The batter swung and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t send that pitch into no man’s land. The sound of the ball crashing against the catcher’s glove echoed into the evening air, as the umpire screamed, “Strike three! You’re out!”
The crowd erupted into cheers and rushed the field before my teammates lifted me on top of their shoulders. Cameras flashed from all around, the quick bursts of light blinding me briefly. Hands reached out from every angle, pulling and tugging at any exposed body part. Everyone wanted a piece of me.
I had just pitched my first perfect game in Double-A ball. The feeling you get when that happens is hard to describe. It’s like an unbelievable high. I accomplished something that happens so rarely in the game of baseball. Not a single person from the other team got on base. I didn’t walk one batter. No one was hit by a pitch. Just me and my boys on our field for nine straight innings. Tonight, we’d be celebrating. And all I could think about was her.
I peeled myself away from the gaggle of fans and journalists and headed inside the locker room. “I’ll sign more after I shower,” I shouted toward the group of people wanting my autograph.
I opened my locker, grabbed my cell phone, and dialed.
“Hey, babe!” she answered, her tone excited and bubbly.
“Did you hear?”
“I watched the game online. Congratulations!” She squealed as I pulled my cell phone from my ear. “I’m so proud of you, baby!”
I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes, visualizing her gorgeous face. “God, I miss you,” I breathed out with a sigh.
“Me too. I wish I was there.” Her quiet, wistful tone tugged at my heart.
“I wish you were too. More than anything I wish you were celebrating this night with me.”
“I’m so happy for you, Jack.”
“Thanks, Kitten. I should probably go. I’ll call you later, okay?” My teammates filed out of the showers, eyeing me and pointing at their wrists.
“Have fun tonight. I love you,” she said and I grinned.
“I love you too. Night,” I replied before shutting my phone off.
The local bar seemed packed to capacity by the time we sauntered in. I walked through the front door with two of my teammates and the entire bar broke out into hoots and shouting. Before I knew it, drinks and shots were being handed to me from all directions. I downed the first three shots without hesitation and held on tightly to a bottle of beer. I looked around to thank whoever sent them over, but the dim lighting made it virtually impossible to distinguish individual people in the thick crowd.
“Great game tonight, Jack,” a petite brunette remarked as she grabbed my arm.
I looked at the hand touching me before removing it and placing it at her side. “Thanks.”
Her hand wrapped around my waist. “The name’s Chrystle.”
I removed her hand again more forcefully. “I didn’t ask.”
“Figured you’d want to know,” she said, inching her body closer to mine.
“And why’s that?” I asked, laying on the bored tone I usually used to discourage groupies.
She got on her tippy toes and leaned closer. “’Cause you’ll be screaming it later,” she whispered in my ear with a smile.
“Not a chance.” I frowned and turned my back to her before wading through the crowd toward a table in the back.
I reached my excited teammates and quickly sat down. “I’m starving! Please tell me there’s food here.” My stomach growled on cue and I looked around, noticing the insane amount of tequila shots covering the tabletop.
“Hell yes, there’s food! It’s just not here yet. So drink up, man. That was a hell of a game tonight, Carter!” My first baseman, Logan, slid a shot in my direction to celebrate.
The rest of the table erupted in similar congratulations and compliments, followed by high fives and knuckle-bumps, as we all grabbed a shot and drank a toast. I looked up from the table and noticed Chrystle eyeing me from the other end of the bar. She winked at me before taking a swig of her beer.
I elbowed Logan, who’d played on this team the past two seasons. “Hey, man. Who’s that chick at the end of the bar?”
“Which chick?” he asked with a chortle.
“The little brunette staring at us over there.”
“Oh, Chrystle? She’s basically a groupie on a mission. I’d steer clear of her if I were you,” he warned before downing another shot of the amber liquid.
“Trust me. I’m trying.”
“Here. Drink these.” He slid two shots over and I downed them one after the other, wincing after I swallowed. “You’re definitely on her radar.” He pointed at Chrystle engrossed in conversation with our head coach as both sets of eyes stared in our direction.