered her face with her hands. Nana had two fingers in her mouth, whistling loudly.
“Go, Beasts!” the man was screaming, waving something over his head. “Winning streak!”
Two security dudes were hot on his tail. His short legs a blur, the streaker was quicker than I’d imagined. Maybe quicker than me. But adrenaline could do that to a man under the right circumstances.
“Uh, should we do something?” I asked the third baseman, and he raised an eyebrow at me.
“You want to tackle a chubby naked guy, go for it.”
As I was imagining grabbing him by the love handles — and instead accidentally grabbing another handle — additional security swarmed the field. The streaker had made it past the pitcher’s mound, and I wondered if he’d try to slide home.
The crowd was wild, whether cheering the dude on or rooting for security, I’d never know. I thought I could still hear Nana whistling above the roar. Another glance in the stands proved me correct.
“Security don’t get paid enough for this shit,” the third baseman muttered.
I had to agree because one bulky guy took a flying leap, but his arms slid down and off the naked man’s body like he was covered in grease.
Maybe he was.
Just as it looked like he was going to tag home, another security guard went for his feet. With a dive most NFL players would be jealous of, the big man wrapped his arms around naked dude’s ankles.
The crowd gasped as naked dude’s arms began to pinwheel, but gravity wasn’t his friend. He hit the ground hard, dick first, followed closely by his belly and face. To a man, everyone in the stadium winced as he scooted several feet across the dirt, leaving skin, and things I don’t even want to think of, in his wake.
I was still holding onto my own balls as security tossed several towels on the guy, then yanked him up, dirt and all, to march him off. The guy must have been drunk as all fuck because he was smiling and shouting, “Winning streak! Winning streak!”
The crowd, of course, joined him.
“Winning streak! Winning streak!”
It was kind of catchy.
When everything was clear, the ump whistled the play to continue, and I took off toward him to finish my home run. Glancing up in the stands before I tagged home, I met Eliana’s laughing eyes and couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
I liked having her there.
Sharing the good, the bad, and the ugly.
A lot.
***
When the game was over, our winning streak had continued with a four to two win, and it was time to face the press and their standard questions. It was the same blah blah blah with a few questions about the streaker tossed in until a reporter I didn’t recognize stuck his mike in my face, his cameraman’s light blindingly close.
“Any comment on the videos posted online of your fiancée?”
Huh? What the hell was he talking about?
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
I tried to push through the throng of people surrounding me. I didn’t like the smarmy look on the reporter’s face and didn’t want to give him time to ask the question again.
He stepped in front of me. “A video of your fiancée, Eliana Anderson, having, um, intimate relations with a man began circulating on the internet today. It’s gone viral. I’m asking if you have a comment about the video or its content. Were you aware of the video’s existence?”
More cameras turned to me as the question was heard by the other reporters and everyone wanted a piece of this breaking story. My mind went numb. So did my feet.
Someone grabbed my arm and pushed me in the other direction. “That’s enough questions.” It was a woman’s voice. I looked down — it was Katrina Delaney, marching me to the locker room.
After about a dozen steps, my mind began to work again, and I shook Katrina off. “I’ve got to get to Eliana before those snakes—”