Googling “Ricky Jordan MMA” revealed something surprising: he was fighting again. Well, that certainly explained why he had stopped harassing me. He had a match tomorrow evening with a fighter whose name I didn’t recognize. I whispered a praise of thanks (something I picked up from Rome) and realized that Ricky would put his full attention on fight prep. Then, afterward, he’d probably find some adoring fan who batted his eyes the right way and Ricky could have his way with him in some disgusting bathroom. And hopefully get an STD.
I closed out of the web browser, detached my laptop, and padded down the hall to the living room. I plopped down onto the couch and clicked on the television just after the game had started. He had an easy air about him as he chatted with a fellow player. The two stood at the edge of the dugout, their forearms resting against the bar, as they chatted away about something no one could hear.
Rome had informed me of the updated magic numbers. The Brawlers needed to win two of the three games to make postseason. The Riders would give them hell to try and prevent it, and I wondered how far the Brawlers were willing to go.
My phone chimed with a text from Joe. He was there in Brooklyn and in a special suite for visitors just like Texas. He sent me a scenic picture from the balcony, then a terrible zoomed in, grainy picture of Rome chatting.
Joe:You know, he can’t stop talking about you.
Me:Ha. Well shucks. What can I say?
Joe:You really should meet his parents and the rest of the family. You cleared your schedule yet?
Me:Just did a little bit ago.
Joe:Good. Regular season ends the last day of September. Maybe figure out what to do during the break?
Me:Like go to Rhode Island?
Joe:He’s crazy about you, Alex. Never seen him like this. Ever. You should meet the family.
Well, damn. Was there a hidden message in there somewhere? I felt like there was, I just couldn’t exactly see it. What would meeting the family do?
Me: Okay, okay. I’ll talk to him after this series with the Brawlers is done.
Joe: Good.
The first pitchhitthe batter, Kaminski. Struck him right in the shoulder and I could see Kaminski howl in pain. The crowd roared as two Riders players charged from the dugout. Support staff rushed on, successfully stopping a potential fight. My brow went up and jaw slackened. Kaminski had been screaming and pointing his bat at the pitcher like he was going to attack the man. Several Brawlers came out of their dugout but thankfully, staff stopped them. The crowd continued to scream as the TV announcer gave salacious detail.
A Riders hitting coach had pulled Kaminski back and grabbed the bat out of his hand. The umpire was screaming something fierce, his face red behind his mask that he yanked off. Kaminski was escorted to first base while the umpire spoke with both team coaches. The Riders coach walked away furious; his face redder than a fire hydrant as spit flew from his mouth. Alarmingly, the umpire called it as an accident and the pitcherstayed in the game.
I texted Joe. I was no baseball expert, but even I could see that the pitcher intentionally threw that ball to hit Kaminski. Joe agreed and said it was political malarky at this point, with the umpire clearly siding with the Brawlers. He told me to buckle up for a heck of a game.
A sudden fear ran through me as Rome stepped up to bat. Kaminski had reached second after the following hitter, Moore, singled on a line drive.
“Please stay safe,” I whispered to myself. I almost—almost—crossed myself the same way Rome would have.
The pitcher threw and Rome swung.Whiff. The ball sailed right into the catcher’s glove. Rome stepped outside the strike zone to roll his neck, re-grip his bat, and then step back inside.
Another hit and miss. Two strikes. Rome didn’t leave the zone. His lips pursed, eyes narrowed, as he focused on the next throw.
Crack!
Line drive to left field. Rome sprinted like mad and made it to first base. Kaminski on third, Moore on second. Bases loaded. Martinez came up next and the TV camera focused in on him. He stepped up to the plate and twirled his bat, ready to smash that fucking ball for a home run.
But the camera suddenly cut to first base as the announcer provided an update. Cold dread settled in my body as all rational thought flushed from my system. I watched, stupefied, as Rome had fully animated and wasarguingwith the first baseman. His face had gone red, prominent veins bulging on his neck as he pointed a finger at the first baseman. I shot a quick text to Joe and asked him what was happening.
The first baseman, Quinn by the letters on his jersey, then said something that no one could hear. Rome looked like he had been slapped.
And then Rome pounced. My phone fell from my hands as I stood and watched Rome wind up and slug Quinn across the face. Quinn stumbled backward, recovered, and leaped at Rome. A Rider ran into the picture frame and yanked Quinn off of Rome. The Brawler second baseman and shortstop had rushed over, one yanking Rome and the second slugging him in the gut. I shouted as if I had been hit myself.
The entirety of the Riders dugout emptied onto the field, followed shortly by all of the Brawlers. I hyperventilated as the announcer gave a play-by-pay. Support staff, umpires, officials, all rushed into the churning mess of fighters to call for a stop to the game. I lost Rome in the brawl, his tall form somehow buried by the dozens and dozens of players now crowding the field.
My hands shook as I reached for the phone to call Joe. It rang and rang and rang until it went to voicemail.
All I could do was stare, dumbfounded, as the Riders and Brawlers fought as if the baseball diamond had become an octagon.
Chapter Twenty
