Page 40 of Turn Me On

I scoff. “Never too busy to see my favorite people. I’ve got plenty of time before we play Phoenix tonight.” I bookmark the college-fund discussion as I turn to Eliza. “Got any hitting tips for me against the Phoenix pitching staff?”

She screws up the corner of her lips. “Daddy says you need to stop swinging at bad pitches.”

I crack up. “Your daddy is right. But it’s kind of his fault. When we were growing up and playing ball together, his cut fastball was too darn tempting. I swung at it every time he threw it my way.”

“And always missed,” Gage says proudly. “That was a fun one to throw. I miss that pitch.”

The whole drive back to San Francisco, I’m thinking of the games he pitched his year in the majors. Remembering them fondly. Wishing he had them again.

* * *

There’s no room for sad memories in my head when the game starts that evening. On the field, I laser in on each play. At the plate, I zoom in on every pitch. But still, I go hitless in my first three at-bats, and that pisses me off. I need to do better. I’ve got to get on base.

When I head to the batter’s box in the bottom of the eighth, I review my strategy against the relief pitcher who takes the mound.

Wait for my pitch.

But as I step up to the plate, a flash of memory streaks through my concentration—the utter shock on Gage’s face when he told me about the team doctor’s diagnosis of his elbow injury. “My career is over,” he’d said in a hollow voice. It was like someone had died.

I try to shake off the thoughts, taking a few extra practice swings. But those horrible words echo in my mind.My career is over.

I swing terribly at the first pitch. Then the next. Then one more. I strike out, and we go on to lose the game.

Next time I’ll do better, I tell myself as I trudge to the dugout at the end of the night. That’s the beauty of baseball—it keeps giving you chances.

As long as you’re healthy enough to keep taking them, and good enough to make the most of them.

* * *

The morning after the Phoenix game, I board the team plane, checking my phone one more time. Our series against the Miami Aces starts tomorrow, and I’m antsy as fuck.

I’ve been watching my texts all morning for a message from Maddox. It’s been radio silence, though, and it’s driving me batty. No word on the meeting with Priyam. It was supposed to be this afternoon in London. Maddox should be done by now.

I grab a spot in the fourth row, slumping into the seat with a huff. Another glance at my texts. Still crickets.

Well, dickhead, if you’d give it longer than five minutes before you check again…

I suck it up and write to Maddox anyway.

Zane:Hey! Any news? Just checking.

There. That’s not too pushy or too eager. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the funk that’s been outrunning me the last few days. My series with Phoenix sucked. I was up in my head too much, and I hate that seeing my brother did that to me.

I shouldn’t fixate on Gage’s injury and what it did to his career. I should focus on the joy baseball brings me, my good fortune to be able to play a game for a living.

I click over to the text thread with my brother. Gage sent me a pic of Eliza scoring a run in her game last night. I already responded, but I write back again.BTW, I’ll be at her game next weekend. I’m off on Sunday.

He replies with,Awesome. Hope you have a great series in Miami. And stop swinging at bad pitches. That’s from Coach Eliza.

Laughing, I scroll back to the photo one more time.

I look up from my phone as Gunnar stops at my row. “Excuse me, sir, is this seat available for the best player on the team?” He gestures to the spot next to me.

I unbuckle the belt and make a show of taking the seat.

Gunnar laughs, then when I move back to the window position, I pat the cushion. “Here you go.” He flops down. “It’s for average players,” I retort.

“We better switch then,” he says.