Rome
ITWASAbeautiful autumn day in New York City. Our team felt relaxed as we started our late morning in the visitor’s clubhouse. The guest chef for our clubhouse procured a delicious feast of enchiladas that we devoured. The sun shone during our practice time outside, the temperature just right, all of us relaxed.
We took it easy after pregame practice. Most of us stayed together in the locker room talking smack or playing games. I snuck a few texts out to Alex while I could. In the week since the clincher, something had shifted in him. Not for the worse, but not exactly better. He was almost secretive. He told me his schedule was opening up soon. When I asked further, he changed the subject. I assumed he knew how important postseason was to me, so he cleared the way to watch most of my games.
When the time was right, we changed into our uniforms and filed out onto the field. A pervasive feeling of dread permeated the air. Brawler fans disliked us, but now, it seemed like theyhatedus. The boos were stronger, accompanied by shouts of nasty words. I kept my face placid and neutral, refusing to let them see how it affected me. Brett stood beside me and let out alow whistle.
“Think they hate us?” he whispered.
“I know we’re rivals, but this is a bit much even for them,” I said.
The National Anthem ended and the Brawlers took their position on the field. I hung out with Brett, and we stood out from under the dugout roof.
“Dude. What the fuck?” he said after the pitcher threw the first ball and struck Kaminski.
I stood a little taller, then felt a surge of adrenaline as two of our players dashed onto the field. A posse of coaches anticipated this and intercepted the two before they could make it any farther. A few Brawlers leaped out from their dugout to join the proposed fight, but thankfully their own staff stopped them. Our hitting coach was already strutting toward Kaminski and yanked the bat out of his hand, which he had been using to point at the pitcher as though he was coming for him.
“Well, we’re off to a good start,” Brett said. “Keep an eye out, will ya?”
“I’m gonna have to, apparently,” I said as I stepped out of the dugout and walked to the on-deck circle. I slipped on my helmet and swung my upper torso as I observed the pitcher. He had a fire in his eyes, a mission to do something unruly. I refocused my gaze and let it fall on the Brawlers dugout. Everyone sneered, as if a team of devils had taken their place and we were a crowd of innocent angels.
Moore singled on a line drive and Kaminski made it to second. My turn.
I stepped up to the plate as a righty. A tension I didn’t realize I had between my shoulder blades loosened, something I only felt when asking for safety and feeling the reward. Odd.
Whiff.
Darn it!
I hadn’t been concentrating on the throw. I stepped out of the strike zone to drain my brain. Now was not the time.
I stepped back in.
Second whiff, though it felt better. I knew what to do for the next one.
Crack!
Not my best, but I’d take it. I dropped my bat and pounded the dirt until I reached first base. Martinez walked up to the plate. With the bases loaded, he knew what he needed to do. We could start this game out right by—
“Fuckin’ Romo-the-homo.”
I spun. The first baseman, Quinn, had uttered something awful under his breath. “What did you just say?”
He shrugged and gave a stupid grin. I felt my face go red. “What did you just say?” I screamed and pointed at the man. Something within me unlocked. All my controls dissolving like sugar in the rain.
“Word gets around, homo Romo,” Quinn said. “Fag.”
Everything went red. My sanity evacuated from my body and all that remained was rage. From my toes to my fingertips, I feltfire. I harnessed it, so easily, and slugged Quinn as hard as I could across the face. He let out a resoundingoofand stumbled back but recovered easily enough. I had never thrown my fist before. I didn’t know what I was doing. But I was big, and I was strong.
Quinn charged at me and lowered himself. His shoulders collided into my chest and we stumbled backward. I drove my elbow down on his back once, twice, then swung my other arm up and under him to find his face again. I had no idea how to fight, I just knew that I needed to hurt this man.
Brett was suddenly there as he jabbed a kidney punch to Quinn. The man’s breath went out from him as Brett yanked him backward, tripped him, and sent the first baseman crashing tothe ground.
Arms were on me again, this time from behind. Someone held me tight while another, I think it was the Brawler shortstop, stepped in front of me and planted his fist into my belly. I cried out and doubled over as I lost the wind from my lungs. My entire body exploded in pain. The shortstop tried to strike me again, but Brett was on him. I wrenched free from the guy holding me, spun, and shoved him away.
And then chaos erupted all around me. The navy blue and bronze of New England charged onto the field as the deep red of the Brawlers ran to combat them. A phalanx of baseball players collided with me and Brett trapped in the middle. The entire stadium broke out in a roar, egging on their home team while the Riders fought for dominance. A gang of three pounced on me, but Brett stayed at my side to fend them off, springing like a cheetah, his arms moving lightning-fast to protect me.
Hands on me again. Fully activated and ready for another fight, I turned and drew back my fist but stopped myself when I realized it was Hiroshi. He grabbed a handful of my jersey and yanked me forward. “You need to get out of here! Now!”
