Inside Heat (17 page)

“Strike one!” the umpire called with a flourish. Her breath whooshed past Megan’s lips and she sank back in her chair, only to pop back up to resume her tense vigil. Jeff betrayed no emotion as the batter fouled the next pitch down the first base line. With two strikes on the batter, the camera cut to the on deck circle. Megan groaned. Martin McCree. If Jeff got past the current batter, he’d have to face his archrival.

The batter fouled off another pitch before he swung and missed the next one. The umpire called, “Strike three,” with a dramatic gesture that fueled the crowd’s enthusiasm. The Mustangs were one out away from securing a playoff berth.

Martin McCree slid the doughnut weights off his bat and dropped them to the ground, then strode toward home plate. Jason, helmet in hand, walked out to the pitching mound.

Megan forced air into her lungs. Jason’s expression was one she knew well. Jeff watched his brother approach with stoic acceptance. He hoisted his pants up and shrugged his shoulders. Megan could see the tension between them, but knew most people only saw two professionals consulting on strategy. She knew better. Jason’s body language and the stone cold glint in Jeff’s eyes gave away the nature of their conversation. They’d worn identical expressions the other morning when she’d stepped between them to diffuse the brewing argument.

The announcers debated the wisdom of issuing an intentional walk to McCree in order to pitch to the next batter. Yes, the next batter would be an easier out, but with McCree on base, a homerun would put the Miners ahead by a run. A solo homerun by McCree would only tie the game.

Jason was arguing for the intentional walk. A chill raced up Megan’s spine. Jeff wasn’t going to do it. His stubborn streak was glowing bright red, and his eyes burned with determination. Seeing the brothers locking horns, the pitching coach joined them on the mound. His manner indicated he wasn’t getting anywhere with Jeff either. Finally, as the umpire approached to break up the pow-wow, the coach turned and walked back to the dugout with one final glance at Jeff.

* * * *

“I won’t walk the bastard.”

“Look, asshole, just put him on base. Hanover is up next, and he’s an easy out. All we need is one more out and we go to the playoffs,” Jason argued.

“I can get McCree out.”

“I know you can, but this isn’t the time to prove it. The Miners are going to the playoffs. You’ll have your chance to prove you’re the best there.”

“I can do this,” Jeff argued.

Jason sighed as the pitching coach, Nate Sanderson, approached the mound. “Talk some sense into him Nate. I’m through trying.”

“What’s the problem, Jeff? Just put McCree on base. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a challenge.”

“Nate, I can do this. Let me pitch to him.”

“All we need is one out, Jeff. This isn’t about you. It’s about the team. Do what’s best for them.”

“I am, Nate. We need to go to the playoffs knowing McCree is fallible. Walking him is like admitting we can’t beat him.”

Nate fisted his hands on his hips and looked Jeff in the eye. “I think this is a mistake, but I’m not going to talk you out of it, am I?”

“No, you aren’t.”

“Damn it, Jeff!” Jason shifted his weight and glared at his brother. “You damned well better throw exactly what I call, and nothing else. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you. Here comes the ump. Get your ass back behind the plate, and let’s get this over with.”

Jason kicked a clump of dirt out of his cleats and slid his helmet into place. Goddamned hardheaded dickwad. He thought of a few other colorful names to call his brother before he crouched behind the plate and waited for McCree to complete his batting ritual. If Jeff tried to throw that sorry-assed curve ball, he’d personally cut his brother’s balls off and ram them down his throat.

McCree adjusted his crotch and raised the bat to his shoulder.
Time to go to work
. He wouldn’t, couldn’t dwell on what the outcome of the game meant to the team. Right now, it was one batter, one pitch at a time. Nothing more. Focus on the goal. Get this batter out. A mental list of everything he knew about McCree flashed into his head. Jason ran through the stats he’d committed to memory. Every pitch thrown to McCree, and the result. It seemed the man could hit anything thrown his way, and he had enough unnatural muscle to power the ball out of the park, no matter what it was. The trick was to keep the ball far enough out of McCree’s reach so he couldn’t get his bat on it, or if he did, he’d foul the pitch off for a strike. It was a fine line, but if Jeff was on today, he could do it.

Jason signaled a fastball, outside – just enough off the plate that McCree might be inclined to swing at it. Jeff nodded his agreement with the pitch selection. Jason concentrated on the white orb. There was no room for mistakes.

The fans took to stomping their feet like a mighty drum roll that shook the ground and drowned out everything but his inner thoughts. Crouched on the balls of his feet, the vibration shivered through his body like a low electric current. He knew Jeff felt it too. They’d talked about it before, how the sensation connected them to the fans and intensified the moment. It was impossible not to be affected by the air of expectation sizzling through the stadium. With a little luck, the invisible current would provide the energy to see this thing through.

Jeff kicked out and sent the ball hurtling toward the plate. Jason tracked its trajectory. Perfect. McCree swung, caught the ball with the tip of his bat, sending it foul toward the Mustangs dugout.
Strike one
. Jason let out a relieved breath and accepted a new ball from the home plate umpire as McCree spun out of the batter’s box with a curse. Jeff was right about one thing. Advancing to the playoffs on a McCree out would make the accomplishment that much sweeter.

“Damn. That was fast.” The umpire handed over the new ball with a chuckle. Jason glanced up at the center field scoreboard. Besides the pitch count, the board displayed the speed of the last pitch, registered via a radar gun behind home plate. The red display confirmed the umpire’s assessment. 100mph. Shit. At that speed, McCree shouldn’t have made contact at all. That he did could mean trouble. Jason called time-out and walked the ball out to the pitcher’s mound.

“The bastard just fouled off a 100mph fastball,” he informed his brother.

“Shit.” At least his brother understood the implications of his warning. Maybe he’d listen to reason now.

“It’s not too late to walk him.”

“I can do this. You call the pitches, I’ll throw ‘em.” Jeff held out his glove, palm up. Jason dropped the ball in it and headed back to his position.

“Stubborn jackass,” he muttered. His helmet masked his lips from the prying eyes of the television cameras, and no one could have heard him over the roar of the crowd, even if he’d shouted.

The umpire gave the play ball signal, and Jason crouched low. Another set of signals, and he raised his glove in hopes of catching the ball for another strike. White leather spun through the haze of the stadium lights. A smudge of brown streaked past his eyes as the ball hit the palm of his glove. He reflexively closed his hand around the stinging in his palm. The roar of the crowd drowned out the umpire’s call.

Strike two
.

Jason glanced at the scoreboard and called time out. Without waiting to see if it was granted, he sprinted to the mound. “What the hell are you doing? That pitch was 101mph!”

“I’m getting the out we need,” Jeff shouted back, his lips masked by his glove so the cameras couldn’t pick up their conversation.

“We don’t need it this way,” Jason said. “How long can you keep this up?”

“All we need is one more strike. That’s all. I can do it.”

Jason slapped the ball into his brother’s glove. “You’re an ass.”

One more strike. One ground ball. One pop-up. Any of them would do. He signaled the next pitch – high and outside. Just the kind of pitch McCree might go after. He did. The ball ricocheted off the bat, and into the stands above the first base dugout. Foul ball. Damn. The scoreboard recorded the pitch speed at 100mph.

McCree fouled off two more pitches before Jason called time-out again. Jeff wiped sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve. Jason handed him a new ball. “I’m fresh out of advice, and ideas. You’ve thrown him five pitches and he’s had his bat on all but one.”

Jeff remained silent, his gaze focused on the ball in his hand. “We could try something way off the plate to see if he’ll chase it,” Jason suggested.

“No. Inside, hard. Be ready for it. He won’t hit it,” Jeff assured.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting the out. Just trust me, okay? He won’t hit it.”

They were in too deep to walk McCree now. Intentionally putting him on base would be admitting defeat, and that would be devastating to the team’s morale, even if they did get the next batter out and advance to the playoffs. No. It was either let McCree hit the ball, or trust Jeff to throw some kind of miracle pitch to get the guy out. As if he had a choice. Jeff was going to throw the pitch, and he’d damn well better catch it. As Jason took his position behind the plate he flashed Jeff a series of signals, punctuated by a single finger down to let his brother know what he thought of his plan.

The one-fingered signal usually brought a smile to Jeff’s lips, but today, he gave no indication he’d even seen the signal. His face was a mask of determination. Jason dismissed his worries about his brother’s frame of mind. He had to concentrate on catching the damned ball, no matter what. A dropped third strike could allow McCree to make it to first base. At least he and Jeff agreed on that much. Martin McCree was not going to get on base, not if they could help it.

Jason tuned out the crowd noise. The vibration from their stomping feet, the Running Herd, they called it, had grown so strong he could feel it in his clenched teeth. He did his best to ignore it, to focus on the single spot of white, blurred with red as it hurled toward him. His eyes burned with the need to blink. He couldn’t afford the luxury, not until the ball was safely in his glove.

He forced his eyes to remain open as the streak of brown brushed within an inch of his facemask. McCree danced back from the plate, the arc of the bat continued unimpeded.

A stinging pain in his palm.

His fingers clenching in reaction.

A curse.

The umpire’s call. “Steeeriiiiikkkke three!”

Jason threw off his mask, ignoring the sputtering Martin McCree. He eyed the ball in his glove. Goddamn it. The thrill of victory warred with common sense. How hard had Jeff thrown that ball? His gut clenched as he looked up at the scoreboard. 104mph.
Holy. Shit
. Not a record, but damned close depending on the fractions behind that number.

It was only a second, maybe less before it hit him. Jeff. Something was wrong. A sick feeling gripped him in the stomach, and he had to swallow hard to battle the nausea. His feet carried him to the mound where the team was gathered in what should have been a celebration. Instead, the team surrounded Jeff in somber silence. Jason shoved his way to the center of the group. Jeff was on his knees, his right elbow cradled in his left hand.

Jason dropped down beside him, covering Jeff’s hand with his own, willing the injury not to be what he knew it was. He’d thrown too hard, and the ligaments in his elbow had snapped. His brother wouldn’t be pitching for the rest of the season, maybe never again.

“I struck the son-of-a-bitch out,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, you did.” What else could he say? Jason glanced up at his teammates. “Some help here? Let’s get the hero off the field.” Taylor, the first baseman handed his glove off to another player and stepped forward. Together, they lifted Jeff to his feet and held him until he was steady enough to stand on his own. The rest of the team had come from the dugout. Jason saw the trainer and team physician among them. They knew, but they weren’t going to treat Jeff like an invalid. There wasn’t anything they could do right now anyway.

Silence hung over the stadium as the fans recognized that something was wrong with their hero. The team formed two rows facing each other, an honor guard leading to the dugout.

Jason clamped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You did it, Jeff. Go ahead. You deserve it.” With each step Jeff took, the players clapped him on the back, then folded into a solid mass at his back. The crowd, still on their feet, cheered their conquering hero as he made his way to the dugout. He paused at the dugout steps, removed his cap and waved it at the fans. Jason stood alone on the pitching mound as his brother acknowledged the fans, then disappeared into the clubhouse.

* * * *

“He’s being an ass,” Jason said minutes later. Megan held the phone with trembling hands. “How soon can you get here?”

“I don’t know. Let me see if the rest of the staff can cover for me. I’ll call you back.”

Megan took a deep breath and let it out slowly, silently willing her nerves to calm. Talk about the day from hell. This was it. First, losing the little girl, Katelyn, who’d been with them for months. She’d desperately needed a heart transplant, but her little body couldn’t wait any longer. Now this. There was no way of knowing yet what kind of damage Jeff had done to his arm, but from what she’d seen on television, it didn’t look good. Jason had confirmed her worst fears. Jeff most likely wouldn’t be pitching in the playoffs, or next season for that matter. What that kind of injury would do to a man like Jeff didn’t bear thinking about.