Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
My contract was coming up, and with free agency looming, I was one of the hottest properties in the game. The Yankees were known for making big offers, outbidding everyone else if need be to get the players they wanted, and in many ways I felt like today’s game might be an audition. If I was impressive on the mound today, I might just pitch my way to a couple hundred million dollars in the offseason.
At twenty-seven, I wasn’t one of the young guns, commanding the ballooning contracts that might make them billionaires before their career was done. It took me a little while to work my way up from the minor leagues, and when I finally reached the majors, my service time was kept low so they could control my salary as long as they could. I didn’t blame them. Baseball was a business too.
But I aimed to show the whole world that with three years before my thirtieth birthday, I deserved to be getting at least one of those huge contracts. The ones that would set me up for life in a way that my previous arbitration contracts had only hinted at. The kind of life that would ensure that the only thing I ever had to worry about again was picking up a baseball and throwing it very hard.
I glanced over at my coach, who grinned. He was retiring at the end of the year, and we had discussed already how I was likely to test the free agent market. He promised to put me on the mound on days where I was most visible, making sure that I wasn’t overworked, but trusting me in big games to tell him when I was done. So far, he had kept his word, and with a nationally televised audience for today’s game, I was going to be on display against a lineup I felt like I had a bead on.
I ran to the mound, scuffing the ground near the rubber. Pushing my heel against it, I put myself into a set position and glared down at my catcher. Ricky Perez was a damn fine catcher, terrific at keeping the number of passed balls down, and he seemed to know how to keep my rhythm so I didn’t feel like I was throwing too fast or slow and that I didn’t start getting into a rut of relying on the same pitch too much.
I had ten warm up pitches, and as I wound up for the first one, Ricky slid to the right. He seemed to instinctively know what I was going to throw. I knew I kept my windup extremely similar and my grip hidden as much as possible, but Ricky was so damn good at watching my body language and catching a flash of my fingers that he knew what pitch was coming, even when he didn’t call for it.
Slider, down and away. The smack of the mitt was gratifying, and the ball went exactly where I wanted. The next nine would be straight fastballs, just finishing off warming up my arm, but throwing that slider off the mound was a big confidence boost. I smiled and held my glove up for him to toss it back. That’s when I saw it.
A sign, just behind the mound a couple of rows up. It had my old high school mentioned on it. I couldn’t believe it. Someone from all the way down in Murdock, Texas was at Yankee Stadium and watching me play. I caught the ball as it was tossed to me and peered up to see if I could see who it was. Maybe it was an old teacher or student I'd gone to school with.
The sign moved to the side, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Unless my eyes were deceiving me, that was Mallory sitting behind home plate.
I had to remind myself that my eyes might very well be playing tricks on me. I thought about Mallory all the time, especially when I was super stressed out and needed to think about something for a break. She would always come into my mind, and I would have one of two reactions. Either laughter would bubble up and I would smile, thinking about things she said or how cute she was or her voice when she sang during the shows. Or my body would react, and I would find myself replaying our interactions with very different outcomes.
I might have just dreamed her up. The stress of making sure I pitched well today was intense, and I might have finally just snapped. It could be anyone out there—hell, the sign could be saying something entirely different, and I was just imagining it all. But the more I stared, the more I thought it actually was her. Mallory had come to see me pitch. She had even brought a sign.