Game Changer, page 24
So far, I’m three-for-three with two singles and a double. I’ve driven in two, and I stole third to score on a pop fly. In the field, Sasha and I have never played better. If this is the last time we’ll be out here together, I’m going to make it count and create a memory I’ll never forget. She’s the best double-play partner I’ve ever had, period.
I mean no disrespect to Kyle, but with Sasha, it’s just instinctual. Kyle liked to play straight up, no frills, no tricks, nothing fancy. That’s how I was used to getting the job done, too, until Sasha opened my eyes to a whole new style of defense. I’m willing to take risks I wouldn’t ordinarily take, trusting that she’ll be there. I can make a crazy one-handed flip across my body and know she’ll catch it. I can hurl one at her from the hole and know she’ll reach out and snag it. She’s fast and nimble, always thinking on her feet. I don’t think her mind ever stops turning when she’s on the field, always ready to position herself wherever she needs to be. I know that having that kind of confidence in her ability has certainly upped my game. Thanks to her, if the number of highlight reels we’ve made are any indication, I might even win my first Gold Glove this year.
In between innings, Sasha’s gone into the clubhouse to check her phone—so far, no texts or messages from Casey or her parents. All is good with Kyle, at least for now. They decided to stay at the hospital and watch the game from there. They were here two years ago when Kyle earned his first ring, and participated in all of the hoopla. They know what it’s like. I don’t think they’re up for it this time around, and I can’t say that I blame them.
My mom’s here, cheering on the both of us. She wouldn’t miss this for the world. It’s what she’s been dreaming about ever since I was a little boy. She knew I had the potential in me, even if I didn’t at the time. She never let me get stuck in that negative headspace my dad wanted to trap me in. She wanted more for me than that, so I’m glad that her belief in me didn’t go to waste. I’m here, in New York, in game seven of the World Series. It wouldn’t have been possible without her.
She filed for divorce from my dad two days ago, talking through everything with the lawyer out of Oklahoma City I hired for her. She was scared to make such a bold move, but she did it and I couldn’t be happier for her. It seems like a tremendous weight has been lifted off her shoulders and she can finally breathe again. I think witnessing everything that Kyle’s going through made her realize that life is too short to stay tethered to the wrong person.
As we get ready to enter the bottom of the ninth down by a run, I take a moment to slow the game down and take everything in. The strikeout Ks the fans have lining the facade of the upper deck. The clanging of a frying pan that an old man named Eddie has brought to each and every game for the last decade. The organ player psyching up the crowd with the "Charge" anthem. They’re all mainstays of the Kings Stadium experience, one that I’m proud to be a part of.
No matter what happens, no one can take this moment away from me. Win or lose, it’s mine to hold on to for the rest of my life. I watch the crowd begin to stand, knowing that this is it. It’s going to come down to these final at bats, and I’m due up first. I have to make something happen. It’s up to me to kick-start our last offensive drive.
"Now batting, shortstop, number eleven, Brooks Davison!" Larry Eagleton, the longtime voice of the Kings, announces over the public address system while thirty seconds of my walk-up song, "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" by Big and Rich plays in the background. I’ve dedicated my entire postseason to Kyle, as have all the players, most of us picking inspirational songs that remind us of him. But my selection is a little different. It was what was playing when Kyle tried to ride a mechanical bull in a bar just outside Kansas City. It was the night he first saw Casey, and he was determined to catch her eye. Little did he know that he’d go flying off the contraption and land right at her feet. But to her credit, she didn’t laugh. She bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek for trying so hard.
And that’s what Kyle means to me. Someone who’s willing to put himself out there, going for broke, not afraid to fail. I need that courage now as I step into the box to face St. Louis’s hard-throwing left-hander, Joaquin Jimenez. What makes him dangerous is that he’s more than a one-pitch pitcher. His changeup is off-speed enough to keep a hitter off-balance. I’m not going to know what’s coming—the high heat or something down and away and just out of the strike zone.
I dig in, settling into my stance. I intend to wait him out and sit on my pitch. I’m not going to swing unless it’s what I’m looking for. I have to be patient at the plate. Let him get me out, not get myself out.
The crowd is raucous, but I’m locked in. I have tunnel vision, only focusing on Jimenez. He’s all that exists for me right now, nothing else. He’s either going to make my dreams come true or shatter them into a million pieces. He holds the power to make or break me in the palm of his hand.
His first pitch comes in high and tight, but I don’t bite. Ball one. He spits on the mound, a smirk on his face. If he thinks I’d make a rookie mistake like that, then he hasn’t read the scouting reports. I don’t swing at those kinds of pitches anymore. I’ve made adjustments to my hitting strategy, thanks to Sasha.
I feel the catcher’s eyes on me, trying to figure me out. Let him. I’m up for the challenge.
The next pitch comes in a lot slower than I anticipated, so I hold off again, checking my swing just in time. They appeal to the first base umpire and he agrees—no swing.
Now they’re behind in the count; I’ve worked it to my advantage. The third pitch is sure to be the fastball I’ve been looking for.
As Jimenez releases the ball, I go through the mechanics of hitting it in my head, determined to get my timing right. It’s coming in, middle in, and I’m all over it, launching it to center field. I’m not sure if it’s out or not as I bust it out of the box, but I’m not going to stand there and watch it if it’s not. It sails over the center fielder’s head, landing up against the wall, but the right fielder comes in to cut it off. His strong throw gets the ball back to the infield in plenty of time, holding me to a double. But I’ll take it. I didn’t end the game with one swing of the bat, but I came pretty darn close.
Pedro’s up next. I bend over, clasping my knees as I try to catch my breath. Pedro’s a contact hitter without a lot of speed. I’m sure Tony’s going to have him lay down a bunt to advance me to third, but if he does, that’s going to create a problem—because Sasha’s up after him. What’s he going to do with her?
Pedro does exactly what’s required of him, sacrificing himself to move me along to the next base. He’s the first out, but it’s a productive out, and the crowd roars in approval.
I expect Tony to pull Sasha for someone else. The game is on the line. He doesn’t need another bunt. But he doesn’t. He leaves her in, and my stomach drops.
He’s going to try and get her to hit a homer. Something she’s never done before, not even in practice. Is he out of his godforsaken mind?
I storm angrily around third, trying not to show my frustration. How can he do this to her after all she’s given our team? He’s going to make her go out as the scapegoat, the one who cost us the series. It’s not right. It’s not fair. He can’t expect some last-minute heroics from her. The girl is spent. She’s given all she has to give and then some. He’s asking too much of her.
She shoots me a look before turning her back and stepping in, and for the first time, I can’t get a good read on her. I don’t know if she’s scared, mad, determined. Her expression is blank. Just her ponytail is blowing in the breeze that’s driving out to right.
The conditions are ideal. The pitcher’s a lefty who throws over ninety-five. The wind is going to take anything lifted in the air over the short porch in right. Tony couldn’t have planned this more perfectly if he’d tried. But if he is going to roll the dice, I just wish the stakes weren’t so high.
And there’s nothing I can do but watch as I kick my heels against the bag. It’s such a helpless feeling, knowing that the person I love the most is in such a precarious situation. I just have to have faith in her that she can do this, even though she’s never done it before.
Somehow, Jilly manages to catch my attention. He’s practically hanging out of the dugout in anticipation. She’s his protégé. If she manages to pull this off, it’ll be thanks mostly to him—and Tony for coming up with such a harebrained idea.
I wonder what she’s going to do and how she’s going to handle this at bat. Is she going to tip her hand from the get-go or is she going to spring it on Jimenez? She answers me by connecting with the first pitch and fouling it straight back. The crowd goes crazy. They weren’t expecting her to go after a ninety-five-mile-per-hour fastball.
She swings again, this time lofting another one over the Kings dugout. She was able to pull that one a little more, but she’s still coming up short. She just doesn’t have the arm strength. It’s not her fault. She’s just overmatched.
She has two strikes on her now. This is going to be a big out if she can’t at least send a fly ball into the outfield and get me home.
I extend my lead off third, hoping for a wild pitch or a passed ball, something that will allow me to steal home. I have to help her out. I won’t let her take the heat for this.
But the at bat drags on as she fouls off pitch after pitch, just like her epic attempt to draw a walk in game one. They’re blaring Katy Perry’s "Roar" in between pitches, and the crowd sings along, changing the lyrics, "She’s got the eye of the tiger." And at this point, they’re right. No one has a better eye than she does at the moment. It’s like she’s seeing the pitches in slow motion, knowing what’s coming before the catcher even goes through the signals.
Jilly is screaming at her from the dugout, his face beet red. I can’t hear him. I don’t know if she can. I have no idea what he’s trying to say, but it seems important, like he picked up on something and he wants her to know about it. He cups his hands one over the other like he’s trying to tell her to choke up on the bat.
I whistle sharply and she asks the umpire to call time as she steps out. She glances over her shoulder at me, and I jerk my chin in Jilly’s direction. She looks over at him and nods, realizing what he wants her to do. When she readjusts herself, I see her hands a lot farther up on the handle of the bat.
I want to close my eyes. I don’t want to look, but I have to as the pitch comes racing in. Sasha connects and that satisfying crack of the bat sounds like it hit the sweet spot, right off the barrel. It soars slowly, losing altitude as it nears the right field wall. Everyone holds their breath, hoping and praying that she somehow got enough of it to send it out.
The right fielder, who was playing shallow, starts to go back on the ball, and I lunge, legs fully extended between third and home, ready to go either way. If he catches it, I can’t let them pick me off and double us up. That would end the game.
The flight of the ball continues to carry. It’s going to be close. Sasha’s running hard, already on her way to second, not turning around to look, depending on the crowd to tell her where it lands. I watch her with her head down, legs pumping, arms swinging.
And then, the impossible happens.
Sasha Roberts has hit a walk-off home run.
I leap in the air as the stadium erupts. She did it. She freakin’ did it!
I’m delirious as I cross the plate, my feet not even touching the ground. I’m swarmed by the guys, but I push them off of me, wanting to watch Sasha round the bases. She’s still running hard, and she’s practically right behind me when I turn around. She still has that neutral expression on her face until she sees me standing there, waiting for her, and that’s when she loses it, giving in to all of the pent-up emotions she’s been holding in.
"Oh my God, Sandy!" she screams. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!"
I step forward to grab her as she stomps proudly with both feet onto the plate, leaping into my arms. She’s finally reached the finish line. She did everything that had been asked of her and more. I see the umpire wipe a tear from his eye and the catcher lean forward to pat her on the back. No one is going to deny her this moment of triumph.
I brace myself, expecting my teammates to jump all over us. I want to protect Sasha from getting trampled on. I don’t intend for her to get injured at the bottom of some pile. But when I swing her around, I see them all standing there in a row, doffing their caps and applauding us, and I feel myself choking up.
My batting helmet bumps hers and I toss them off one after the other so I can get as close to her as I can. I need to see her face, watch her experience everything she’s accomplished. Her hand finds my face and she reaches behind my neck, pulling me to her. I know what she wants, and I intend to give it to her.
My lips crash onto hers, kissing her with everything I’ve got, not caring that we’re on the Jumbotron, not caring that millions are watching us on TV. This wonderful, beautiful girl is mine—all mine.
Epilogue
Sasha
So much has happened since that magical night.
I feel the wind brush my dress against the backs of my knees, and I fidget with it, patting it down. I don’t want to flash anybody, but the guys aren’t even paying attention to me. They’re all milling around, eager for the ceremony to begin.
No one more so than Brooks. This day has been circled on his calendar for months, marking the culmination of a lifelong dream. He looks so regal standing there in the glow of the afternoon sunlight. I could stare at him forever.
He turns, catching my gaze and giving me that special smile that’s reserved just for me. It makes me tingle from knowing the depth of emotion that’s behind that look. I feel the tenderness of his love, the heat of his desire, the warmth of his kindness wash over me as I bask in the adoration of those baby blues.
"Sasha, are you ready?"
Andy Rader breaks me out of my trance, causing Brooks’s mouth to curl up across the dugout. He knows the effect he has on me, especially after our return trip to Jamaica. I didn’t think it was possible for us to grow even closer, but we have. It’s like we operate on our own frequency now, oblivious to everyone around us, conversing in our own secret language.
I cross my ankles and try to pull myself together, but images of Brooks’s naked torso fill my mind. I can see the gauzy tent around our bed billowing in the ocean breeze. I can hear the crashing waves mixing with his grunts of passion as he moved above me, my legs wrapped around his waist, bringing him in, filling me up.
He made me wait until he could take me back there again. He wanted to make love to me for the first time under the Caribbean stars. He wouldn’t have it any other way, insisting that it was what he should’ve done the last time we were on the island, when he wanted to sweep me away to some secluded alcove and ravage me until daybreak.
But the second time around, we didn’t have to make do with a sandy beach. Instead, he rented a private villa with a luxurious bedroom a few steps away from the pounding surf. My heart starts to race when I picture him throwing open the bamboo doors to the moonlight while the rotation of the paddle fan cast undulating shadows across his body. The ripple in his shoulder muscles as he braced himself above me, being ever so careful, like I was the most precious thing in the world to him, taking his time, letting me adjust to the fullness of him before striving within me deeper and deeper until I cried out in abandon, his hand finding mine as he followed me there, the intense pleasure leaving us hungry for more.
We didn’t leave the bedroom that often the whole time we were there. I remember making love to him all night and lounging beside him on the beach during the day. I’d never felt so content, so fully satisfied. No one had ever made me feel like that before. But the best thing is that he still does. All it takes is a raised eyebrow or his hand at my waist to reignite that fire he kindled within me. I’m undeniably, irrevocably his. One touch, one look, one word is all it takes to bring me back there, making the sensations I felt then only intensify each time we come together as one.
"The way you two are carrying on, I’m going to need to take a cold shower before I go out there," Andy teases, giving me a sly wink. "I’d say, after this is over, to get a room, but duty calls and lover boy has a game to play."
I blush a few shades redder than Brooks ever does, ducking my head. Everyone in the world knows that we’re dating—that kiss pretty much sealed the deal—but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the attention that comes with being such a high-profile couple. It’s still weird hearing people talk about our love life.
"It’s the first time being in this dugout that I actually feel like a girl," I chuckle, swishing my skirt. "I’m not in uniform. Maybe that’s why. The guys seem to be ignoring me, probably thinking I’m some kind of jinx or something."
"Nah. I think you’re getting them as flustered as that man of yours over there," Andy explains, gesturing behind me. "Scotty’s been eying your legs since the minute you walked out here. The others just aren’t being as blatant about it."
"Oh God, Andy. Don’t be telling me things like that. I have to go out there in front of fifty thousand people, and I don’t want to think that I’ve been reduced to some random piece of eye candy. I thought I had advanced the plight of women beyond that." I twirl around and catch some of the guys looking hurriedly away, dodging my gaze.
"You’re an attractive woman, Sasha Roberts. Of course men are going to notice. Now that you’re not hiding behind a baseball cap and a baggy jersey, they’re bound to appreciate your beauty a whole lot more." He taps me on the head with the rolled-up piece of paper in his hand that contains the remarks he plans to make from the podium behind home plate. "And I think they’re conflicted. They’re sad to see you go, but—"
"I know, so let them ogle me a little before I waltz into the sunset of my retirement years," I laugh, realizing how ridiculous that sounds since I haven’t even turned twenty-five yet.
