Get My Head in the Game
Cole
Christina never responded to my text. The one where I’d asked her not to go out with Logan. I basically begged her, my heart aching as I willed myself not to puke up my guts in the parking lot where I’d apparently just missed her. I was more vulnerably honest in that single text message than I’d ever allowed myself to be. I wondered if she realized that. Maybe if she knew just how twisted up I was inside, she wouldn’t have ignored it.
Maybe she wouldn’t have ignored me.
It had been three days. I knew she’d read the message right after I sent it, but she never said a thing. I’d waited over an hour before I finally let myself fall asleep that night, assuming that when I woke up the next morning, there would be a text waiting.
But there wasn’t.
And it fucking killed me. I could text her again. Hell, I’d thought about it a hundred times, but my pride would shut it down every time I got close. If she wanted to talk to me, she would have responded. Or called. Or done any-damn-thing.
But she didn’t, and so I couldn’t either.
It was like she’d opened the door just a little by showing up at the baseball party, and now, I couldn’t stop thinking about her or get her out of my head. Wherever I had her compartmentalized had been blown to hell and back. I was going crazy, trying to stay away from her and not talk to her. Or at least, I felt like I was. And once you tossed my nemesis into the mix, I could barely focus on anything else when all I should be focused on was my game.
After taking infield, I hustled into the locker room to take a piss and lace up my cleats one more time before the game started. Baseball players were superstitious, and apparently, I had some shit with my shoes. There was absolutely no rhyme or reason for it, but every game, you could find me pulling out my laces and tying them back in, nice and tight. Sometimes, I only did it once. Sometimes, I would do it as many as three times. But I always did it.
As I laced them up, I did my best to keep an eye out for Logan LeDouche. If he knew what was good for him, he would stay outside in the dugout while I was going through my pregame ritual in the locker room. I was afraid that I might snap his scrawny little head off his neck if he showed it around me before game time. And even though it annoyed me to no end, it was probably a damn good thing that Mac knew what was going on. I wasn’t really in the state of mind where I should be left unsupervised even though I refused to admit that fact to anyone other than myself.
I pushed to a stand, my laces done. “You don’t have to follow me around,” I growled, and Mac shot me a bored look.
“I’m not,” was all he said in response.
He hadn’t even tried to come up with a bullshit lie or excuse. Chance suddenly appeared, and they both fell in step behind me like my own personal shadows.
“Are you two on double duty?” I spat at them both even though they didn’t deserve my anger.
“Don’t be an asshole,” Chance chided me, and I bristled, wanting to put the sophomore in his place. “Mac filled me in. We can see what Logan’s trying to do to you. And it’s clearly working.”
“It’s not working. Both of you, shut up.” I swatted my gloved hand through the air in their direction, hoping I’d hit one or both of them as we walked through the underground tunnel toward the dugout, but I missed.
Chance reached for my shoulder, his grip tight, as he forced me to stop. Leaning close, he spoke quiet enough that no one could overhear but loud enough that I could, “It’s working. It’s written all over your face. He’s in your head. It’s what he wants, Cole. He wants you rattled.”
I shook Chance’s arm off and snarled at them both. “He won’t beat me. Not on or off the field. I’m not a rookie. I know what’s at stake. Stop trying to babysit me.”
The metal spikes of my cleats echoed in the tunnel as I left them behind and waited to hear the two of them start walking again. I appreciated them looking out for me, but I also meant it; Logan wouldn’t win, and I didn’t need a fucking babysitter.
The sound of the crowd grew louder as I neared the entrance to the dugout, the music blaring, and I wondered for a split second if Christina was here. She hadn’t attended any games yet this season. And trust me, I knew. Closing my eyes for a breath, I chastised myself and pushed thoughts of her away. My teammates were walking around the dugout, grabbing cups of water and hitting their fists into their gloves, making loud popping sounds. I walked up to the edge and leaned against the railing, watching the other team wrap up their infield practice.
Spitting onto the dirt, I glanced to my right and caught Logan eying me. He stared at me with a wicked grin on his face like he was moments away from taking away everything I had ever loved. I flipped him off and kept eye contact. His expression morphed into something I couldn’t quite read, and I pretended that I couldn’t care less about it. This team was mine. This game was mine. Center field was mine. Christina was mine.
Dammit.
“Let’s go,” Coach yelled, and we ran out onto the field before huddling up in a tight circle.
The announcer started speaking animatedly into the microphone, but we listened to coach giving us a quick pregame speech.
As a team, we shouted, “Win!” before sprinting to our positions to await the national anthem.
I stood in center field, next to the other two outfielders, my hat in my hand and my head bowed as the anthem played. And no matter how hard I tried to sing along in my head or focus on the upcoming game, Christina’s face kept reappearing in my mind. Chance had been right; I was rattled, and I needed to fix it before I fucked it all up.
The first half of the inning went by quick. Our pitcher was on fire, and he struck out all three batters. Three up, three down. Glancing once more at the lineup, I saw my name in the fifth position. I was half-surprised that Coach hadn’t dropped me down to eighth or ninth in the batting order. I grabbed a helmet and my bat and sat at the end of the bench, mentally giving myself a pep talk.
After a minute, I stood up and watched the pitcher. I kept track of his pitches and the way he moved depending on the pitch he was about to throw as he warmed up. Reading body language was one of a hitter’s best weapons. That, and learning how a pitcher reacted to a batter and his ability. Nine times out of ten, you knew exactly which pitch was coming for you, but that didn’t mean you would be able to hit it.
We took an early lead, thanks to a leadoff home run by Chance Carter. That kid was a fucking amazing ballplayer. I high-fived him when he came into the dugout with the rest of the team before focusing my attention back on the opposing team’s pitcher, wondering if he was the type to lose control or pull it together after giving up a home run so early on. Pitchers were notoriously the most mental cases on any baseball team.
Chance had apparently pissed him off. And the kid threw better when he was angry, not worse.
Good to know, I thought to myself.
We had one out and one guy on base as I made my way to the on-deck circle. The crowd was loud, cheering and screaming, and I found myself wanting to do something I never did.
I wanted to look in the stands.
It was an unspoken rule among baseball players. You kept your head in the game, and you never looked in the crowd. I’d never even been tempted to do it before this moment. And I had no idea why the pull was so strong, but I gave in to it.