Full Count (The Catcher Series Book 1)

by Bri Izzo

  Luckily he finishes in time to allow me a few extra pitches on the sideline, and then Cara and I take our places on the field. My warm-up pitches are shaky, so I decide to slow them down just a little to increase my accuracy.

  The first batter of the second inning hits my first pitch I throw at her, but our centerfielder catches it with ease. The second batter is determined to make me pitch to her. She knows I’m banged up and wants to make me work for it. I would do the same thing, so I can’t really blame her. My first two pitches are fastballs that hit the corners of the plate, but only one is called a strike. The next two are low misses, and all of a sudden I’m behind in the count. It’s 3-1, which means I have to throw a strike and she knows it. I put some heat on it, and Cara isn’t quite ready for it, but it’s still called a strike. The batter looks surprised at how fast the ball came at her. It’s full count now.

  Unfortunately she’s ready for my last pitch that is a curveball on the outside corner. She swings and the ball flies in between the second baseman and centerfielder; there’s nothing either one of them can do to catch it or make a play.

  With a runner on first base, the pressure I put on myself increases. In all the innings I’ve pitched thus far my freshman season, I haven’t allowed a single hit. Since I’ve been the closer, it isn’t that alarming of a statistic, but I’m still proud of myself for doing it. That batter just ruined my perfect season.

  When the next batter steps up, I throw her a heated strike down the middle. She thought about swinging at it, but by the time she decided to, the ball was already in Cara’s glove. As I go to prep myself for the next pitch, I feel the warm breeze on my newly cut-open arm and stop. I put my glove underneath my armpit as I pull on the bandage to try to make it stay on my sweaty arm. It’s such a distraction though, and I end up throwing a wild pitch past Cara, which lets the runner on first steal second base.

  This is getting out of control. I take a deep breath as I read Cara’s signal to throw a curveball inside. I obey her signal, but the ball takes it to the extreme. It hits the batter in the lower back as she turns away from it. It hits her hard, too, and she goes down like she’s just been shot. I twirl around to face the field of teammates behind me as I sarcastically throw my glove into the air with no intention of catching it. I can’t do this anymore.

  Since the umpire calls “time” for the batter to recuperate, Skyler runs out onto the mound to meet me. “Hey, B, what’s going on?” he asks me, picking up my glove. He holds it in his hand, letting me be free of it for just a moment. I can’t thank him enough for understanding that that’s exactly what I need right now.

  “My arm. The bandage is getting in the way,” I try explaining. I stare at the fresh dirt between me and second base - anything but the runner, batter, or Skyler. They’re all distractions. I need to breathe and focus… God, I wish I could pitch with a blind fold on right now.

  “It’s wrapped pretty good. It’s in your head that it’s in the way,” he argues yet is still nice about it. Although he’s been my lifelong friend and crush, he’s my personal pitching coach at the moment, and he plays the part very well. He knows how to separate his feelings from personal and professional. “Can you focus?”

  “Sky, I’m not pitching blindly, not when I just beaned a girl,” I tell him thinking that’s his code word. My intention isn’t to snap at him even though that’s what happens. We were on the same wavelength, but we both know I would have severe consequences for doing that with a batter in the box. Luckily he doesn’t take it personally.

  “Pretty sure it’s illegal to pitch blindly in a game,” he chuckles, lightening the mood as we hear the crowd applaud for the batter who is standing up and walking to first base. “I just need you to play catch with Cara. If they hit it, your teammates will do the rest of the work. Just throw it.”

  “I just hit a girl!” I quietly shriek at him, my eyes passing his for a half second out of old habit.

  “You’ve never beaned anyone before?” he questions me, causing me to shake my head no. “Have you ever been beaned?”

  “Yes,” I admit, remembering the stinging feeling in my backside.

  “And look, you survived. So will she,” he declares. “Now, get through this inning. Just play catch.”

  “What if I can’t?” I challenge him.

  “You can. You gotta have short term memory as an athlete,” he disagrees. He brings his free hand to my shoulder and whispers, “Look at me.” Skyler’s eyes have a tendency to make me melt, and in the hot spring we’re having, I’m afraid to look at him. But he’s my coach, so I hesitantly obey his order. For a half second I forget we’re in the middle of a game and have to pinch myself to get back into Softball Bianca’s head. “You can do this. McCallum knows you can do this or he wouldn’t have put you in this position. Cara believes in you; the rest of your teammates believe in you and have your back. And I believe in you. It’s a little hiccup. But you can fix it.” Handing my glove over to me, he adds, “Us against them, who wins?”

  I can’t help but smile at our line we have been using since we were kids. Whatever’s been between us the past few months has been strictly professional regarding softball, so him saying that is a nice reminder that we have something more than just a coach and player relationship. “Us,” I answers, and he chimes in with me when I say, “Every time.”

  18 Skyler Swanson

  Buzz manages to dig herself out of the inning but allows one run to score. Everyone taps her shoulder in encouragement as she walks into the dugout, but she brushes them off. While her teammates bat, she sits on the end in the far away corner with her head down. She’s fucking beating herself up over something so insignificant to the game. That run makes it a tie game at 1-1, but it’s only the second inning; there’s plenty of fucking time for us to get a lead and for her to make sure we keep it.

  I watch her from down the bench, and I want nothing more than to go comfort her, to hold her in my arms and take her storm away. But I can’t because I’m one of her fucking coaches. I thought being her personal pitching coach might bring us closer together like we were before she entered high school, but I just feel cold and professional around her. I fucking hate it. When she beaned that girl, I saw Buzz lose it for the first time all season. She threw her glove into the air, and I didn’t even have to question my next move. I knew I had to go out and talk to her.

  The umpire wanted us to wrap it up so the game could continue, but Buzz didn’t look mentally ready. I decided to end with “our” line, “Us against them, who wins?” and she finally smiled and relaxed. Good… she still remembers.

  After a few minutes of letting her be alone on the bench, I approach her and put my arm over her hunched back. “Good job getting out of that inning,” I compliment her.

  “Thanks, but I gave up my first hit and run, and I beaned a girl,” she quietly tortures herself. As a player myself, I usually think the only big deal is allowing a run to score, but there is so much more to Buzz because it’s her first time letting these things happen in a varsity game.

  “It could’ve been worse,” I tell her. “You could’ve let two or three runs score. One isn’t that big of a deal; we’ll come back and get ahead.” My hand rises with her back as she takes a deep breath. She needs to let it go if she’s going to play the rest of the game. “Are you done for today? Do you not want to pitch anymore?”

  “I want to pitch,” she states with her head still down. “Will you catch for me? In the batting cage, I mean.”

  “Yeah. Grab your glove,” I order, standing up to find the extra catcher’s mitt in the coaches’ ball bag. I tell McCallum what we’re going to do, and he nods in agreement. He’ll agree to anything if it’ll get Buzz’s head back in the game. It’s kind of his fault for putting her in the starting lineup for the first time and telling her five minutes before the fucking game started though, but I won’t tell him that.

  My attention is distributed between Buzz and the scoreboard so I know how many outs
are left in the inning but also give her the attention she deserves.

  “When you hit her, you looked more annoyed than anything else,” I point out as one of her pitches zooms into my glove.

  “Yeah, I was,” she agrees.

  “It happens. You don’t think Alex has beaned people before?” I try to help her understand it’s just part of the game. I throw the ball back to her and wait for her to set her feet.

  “Yeah, but the girl could’ve avoided it by jumping back instead of into it,” she explains.

  “Close your eyes,” I order before she throws it.

  “But-” she starts, but I cut her off.

  “Buzz, do it!” I demand. “It’s just for me. You’re not going to do this on the field.”

  “Ugh,” she frustratedly sighs. I watch her calm herself down as she closes her eyes. The pitch is exactly what I want from her: a heated, focused, controlled fastball. Her banged up arm has no affect on her.

  “One more,” I call as she watches me throw the ball back to her. After she does the same thing again, I walk over to her and take her under my arm to walk back to the dugout. “Good job.”

  “Thank you for helping me,” she whimpers as she leans into me. It feels good to have her need me again, and I never want to let her go. I like that she feels vulnerable with me and during a big game, too. We’re always the perfect team, and this scenario is no different.

  “You’re welcome, B,” I say, squeezing her arm lightly.

  “I mean all season. You didn’t have to take the coaching position… but I’m glad you did,” Buzz comments. Her child-like grin fires me up in the best way. I thought I lost my best friend when she started hanging out with what’s-his-fuck, but that statement assures me that isn’t the case.

  “Anything for you, sweetheart,” I reply. I purposely make it sound sarcastic but I know she knows I’m serious.

  Buzz pitches the next three innings and holds them to the one run from the second inning. I request for a relief pitcher to take her place for the last two innings so she doesn’t throw out her arm. She also bats and gets one hit, but we don’t let her run the bases in fear of her hurting her arm even more. Trainer Rick takes the bandage off after she comes in from hitting as it is because the sweat on her arm is causing it to come undone, and the wound needs to breathe.

  We win the game, which is followed by a short ceremony for winning the conference title outright. I look into the stands and see our usual crew, but Beth and Theresa aren’t present. Allen, however, is beaming with pride next to my dad for his daughter being recognized as one of the all-conference players of the year. I’d like to think he’s proud of his Godson for helping his daughter pitch her way onto varsity, too, but I might be wrong. But all I care about really is the look on Buzz’s face when she notices her mom isn’t there. I watch her eyes scan the crowd and then fall to the ground, and it kills me that it upsets her so much.

  After the announcer calls her name to receive her plaque, Buzz stands next to a few of her teammates who are also being recognized as conference players of the year. Her dad has come out onto the field to document the ceremony with his Nikon; everything he takes is candid except for one group shot at the end.

  “Sky!” she calls from near home plate. My attention focuses on her as she waves me over. When I reach her side, she adds, “Part of this belongs to you.”

  Chuckling at her adorable appreciativeness, I banter, “I’ll get my own in July, sweetheart… but you’re welcome.”

  “Thank you,” she replies, smiling.

  Taking her under my arm, I tell her, “It was all you, Buzz.”

  Once the ceremony is over we go back to the dugout to grab all of the equipment bags and head to the parking lot to go home. I grab Buzz’s bag for her so she can hold a bag of ice to her bandaged arm as we walk to my Jeep. I set the bag in my trunk and watch Buzz’s smile grow across her entire face. Cara and Laurie sandwich her into a group hug and scream with her in excitement for not only winning the game, but the conference title, too. Then Tiffany walks up and they welcome her into it, too. It’s nice to see Buzz so happy, but I’m caught completely off guard when I hear someone call my name from behind. I spin around to see Chase Morgan’s fucking fist coming straight at my face.

  Because I’m blind sighted, it feels like I get hit with a boulder that Buzz could’ve thrown as a pitch. I react the same way the girl did that Buzz beaned by falling to the gravel ground beneath my Jeep. I imagine it’s a hearty fall because all four of the girls rush over to me, grinding the gravel into their shoes. Lying on the ground and covering my heated cheek, I look up at the circle of girls towering over me, and I’m a little dizzy.

  “Sky, Sky, Sky,” Buzz’s voice echoes. “Are you, you, okay, okay?” I close my eyes in hopes of stopping the extra noise that’s causing a throbbing echo in my head. “Can you hear me?” Thankfully her voice stops duplicating itself.

  “Yeah, just gimme a sec,” I muster out. I lie on the gravel jabbing into my backside and reach down into my chest for a deep breath. The sun pierces into my eyes, so I force myself to sit up. That’s when Buzz squats in front of me with a concerned look plastered on her face. It’s so unusual to see her so serious.

  “What the hell happened?” she gasps with soft, confused eyes.

  “Chase just punched me,” I tell her before stretching my jaw to try to eliminate the ache in my cheek.

  “He what?” she shouts, standing up to tower over me.

  After taking her hand and letting her help me stand up, I repeat, “He punched me.”

  “Why? What did you do?” she wonders innocently. She isn’t accusing me of doing anything, but she wants to believe that he wouldn’t hit me for no reason, even though that’s exactly what happened.

  “I didn’t even know he was at the game, let alone in the parking lot or by my Jeep. I was throwing your bag in the trunk, and I heard my name, spun around, and he just fucking hit me,” I explain.

  “Please tell me you’re kidding,” she pleads. The confusion in her eyes is so apparent that I think she’s going to collapse and scrape up her fucking arm even more. I glance at Cara who is shaking her head; she knows I’m not kidding. Tiffany and Laurie wear pure concern on their faces but remain silent. I hate that everyone except for Buzz knows Chase Morgan is a douchebag. She’s such a smart girl; how does she not see it?

  I don’t answer her. We all disperse, and I silently drive Buzz home. After pulling into her driveway, I get out of my Jeep and open the trunk. I carry her bag into the garage as she walks next to me with sorrowful eyes. Not saying anything and just going back to my Jeep to go home is the best idea, so that’s what I start to do until Buzz proves she thinks otherwise.

  “Sky,” she gently calls after me. I spin around and lightly move my baseball hat on my head. “I’m sorry…” Her eyes can’t leave my cheek, and guilt fills them completely. I don’t like it. She isn’t an extension of Chase; she shouldn’t apologize on behalf of him.

  “It’s not your fault. Good game today. I’ll see you later,” I tell her and get back in my Jeep to drive home. By then my cheek is just pulsing in an uncomfortable way, but it isn’t painful. I look in the mirror as I’m about to drive away and am taken by surprise. Chase sliced my cheek open just below my right eye. It isn’t enough where I need stitches, but it’s fucking bleeding. Looks can be deceiving after all…

  19 Bianca Ferrari

  I can’t believe that Chase just hauled off and punched Skyler like that. Actually, I just don’t want to believe it; I can definitely see him doing that, especially to Skyler. But it’s totally unacceptable. To top it off, I overheard Jackie, our short stop, talking to Laurie before the game about how she and Chase finally hooked up last week after months of hanging out. She has no idea that there is anything between me and him apparently. It’s probably why my head wasn’t really in the softball game; it was trying to figure out Chase’s game he’s playing with me. I decide to text him first before riding my bike all
the way to his house after the game and having him not be there.

  Me: Hey, you busy?

  Chase Morgan: We can’t talk anymore.

  Me: Why? Because you’re hooking up with one of my teammates or because you punched Skyler?

  Chase Morgan: Because of that. You’re so dramatic.

  Me: I’m the dramatic one? Ha okay.

  Chase Morgan: Too many people are talking about us. I don’t like people in my business.

  Me: I didn’t tell anyone anything.

  Chase Morgan: Didn’t say that you did. But with you being Alex’s sister, these rumors have spread fast. I don’t want to deal with it.

  Me: You should’ve thought about that before you hooked up with Jackie.

  Chase Morgan: I’m not nor was I ever with you.

  Me: I know.

  Chase Morgan: No, you don’t. You think we’ve been together since last summer, and we haven’t. I don’t need people talking that we’ve been together almost a year and saying I’ve been cheating on you. We weren’t together therefore I couldn’t have cheated on you.

  Me: Not sure where those rumors started, but I’m sorry.

  Chase Morgan: It’s fine. But we can’t talk.

  He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore, so I don’t respond. I sit in my claustrophobic bedroom and wonder where I went wrong in the past year. My mom hates me so much she can’t even bother to show up to my last home game of my freshman varsity season; Skyler gets punched in the face after doing nothing wrong yet there is nothing I can do because we are kind of in limbo with our friendship; the guy I thought I had something with for almost a whole year just cyber punched me in the chest with numerous insults to my feelings and intelligence; I almost have a perfect season pitching until the last game where I allowed hits and runs and beaned a girl.