The Perfect Game(8)

“You better be right.” I sighed, wondering how long I had to stay. I avoided looking anywhere near the team’s dugout, afraid of who might be looking back at me, when Melissa called me on it.

“He won’t see you, Cass. You can look in there. Hell, you can even photograph the dugout. He won’t know,” she informed me, her face serious.

“How is that even possible?” I gave Melissa my best duh look.

“Because Jack’s all business out here. He doesn’t look in the stands. Ever. And I mean, ever. Last year this girl took her freaking top off and screamed Jack’s name like a lunatic the entire time he was up to bat. He didn’t move a muscle to look in her direction. I could light your ass on fire and he wouldn’t even know.”

I laughed super loud. “Please don’t test that theory.”

“Look around, Cassie. I’m pretty sure this is the one thing in life he takes seriously.” Melissa leaned back into her seat, taking a sip of the soda she’d just bought from a roaming vendor.

I scanned the crowd and noticed that we were surrounded by what appeared to be major league scouts. Each carried their own radar gun to measure the speed of Jack’s pitches, and notepads to write everything down. There was a forest of television and press cameras lined up on tripods behind home plate. It was the closest thing to a media circus I’d ever seen. And I currently held my own professional-sized camera, which definitely helped us fit in with all the madness.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fullton Field!” The announcer’s voice filled the air, as the cheers slowly died down in volume.

“Here to sing the national anthem is our very own Fullton State student, Laura Malloy!” Cheers reenergized the atmosphere as Laura smiled nervously before closing her eyes tightly and singing the opening words in perfect pitch.

I instinctively grabbed my camera and adjusted the lens, focusing on the emotions of her face, and snapped multiple pictures. When she finished, I watched as she walked toward the players lined up along the third base line and smiled hopefully at Jack. I secretly loved it when he didn’t acknowledge her.

“We have a sold-out crowd tonight, folks, and we all know why! Taking the mound against our rivals from Florida is the one and only Jack Carter!” The announcer enunciated Jack’s name like he was the savior of the free world, like he’d cured cancer, or delivered rainbows to colorless skies everywhere.

No, I take it back.

He said Jack’s name like Jack was a hero.

And I guess in a way he was. He brought media attention to the school and recognition to the baseball program. That attention translated into revenue for the school and top baseball prospects all wanted to play here. Jack was this university’s very own marketing machine.

The school worshipped him. It wasn’t just the girls on campus who wanted to be around him, it was everyone. I never realized the extent of his popularity before tonight.

“Now taking the field, your Fullton State Outlaws!” The announcer’s voice paused before continuing. “And now taking the mound, Jack Car-terrrrr!” He dragged out Jack’s last name, just like the wrestling announcers on TV.

The stadium erupted with ear-piercing shouts, howls, cheers, and screams. I looked at Melissa, shock clearly written all over my face, and she laughed, having witnessed this all before.

Jack walked confidently toward the dirt mound, his white-and-blue pinstriped sliding pants hugging his body in all the right places. I watched as his thigh muscles contracted against his pants with each step he took, and admired how good his butt looked in his uniform. His upper body was unfortunately hidden underneath a loose-fitting dark blue jersey with orange and white lettering.

His face looked different, more focused. This wasn’t the playful guy from the student union   anymore. This was the confident, serious baseball player.

“What’cha smiling at?” Melissa’s voice cut through my inner dialogue.

I quickly dropped the smile I didn’t know I was wearing. “Nothing,” I snapped, and looked away, embarrassed.

“It’s irritating how good he looks in his uniform, right?”

I jerked my head back toward her. “Seriously. Why does he have to be so hot?”

“’Cause he’s a jerk. Jerks are always hot,” Melissa reminded me with a nod.

Jack stood on top of the pitcher’s mound, his left cleat kicking at the dirt in front of him. He placed his toes on the white rubber, dropped his glove hand to his knee, and gripped the ball with his left. His eyes focused solely on his catcher squatting sixty feet away. With a brief nod he leaned back, his body performing a motion so fluid and smooth it looked like it was made for him.