You got this, I willed.You’re the best fucking player in the majors. You got this.
Strike.
Fuck.
Strike.
Fuck!
Third pitch…crack!My heart leaped as Rome’s immaculate body charged into a blurring sprint.
But no. The ball didn’t sail far. It grounded to the third baseman who scooped it up with ease. The instant flash of recognition processed the data for me—Rome wouldn’t make it to first in time. The third baseman threw…
But his aim was off.Wayoff. The ball sailed past the first baseman. Rome rounded first base andkept going. I had never seen him move so quickly, like a runaway train with all the speed and power behind him. Fuck, thepowerin those legs, his arms pumping at his sides. I wantedallof him as I watched his blue uniform-clad body slide into second base, safe.
I heard the announcer call it a “throwing error,” something I hadn’t witnessed before. Joe informed me that by all rights, Rome should have been out because that was an easy throw, yet the baseman messed up. Rome was at second with Kaminski now on third.
Singh was up next and stepped to the plate like a killer. Cold, focused, determined. He singled on a line drive to left field.
Kaminski scored. Bringing us up to six. And…
My mouth dropped open. Romolo fucking Moretti stole for home. I thought he had moved like the wind before, but now he was lightning made flesh. A Sicilian blur of blue zipping past third base and practically teleporting to home plate. The outfielder had whipped the ball to the third baseman, who deftly caught, spun, and rocketed the ball to the catcher. My eyes went wide, taking in as much info as my brain could comprehend as time crashed and everything went molasses-slow.
Rome dove as the ball came up fast behind him. His arms splayed out, uniform dragging enough dirt to fill a beach. His body slid across the pristine white plate as the ball connectedinto the catcher’s glove. Too close for me to call, to even see…
The umpire’s hands went out. Safe!
I screamed. Screamed like a little girl seeing her favorite boy band on stage. Even Joe had to pull me away from the balcony and calm me down. My entire bodythrummedwith an otherworldly energy that I wanted to harness—to saddle it right on Rome’s lap and make him the most satisfied man to have ever walked the earth.Fuck,the things I wanted to do to him, as if his running and sliding had physically charged my libido. I had to adjust myself and took a long pull of my drink to douse the building fire.
“Seven and seven,” Joe said as he took up his drink.
Took me a second, but when I did, I giggled like a fool. I thought he was talking about our drinks, and I suppose he was, but that was now the score.
“You know,” I said, “if I were a superstitious fella…”
We laughed but returned our attention to the field. There was still a game, after all.
A batter named Marco came next, who popped a fly out to the center fielder. Easy out, which now made two. Moore, the next batter, singled on a line drive to center field. Singh made it to third. We made a substitution for the next hitter while the Lone Stars changed practically the entire field. Joe attempted to explain it to me, each fact sailing through me. They cycled their basemen, shortstop, and pitchers.
And it worked, unfortunately. Their changes did the trick, and the top of the eighth ended after our batter struck out. But hot damn—I had been charged up and ready to explode as if someone had injected me with a year’s supply of caffeine. I heard the announcer say that the Riders had come back from the grave with that inning, and I couldn’t have agreed more.
Austin scored only a single run at the bottom fo the eighth, putting them ahead by one. The score was now eight to seven.We needed to pull ahead now or it was bye-bye clincher until the next game, or whenever the sports mathematicians worked their magic numbers.
Martinez was up first. Pop fly. Easy out. Only a slight crush to the mood.
Kaminski singled on a line drive to center field. Turner was up next and he struck out.
“Two outs,” I whispered to myself. Kaminski was still on first.
“Come on, Rome,” Joe said. We were still on our feet.
I sang his walk-up song even though the stadium didn’t play it for him. A smattering of Riders fans in the crowd clapped and I giggled at the fact that they could hear me.
So did someone else. Rome looked up at our balcony as he strode on confident legs to the plate. He pounded his fist against his heart twice, then pointed directly at the balcony.
At me.
Joe looked over with his brow raised. “My cousin has never done that before,” he said. “Ever.”
