The F#ck It List: The Complete Story

by Rae Lynn Blaise

  “Just chocolate.” I swallow down the lump in my throat and look for Coach. A few of the other guys have ice cream cones, so I’m totally innocent here. Actually, we’re probably all enjoying her tight t-shirt, but the treat is a nice excuse.

  “Want sprinkles?” How does she manage to make sprinkles sound so dirty? “Chocolate syrup?”

  “Nah. I’m more of a plain kind of guy.” My eyes stray down to the way her shirt hugs tight across her perfect, perky breasts, but I force them back up.

  “Maybe you just haven’t had the right kinds of toppings.” Her eyes sparkle and she’s got one tiny dimple in her left cheek. I want to reach out and touch it, but choke up my bat instead.

  The feelings I’m having, this lust mixed with tenderness, make me feel guilty. I have to remind myself that this isn’t a fling, just a gorgeous girl from The Sweet Spot, taking my mind off the fact that the motions I use to hit the bat’s sweet spot are currently making me wish I’d saved some of that Fireball.

  She scoops some ice cream and douses it in sprinkles. I didn’t ask for sprinkles, but I’ll take anything she gives me at this point. “Gonna score a run for me?”

  One run? That’s not enough for a girl like this.

  “I’ll score you three runs tonight.” I tell her, taking a big bite out of the ice cream. I swallow it down and wink back at her. “You know what, you were right about these sprinkles.”

  She bats her eyes at me and I feel myself slipping. It actually hurts to walk away from this vision in a t-shirt and cutoffs, but Coach’s voice is getting louder and I start to fear for my life. I turn back to catch one last glimpse of her, and she’s walking off field with her chest of ice cream. Watching her walk away is almost as amazing as staring at her beautiful brown eyes.

  That ass, though. It’s going to haunt my dreams tonight.

  “Fife.” I turn to see Jamie jogging over. He’s got a vanilla cone in hand. I notice he didn’t get any sprinkles. “Thought you were serious about that promise to stay on the straight and narrow.”

  I take another bite of my ice cream and frown. “I am. Why?”

  “Flirting with Coach’s daughter sure doesn’t qualify.”

  I nearly choke on a ball of chocolate and sprinkles. “That was Coach’s daughter?”

  “Ally? Yeah. With how Coach is watching you today, you’d better keep your shit together. You know he’ll kill you for less.”

  “Look, I was just getting ice cream.” I hold up my cone, trying to go into damage control mode. She flirted with me. I did nothing wrong. Okay, I got in some nice looks, but I didn’t know she was Coach’s daughter. Of fucking course she was. I am a magnet for trouble. “That’s all.”

  He frowns, but Jamie knows me. I hold up my hands.

  “Scouts honor, man. I made a promise. I keep my promises.”

  And I do. I promised to stay on the straight and narrow, and that’s not something I will compromise on. I was just taking an easy distraction from my knee, that’s all. My dad taught me the value of a promise by breaking every one he ever made. A man is measured by his word. I may have my moments, but I don’t break a promise. There, I never compromise.

  I may not be happy about being reined in, but I did say I’d do better. And I meant it. This is my lifeblood.

  I also promised I’d make three runs tonight for that vision in cut-offs. I mean, Coach’s daughter. It’s just an innocent promise. Designed to impress. So, I better get on that. Before heading to the dugout, I sneak a glimpse around the stadium and find where The Sweet Spot hangs out, just past left field. Hey, I made a promise.

  In the locker room, I sneak a handful of ibuprofen for my knee and join the others for Coach’s pep talk. We’re playing the Tigers, which is no big deal. Hell, I may score more than three runs tonight. Their pitching staff is weak and defensively they’re lacking. Their fans call it a “learning year,” but they’ve apparently been “learning” for the last decade or so.

  Hey, no judgement here, we had to learn for three. Decades.

  I like these games. Honestly, they’ve got some cool guys on the team and it makes for fast innings. Their offense can’t touch our bullpen and our new batting coach for the season has made us an all-around threat. We don’t just rest on the laurels of five starters and three closers anymore. Easy-peasy.

  Coach grabs me as we head to the dugout. “Ready for tonight, Fife?”

  I nod and pretend the issue in my knee doesn’t exist. I know how to bat around it, I just need to keep my focus—no looking into the left-field stands—and I’ve taken enough pain meds to pretend it’s a non-issue. “Ready, Coach.”

  “Good man.” He pats me on the back and disappears down the hallway.

  He trusts me. I take a moment to let that sit on me and mentally erase the image of Ally H—of his daughter from my mind. She’s gorgeous, but this is more important. Gotta keep my priorities in check.

  Baseball is in my blood, more than booze or girls. It’s the swell of the crowd, the smell of sweat and leather, the feel of the bat when you hit the sweet spot and crack one out of the park. It’s the camaraderie, the fans, the adrenaline that pumps through your veins. It’s jumping around the dugout before we hit the field, it’s the high-fives after an excellent play. It’s my everything.

  And there is nothing I love more, nothing, than the thrill of a game. Home games are the best, looking out and seeing nothing but a sea of royal blue.

  They’re cheering for us. They’re cheering for me. It’s like a drug, the way it hits your system.

  Jamie and I do our ritual handshake before the start of the game and charge the field. Working together as shortstop and second base, we work in sync better than most of the other teams. We cover bases, stop line-drives, and knock out a double play to end the top of the inning in a quick 1-2-3. We’re on fire tonight.

  “Great start to the game, boys.” Coach hollers, smile on his face. He slaps a hand on my back with a wink before disappearing back to his corner, and I’m feeling better than ever. I’m in my element.

  Harrison, Jamie, and I are the top of our batting order. Our big three. Harrison is walked to first and Jamie’s at bat. I go on deck for some practice swings and test my knee. So far, so good. I look out at the crowd and spy the pink awning of The Sweet Spot in the distance. I’ve got a promise to keep.

  Jamie strikes out. Shitty, but it happens. He points to me as I amble up to home. Time to shine. Everything around me disappears until it’s just me and the pitcher, Donaldson. We’ve gone up against him before, and I know he favors a breaking ball. That’s fine. I know how to work a bat. He throws the first pitch, but my gut tells me it’s outside.

  Ball one. The crowd cheers.

  I settle back into my stance and give the bat a swing. Everything fades to black again and I can hear my own heartbeat. I can practically see the ball slicing through the air in freeze frame. I swing. Curve ball, not a breaking ball. I miss.

  Strike one.

  I spit in the dirt and shake it off. I back off the plate and take another practice swing before tightening my batting gloves and taking a deep breath. I’ve got this. Next ball is outside.

  2-1.

  I watch Donaldson carefully on the mound. This is my ball, I can feel it. I watch it soar through the air and I crack it off the sweet spot. I take a second to watch it and grin. It’s out of the park. The crowd goes nuts and I begin my victory lap around the bases, slapping fives with the first and third base coaches. I have to resist the urge to pump my fists in the air as I run. When I make it back to home, I hold up a finger in the direction of the left field. That’s one.

  We celebrate in the dugout. Jamie and I high-five and Coach is full of praise. It’s going to be a good game. Easy.

  Donaldson strikes out Carlos and Everett, leaving us at 2-0 at the top of the second. That’s fine. We’re in the lead and we’ve got eight more innings to put a sizeable gap between them and us.

  Except it appears the Detroit offense has been pu
tting in some serious work. They put two balls up in the outfield and we have to sweat a little to keep them from scoring. No big deal, I like a challenge.

  “What happened to a learning year?” Jamie mutters as we head back into the dugout. “Their bats are supposed to be dead.”

  “Keeps it from being boring.” Carlos shrugs as the bottom of our batting order takes the field. “I hate that 1-2-3-done shit. Give me something to do.”

  “Spoken like a true third baseman.” Jamie winks and Carlos flicks him off behind his glove. The pitching coach, Coach Duff, whacks Carlos on the back of the head.

  “Watch it.” He warns.

  Everyone’s gotta be on their best behavior. Cameras are everywhere, and so are the fines. The three of us laugh it off and hang off the railing to watch Donaldson give up another run, but send Octivio and George packing with two strikeouts.

  It appears this isn’t going to be the easy game we thought, and it really gets the blood flowing. We all work together in sync, trying to keep the Detroit offense from scoring, but our pitcher gives us a run, soaring in the right field stands, and narrowing our lead.

  I’m up at bat again, and I narrow my eyes at Donaldson. It’s game on, now. I have big plans for this bat, and all of them involve destroying the Tiger defense. But my knee flares up a bit and I strike out. Fuck.

  “You’ll get ‘em next time,” Jamie thuds me on the back. “At least you aren’t 0-2. This is killing my batting average.”

  “Shoulda paid more attention at practice,” I tease him. “Good thing you aren’t our DH.”

  “Hey!” Octivio points over, a laugh on his face. “Don’t trash talk my spot, man. DH is serious business.”

  “So start batting like it.” Jamie shoots back.

  Have I mentioned I live for this? The banter, the laughs, and ass grabs. We talk shit but we love each other like brothers. It’s the most incredible feeling ever. I have never felt more at home than I do in the dugout.

  A fly-out ends the inning and we hit the field. I swallow down another ibuprofen before running out. I’m going to have to be a little more careful from here on out. I just wish their defense wasn’t so on top of it today. Much as I love the competitive edge a close game gives, my knee could really use a break.

  And it gets one. It’s another 1-2-3 inning with no balls lobbed my way. Two strike-outs and a fly-out to center field. Quick and easy.

  “Give me more of that!” I slap Edwards on the back. “Destroy those Tigers!”

  He flashes a grin, which I know means “Go fuck yourself,” and we all laugh and watch the bottom of the order go lay some damage on Donaldson. We walk away from the inning with two extra runs. My knee feels better.

  Tigers score one more run, but it’s still easy going for me. I’ve learned how to jog without putting too much pressure on my knee. I’m up to bat and I’m fucking pumped. I’m ready. The crowd is loving the game and I’ve got a promise to keep. No more strike-outs.

  I sit a solid line drive up the center for a double. Carlos comes up and hits a ball off the foul pole, batting me into home. The crowd goes wild and I shoot two fingers in the direction of the Sweet Spot. Two down, one to go.

  The atmosphere in the dugout is electric. We fight and bat and throw and fight some more. We stop plays and have killer relays. It’s not enough, though, and the seventh inning turns particularly brutal. Edwards loads up the bases and allows a grand slam with no outs. They are only down by one.

  Coach takes the field and we all go run to the middle to send off Edwards. He threw a good game, but it’s time for a pitching change. Edwards looks pissed, but I know it’s not at Coach. He’s a pitcher, after all. All those guys beat themselves up if they are pulled during the game.

  “You threw a good seven innings.” Coach pats him on the back. “Time to go.”

  We all pat Edwards as he leaves, but his shoulders are low. If we lose, he’s going to feel accountable. It’s all good, though, I want to tell him. I still have one more run promised. And I never break my promises.

  Knickers comes out and Jamie and I high-five. He’s a killer reliever with a solid arm and a great curveball. Detroit won’t be able to touch him. We scatter back to our positions and get ready for the easy outs.

  And then he lets another home run score. Well, shit.

  Knickers slumps on the dugout bench after Detroit has another fly-out, his head in his hands. Coach Duff is talking to him quietly, so we all give them their space. We battle it out through the rest of the seventh, and eighth, with no progress on either side. They are as determined as we are to make some magic happen.

  “All right, boys!” Coach Holstead calls out before we go up to bat. “Way to keep them staved off from scoring any more runs. I know these boys gave us more than we bargained for, but we’re the Royals and we win. You got me?”

  “Yes, Coach!” We call out.

  “Now let’s show them what our bats can do!”

  “Yes, Coach!”

  I’m up first to bat. Jamie smacks my ass and I feel the whole of the K watching me. It’s time to shine. Except, by “shine,” I mean “get walked to first.” Which is fine. Everyone cheers, I make small talk with the Tigers first baseman, and get ready to steal second. Carlos is up next and hits a hell of a sac-fly to center and I book it to third base. There’s a double play, and everyone is screaming, my heart is racing, and my knee is throbbing. Fuck my knee, I’ve got a run to score.

  Coach Bart is third base coach tonight, and a notorious stick-in-the-mud. He likes to play it safe. I lead off and Coach Bart is already waving at me in my periphery. He wants me to keep my ass there, even though we’re currently tied with two outs, and I have a promise to keep.

  The ball goes soaring into left field, bounces once, and is caught. Coach Bart yells at me to get back to base, but fuck this. I’ve gotta do this for Ally H. I made a promise. I wink at Coach and go for it, running faster than I ever have in my life.

  My knee is screaming, the crowd is screaming, I’m pretty sure I just heard Coach Bart utter some pretty nasty things about my mother, but I slide into home seconds before the catcher tags me. Safe.

  We win the game and the crowd goes crazy. My teammates rush me on the sidelines as I hold out three fingers.

  3

  Coach is fucking pissed. He’s so pissed he isn’t even looking at me. He’s just sitting there at his desk, stewing. I mean, I won the game, right? Let’s overlook the part where I completely disregarded Coach Bart’s instruction and took things into my own hands.

  Without me, we probably would have gone into extra innings and nobody wants that. The fans think they want that, but all it does is fuck up pitching rotations and make coaches antsy. Extra innings are the worst. I saved us a lot of headache. And also committed insubordination.

  I got carried away.

  “I thought we had an understanding, Fife.” Coach finally manages. He won’t look at me, which is for the best. He’s known to get laser-eyed from time to time. “Your ass is mine.”

  “I won the game, Coach.” I try to keep my voice even. “I saw the opening and I took it.”

  “You pointedly ignored Coach Bart.” He opens a container of chew.

  “Coach Bart is conservative. He doesn’t like to take risks.”

  “He’s the coach, not you.” The chew gets tucked into his jaw and I stare at the bulge of tobacco. It’s mesmerizing and comforting all at once. I’ve spent years of my life watching the rhythmic motions of Coach’s mouth chew and spit.

  “We would have gone into extra innings if I didn’t make a break for it.”

  “What you did was bullheaded and stupid.” Yes, but…

  “But it won the game.”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Coach snaps. I bow my head. He’s right, I know. I can’t exactly explain to him the real reasons for why I did what I did, especially since they all involve his daughter, so I keep my mouth shut. “You acted like an arrogant fool.”

  “But I didn’t br
eak my oath.” I slam my mouth shut. Whoops, shouldn’t have said that. I watch Coach’s shoulders tense.

  “You’re right. You kept your nose clean, but completely disregarded your coaching staff. This will not happen again.”

  What I want to do is yell about how this is bullshit. I won the game. We shouldn’t be having this conversation. If I hadn’t been arrested the night before, we wouldn’t. It’s totally unfair, but Coach tries to keep us on a tight leash to prevent stupid shit, like what I did, from happening.

  Really, this is all my fault and I know it. I didn’t technically break my oath, but I acted out for a girl. She probably didn’t even watch the game, being too busy scooping out ice cream for fans. Maybe, as the coach’s daughter, she doesn’t even really care about the game. But I did my part, and that’s what matters the most. I kept a promise.

  “You’re on hospital duty tomorrow.” Coach finally says and I have to keep my face blank from groaning. “Don’t do that shit again. Get out of my office.”

  “Yes, Coach.” I leave and mentally kick my ass. I’m not sure now if this was even all worth it.

  I avoid hospital duty like it’s a monster with fangs. My mom died from cancer last year, and all that time in and out of the hospital seriously fucked with me. She didn’t even get to watch us win the Series, which maybe sounds like a dumb thing to be upset over, but my mom practically broke herself to make sure I could follow my baseball dreams. I did everything for her, and she didn’t get to see the fruits of all her sacrifice. It was a bittersweet day.

  Going back to a hospital is the last thing I want to do. Maybe, if I’m honest, that’s part of the reason why I’m blowing off my knee. I don’t want to deal with more doctors, more nurses, more sterile environments. I had enough of them to last me a lifetime.

  So every time hospital duty comes up, I make sure I’m not around. I can’t stomach the idea of going back there. And now I have no choice. The worst of it is knowing what I’ll be seeing. Watching cancer claim my mom was one of the most awful things I ever had to do. But to go and visit kids with it? Knowing their lives are on the brink of destruction entirely too soon, completely out of their control? It’s the most unfair thing in the universe that they should have to suffer the way my mom did.