Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers Book 1) (28 page)

Parker

Opening day.

The start of a new season, another chance at making it back to the Series.

Another opportunity to get that trophy.

A new beginning.

That thought rang true to me in more than one area of my life. I could feel the hope for victory and the promise of change coursing through me. I swear, the rest of the guys could sense it in the air around the clubhouse, too. We could all see the championship on the horizon, practically taste that champagne when it flowed freely after our win.

The energy in the room before the game was electric. You could tell we were all anxious to hear the crack of bats, smell the mowed grass of the field, feel the dirt from the ball on our hands. I had my entire family coming to see me play today, which only added to my eagerness to get out onto the field.

And best of all?

Kinley was finally going to be here.

I was finally going to be able to look into those stands and see her proud, smiling face watching me, cheering for me. I couldn’t imagine a better feeling in the world than knowing my girl was coming to see me play, that I had her support no matter what.

I stood in front of my locker and sent off a quick text to her before we had to make our way to the dugout. Bill Cox would castrate any one of us if he thought we had touched our cell phones at any point during the game.

Parker:
I’ll be playing for you. Can’t wait to see my girlfriend in her boyfriend’s jersey.

I didn’t have to wait long for her response. I pictured her sitting in her seat, smiling down at her phone.

Kinley:
Oh, sorry. I didn’t get the memo. I’m wearing Moberly’s number.

I huffed out a humorless laugh. She was just busting my balls, I knew, but it made me want to storm up to those seats and confirm that she did in fact have my name stamped across her back for all to see.

Parker:
Well then. No orgasms for you tonight.

Kinley:
Liar. Have a good game! :-)

She knew me too well. And I knew her, too.

We worked well together.

I tucked my phone back into my bag and made my way down the hallway with my teammates as we bumped fists and slapped backs, getting each other pumped up. We all huddled in the dugout for a few seconds and waited for the Cleveland Indians to leave the infield and head into their own dugout. We’d already had our warm-up time and the National Anthem had been sung, so we wouldn’t be coming back off that field until the bottom of the first inning.

The roar of the crowd filled the stadium, the thousands of spectators rising to their feet as we each took our positions on the field. I had a perfect view of my family’s section along the third baseline as I ran to third base, my eyes immediately searching out Kinley. It didn’t take long to find her as she was sandwiched directly in the middle of our combined brood. She was standing up next to Gwen and Clay with Sam and Diane seated behind them. On the other side of Kinley sat Mickie, Dawson, Mason, and the twins.

That was my family.

Those were all the people I loved most in the world.

I raised my hand in a wave that was meant for all of them, but my eyes didn’t leave Kinley, something I hoped only she noticed. I allowed myself a brief moment of contentedness as I delighted in the fact that she was here, and then I turned my attention to the field and to my teammates.

Kinley would always be in the back of my mind, but my focus for the next three or so hours was going to be solely on the game.

The infielders threw the ball around, sending each other grounders, loosening up and getting into a good rhythm. When our pitcher, Jameson, had finished his warm-ups and the first Indians batter stepped up to the plate, I took my spot beside third base.

It was game time.

I pounded my fist into my glove a couple of times, crouching into my ready position, and watched closely as the batter signaled our pitcher. Jameson wound up and rocketed one straight into Moberly’s glove, too fast for the batter who swung and missed.

Yes.

Strike one.

The crowd jeered as my teammates encouraged Jameson, already feeding off of the adrenaline of the fans.

“That a way, man.”

“Hey, just like that. Couple more of those.”

“Yeah, alright, Jameson. He can’t touch you.”

Their voices abruptly stopped whenever the batter connected with the ball, sending it careening in my direction. It was an easy grounder, skating right along the third base line, almost going foul. I scooped it up without fuss, set my feet in the dance I had been perfecting since I was a kid, and sent it sailing toward our first baseman, Hernandez.

Easy first out.

One at a time
, that was our team motto. For us, it hadn’t really become about one win at a time but rather, each individual out. Because in this sport, those outs could quickly and easily get away from you—we learned that in October last year—and we weren’t going to take any for granted.

The crowd showed their appreciation as we all set up for the next batter. You could tell Jameson was on his game, hitting all of his spots and reaching speeds that I was guessing were in the low to mid-nineties. That was how we needed this opener to go, with our starting pitcher in for at least six innings and all of our bats awake and alert.

The second batter popped the ball up around second base, Pollock catching it easily for the second out and getting it back to Jameson to take on the third, and hopefully, last batter. I was shifting around on my feet, staying on my toes and preparing to move in either direction if he sent one flying my way. I didn’t have to worry, though, because Jameson made it a quick one, two, three strikeout, the flustered batter watching the last one fly right past him over the plate.

Hell yes.

We all took off toward the dugout, giving Jameson slaps with our gloves as we settled in for our lineup. As one of our power hitters, I batted fourth, so I put my batting gloves on and found my helmet as our lead-off batter went to the plate. My head whipped to the field when I heard the distinct sound of a hit to see Maclin, our center fielder, heading to first base as the ball hit the ground between the Indians third baseman and left fielder.

“That a way to start it off, Maclin!” I shouted, followed by other yelling and incoherent shouting from the rest of my Red Sox. Sometimes, especially with the guys who chewed tobacco, it became very difficult to understand what the hell they were saying.

By the time I got up to bat, we had runners at the corners, Maclin having made it over to third and Hernandez camping out on first. I swung once more with the extra bat as I stood on-deck and then left it there when I approached the plate.

It was a struggle to contain my smile when I heard my at-bat song blare through the PA system. I’d changed it just yesterday after practice and had actually forgotten all about it. I was momentarily taken to another place when “Ain’t No Sunshine” reached my ears. I figured Kinley would appreciate the selection.

Okay, so maybe she wasn’t at the
very
back of my mind.

The song cut off when I dug my toe into the dirt, letting the pitcher know I was ready for whatever he had coming my way. I felt relaxed as I stared him down, taking deep, even breaths as I stood comfortably in my stance.

I let the first one go, way outside the box. I could feel myself getting anxious to hit the ball, but I forced myself to stay calm, be patient. I checked the third base coach for my signal.
Swing away
was the sign, assuming the pitch was right. In one of these situations, with two outs and a good home run hitter at the plate, I was going to be told to hit anything that came straight down the pipe and to hit it for the damn fences.

I re-set and waited for the pitch. I could tell it was coming right down the center, but I knew as soon as my arms started the forward motion that I’d swung too soon. I felt the ball
whoosh
past me as my bat hit nothing but air. I inwardly cussed myself out, knowing that I’d warned myself about that exact thing only seconds before.

I took a deep breath, glanced at the third base coach again and saw the same sign.

This was it.

I could feel it, could see it in the pitcher’s eyes somehow.

The pitch wasn’t right down the center this time but a curveball instead. A damn good one, too. I didn’t have time to think about it, though. I just acted on instinct, bringing the bat forward with as much force as I could manage, watching all the way until I felt the vibration travel through the bat, a clear sign that I’d hit the ball.

Deep left field, almost to the wall.

When you’re in the zone and you hit it like that, it’s almost like a cosmic feeling that you just knew immediately where the ball was going. I took off at a sprint, watching the left fielder out of the corner of my eye run backwards, his eye on the ball. I rounded first easily as the Indians player ran all the way to the very back corner of the wall where the ball bounced around before it landed.

I knew that was at least one run in.

Everyone was on their feet, the crowd going wild as we ran the bases.

I saw the left fielder fumble with the ball a little as I rounded second base and knew that Hernandez had been able to make it home. Our third base coach gave me the
stay
signal at second, but I had already passed the base by the time I saw him. It was risky but you had to make quick decisions in these kinds of moments. And when I saw that left fielder juggling with the ball, I made mine.

On my way to third, I was breathing hard but my adrenaline was pumping so fiercely I didn’t notice. That’s when the left fielder launched a rocket heading straight to the third baseman. I pushed my legs harder, faster, digging my cleats into the dirt as I fought to beat the throw. The third base coach yelled “Down!” so I launched myself forward, diving head first into the bag with no clue as to where the ball actually was.

When I felt my fingers graze the base, I grasped the bag with my entire hand, holding on for dear life. The third baseman’s glove swiped my shoulder a mere second after I made contact, narrowly missing the out. I peeked over my shoulder to see the infield umpire throw his arms out and shout “Safe!”

I blew out a relieved breath and listened to the crowd go nuts.

I picked myself up and dusted my uniform off as the third base coach leaned forward to give me a high-five. I couldn’t help but grin as I looked up into the stands, right at those seats and pointed to my girl. I knew the family would take it as a shout-out to everyone, but I specifically meant it for Kinley.

I’d told her I was playing for her.

Which meant that I would be pouring my entire heart and soul into every game, every out, every at-bat. Because that’s how I was with her. I wanted to give her everything, allow her to take whatever she wanted of me. I would be as dedicated to her as I was to this game.

And none of it would ever matter as much to me again if she wasn’t there with me, watching me from now on.

##

We ended up winning seven to one, Jameson finishing out strong with Corbins stepping in to secure his win. Pretty much everyone on the team had a hell of a game, and Moberly’s old ass had even caught a guy trying to steal second. He’d been riding high after that one.

I quickly showered and dressed, telling everyone good game as I scurried out of the clubhouse in search of my family. Cox let me skip the post-game press conference today as he understood how rare it was for my entire crew to be at a game together. I was grateful to him for that, though I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky every time. Press conferences were part of the game now, and I was expected to be at most of them as I was the unofficial leader of the team.

I dodged some reporters, but stopped to answer a few questions with the more relentless ones. “Your team looked strong out there today, Parker. What would you attribute today’s win to?”

I smirked, trying not to come off like an ass with my response. “Teamwork. We had two guys who went four for five and one who went five for five. Jameson pitched lights out and our defense was strong. It was a team effort, as it is every game.”

“Is this what fans can expect from the Red Sox this season?” another man with a microphone asked.

“The fans can expect us to go out there with one hundred percent effort, every single game. We’re going to do our best to make them as well as the city of Boston proud.”

When I was finally able to peel myself away from the vultures, I pulled out my phone and was about to text Kinley to ask where they were when I heard the distinct sound of my niece and nephew screaming my name up ahead.

“Uncle Pawker!” Gabby squealed.

The entire group stood at the entrance to the clubhouse, Clay with his arm around Gwen, Sam and Diane smiling at me proudly, Dawson and Mickie wrestling with their two four-year-olds, and Mason smirking at me in his own dark and brooding way.

And Kinley had her eyes locked on mine, smiling so big it looked like it hurt her, looking as if it was taking everything inside of her not to run headlong at me and jump into my arms. I would have caught her and kissed the crap out of her if she had. Right now, I didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought of us being together, didn’t care if anyone knew.