One True Thing by Lynne Jaymes Read Free Book Online Page B

Mitch probably thinks I’m an asshole and I have no way to defend myself now. “It’s cool. I like Nina. I just don’t want to see anybody get hurt, that’s all.”
    Mitch considers it for a moment, but I see him relax a little. “Fine,” he starts to walk away. “See you at the game.”
                           
    The fact that Garvin is doing well this season is reflected in the packed stadium this afternoon. The stands are a sea of red and white as fans wave State banners and big foam fingers every time we’re up to bat. Mitch didn’t speak to me very much during warm-ups and I have the sneaking feeling that I can add his friendship to the list of things I’ve fucked up in the past couple of days. Good thing I’m set on focusing on baseball because it looks like that’s all I’m going to have left.
    Rowan walks to the mound, as calm and cool as I’ve ever seen him despite the fact that the bases are loaded and we’re down by one in the top of the ninth. As his stats have improved the past few weeks, not only is Rowan pitching all of our hardest games, but the tutus and the hassling seem to have vanished. Nothing makes gay rumors disappear faster than a hot arm.
    He’s not supposed to pitch today, but this game got out of hand in the last few innings and coach has no choice. Throwing a few practice pitches, he looks in command and he easily shuts down the next three batters with hardly a pitch to spare.
    “Nice work,” I say, holding out my hand as he walks back to the dugout.
    “Your turn,” he says with a smile, slapping my hand as he tosses his glove onto the bench.
    I grab the diamonds in the chain link fence. “Hey, Mitch,” I say as he passes me on the way to the plate, last in our batting order. “Their pitcher’s got a smooth fastball, but there’s a hitch in his high leg when he’s throwing a curve and his control is shit.”
    “Thanks,” he says, giving me a nod.
    “Let’s go Mitch!” I shout from the sidelines, stopping my practice swings to watch the pitcher. Sure enough, his high leg twitches and Mitch stands looking as an outside curve hits the catcher’s mitt for a ball.
    Bat on his shoulder, Mitch waits and sees the straight delivery just as I do, swinging the bat to meet the ball with a loud crack as it sails up the infield line, past the third baseman for a single. Mitch takes off his batting gloves and stuffs them in his back pocket as I walk to the plate. With Mitch on first, I’m the winning run and everybody knows it.
    The crowd settles back down and gets quiet as the ump bends down to sweep off the plate. I take my place in the batter’s box, not even taking practice swings, just shouldering the bat and keeping my eyes steady on the pitcher. When I was a kid, this kind of pressure just about killed me. I couldn’t stand the silence of the crowd as everyone waited to see if you’d choke, the calls from the other dugout as the players tried to screw with your swing or the disappointment in my father’s eyes if I didn’t come through. But now I live for these moments, when everything else fades into the background and it’s just me and a guy with a ball in his hand.
    I don’t wait. I don’t want to give the pitcher any opportunity to get one past me. I can see from his wind up that he’s going to throw a fastball straight down the middle and I’m more than ready for it. I hold my breath, forcing myself not to reach for the ball, but to wait patiently until it’s in just the right spot before I swing. It’s a good hit, I can feel it the second the ball leaves the bat, but I don’t know if it’s enough as I take off running. I barely see the base as I round first on Coach’s call and keep going toward second, Mitch somewhere up ahead of me. I don’t look into the outfield, but glance over at the third base coach whose arm is windmilling in the signal to keep running. Somewhere in the back of my head I can hear the crowd, aware that