34. Cameron
thirty-four
Cameron
The San Diego Sun Rays are no match against us and the winning streak we have found ourselves on, but something about today feels different, and I can’t shake the sense that something monumental is about to happen.
It’s my turn in the pitching rotation to start on the mound, and the nervous energy buzzing through my system has me twitchy. I’m a ballplayer, so of course I’m superstitious. It’s who we are. Some guys don’t wash their socks during a hitting streak—which I find gross as fuck—while others, like me, have pregame rituals that help us get game ready.
I like to go for a run first thing in the morning and wear headphones an hour before the game. There’s a playlist I listen to that helps block out the noise while I read through my pitching notes on the guys I’m likely to face today.
“Are you ready for today, Miller?” Reed McKay, our shortstop, slaps me on the back, knocking my notebook off my lap. He’s been one of my closest friends and a damn good wingman since he joined the team a few years ago.
He’s a good-looking guy with brown hair and blue eyes. We used to kill it in the clubs together when we were out on the prowl. He had been on my ass to hit the clubs with him until he figured out there was a woman in my life. He doesn’t push, but I can tell he’s curious .
I pop out my headphones and answer him. “You know it. I’m ready to turn up the heat.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He rubs his hands together and takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what it is, but it feels like a good day to play some ball.”
“It does,” I agree with a nod. I rub at the side of my hat. “I’ll see you out there, man.”
“Make it quick, Miller. It’s game time.” He wiggles his brows at me and heads out of the locker room.
I pull out my recently acquired talisman and take a seat in front of my locker—my new ritual—staring at the mini polaroid picture Rhys took of me and Talia with his instant camera. I look like a lovesick fool. Talia is sitting on my lap, smiling at the camera, looking so fucking beautiful it hurts. Her hair is free from her usual braids, and she’s wearing that sexy-as-fuck pink sundress that turns me into an animal.
Memories of me bending her over, lifting the soft fabric over her ass, and fucking the shit out of her in it assault my brain.
My dick swells in my cup. I adjust myself, memorizing the look in her eyes. You can’t mistake how happy she looks. Her smile reaches her stunning steel-gray eyes that sparkle in the sun like two gemstones. Me? I’m not looking at the camera. I’m looking at her like she’s the moon and all the stars in the sky.
Talia Romero is all I see. All I think about. If I’m not playing baseball, my mind is on her. It’s been that way since we met.
I flick the edge of the picture I keep tucked into the band inside my hat. I swear I can hear her laugh, smell her sweet floral scent, and feel her warmth on my skin as if she were beside me when I touch the photo. Not only does it make me feel close to her, but I’ve also been on a massive hot streak since I slipped the snapshot in my hat. She’s my good luck charm.
I can’t wait to see Talia tonight. I’m finally back home after being on the road—the hardest ten days of my life. While me and my team have been kicking ass, I can’t deny it’s become increasingly more difficult to be away from Talia.
Sharing a room with her brother doesn’t help either. We have no privacy, so our calls are strictly quick check-ins so I can hear her voice. I miss her so damn much.
A shadow falls over me, and I shove the picture back into my hat before placing it on my head.
“You’re shit at hiding, Miller,” Anson grumbles, taking a seat on the bench beside me.
I look around the locker room, noticing that most of the guys have cleared out and are already on the field warming up before tonight’s game.
“Have you talked to him about her?” It’s been months since he caught me with Talia and told me to talk to Romero.
“No, sir.”
“You don’t strike me as a chicken-shit. Why are you waiting? Shit or get off the pot.”
“I forgot how romantic you are, Coach. Will you please show me your wise ways?”
Anson’s mustache twitches. “I save the pretty words for my wife, Miller. Not for you lot of meatheads.”
A bark of laughter slips out of me. “Fair enough.”
“The way you’re burning a hole in that picture, you need to tell him soon. Why haven’t you?”
“It’s complicated,” I answer, staring down at the floor to avoid Anson’s disappointed gaze.
“That’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard. What are you waiting for?” he prods.
Anson has always been an involved guy. I feel like if I tell him what’s going on, he can help or at least give me some good advice.
I haven’t told a soul about Nico’s accusation. Every time I tried to tell Talia, I just couldn’t get the words out. I’m afraid that once she hears what a piece of crap I am, she’ll never look at me the same and it will be the end of us .
I can’t even bring myself to tell my brothers. It will be rounds of I told you so and endless jokes about my dating life. This will just be another reason for them to think I’m nothing more than a good time. That I can’t be serious about anything aside from baseball.
Fuck it. I need to get this shit off my chest before the game.
“He accused me of sleeping with his girlfriend,” I rush out.
I have wracked my brain, trying to figure out who the mystery woman is. Romero and I don’t exactly run in the same circles. Not even in college. He was two years ahead of me.
Coach Anson catches me off guard and smacks me upside the head. “What the fuck did you do that for?”
“Jesus fuck, Coach.” I rub at the smart. “I didn’t do it. There’s no way. I’ve slept with a lot of women, but sleeping with someone’s girlfriend is a no-go for me.”
“Just their sisters, right?”
I place a hand on my chest, wounded. “Damn, cheap shot.”
“You deserved it.” He lifts his hat and runs a hand through his hair. Up close, the silver around his hairline and temples is more prominent. “When did Romero have a girlfriend? I thought he was worse than you and put his dick in anything that walked.”
“Umm, thanks for the back-handed compliment.” See, this is the shit that has me worried that Talia won’t be able to see past my mistakes.
“Eh, you only have yourself to blame.”
He’s got me there. “I know.”
Anson smooths down his thick mustache, thinking. “We’re hot right now, and as much as I don’t want to fuck up our streak, tell him now. Then maybe you two can move past it and still get us to the playoffs. If it’s not all dead and buried by then, we might as well kiss the trophy goodbye. I’ve seen teams crumble for less. I don’t want that for our organization. We all need a win this season. But if you fuck it up, I’ll trade both your asses off to a farm team in Alaska to play until you two dumb fucks retire.”
“Duly noted. Got any advice for me, Coach? ”
“Just rip off the band-aid and tell him you love her.” Coach stands, knees cracking, and pats my shoulder. He looks down at me with sympathy. “When he punches you—because he will punch you—don’t hit back. Take your lumps like a man, Miller. You owe him that.”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s the top of the eighth, and the Sun Rays are out for blood. We’re up by three thanks to Nico’s two-run homer in the fifth inning.
McKay was right. There’s a vibe in the air tonight, and I’m feeding off it like a hungry man. I’m four batters away from pitching a perfect game, having struck out sixteen and my team taking care of the other seven.
We’re on freaking fire tonight.
With two outs, Pete Jiménez, better known as Papí PJ—ironically, he has a butt-load of kids—steps up to the plate and stares me down. He’s pissed and intimidating as hell, with his black beady eyes and the long scraggly beard.
I rub the side of my hat, where Talia’s picture—my good luck charm—sits flush to my head, and stare back at him, my face a mask. I’m not backing down.
PJ, a lefty hitter, is known for smashing fastballs like paper machete pi?atas at a kid’s birthday party and is dying for me to throw him a meatball. I won’t be. I’m sticking to the plan Turner and I have mapped out. My friend Peej here has fallen for it twice by striking out both his at bats.
It’s time for him to sit the fuck down again.
Nico signals for me to pitch when I’m ready. He doesn’t call my pitches. We haven’t built that rapport yet, not that I mind. He’s all about throwing heat. Typical catcher .
My first pitch lands too high for Nico to frame it. Next, I throw a changeup. It lands with a drop right down the middle, where PJ swings and misses.
Strike one.
I let my eyes drift to the left, where my mom and dad are sitting in the very expensive VIP home-plate seats I gifted them for their anniversary. Dad gives me a nod and wipes two fingers under his chin.
I fight a smile as he calls me to throw a curveball. Growing up, I could always depend on him to be home and outside throwing pitches with me. We’ve spent countless hours together and have created our own shorthanded signals.
Mark Miller knows my game like the back of his hand.
I don’t even have to look at Turner to know he’s calling the same pitch. I let it rip. Jiménez watches my curve as it clocks in at seventy-seven miles per hour, hitting Romero’s glove with a pop.
Strike two. One more.
I don’t miss the smirk on my dad’s face as I get back into my stance. Index and middle finger almost touching between the seams, I grip the bottom seam with my thumb for another curveball. Winding up, knee to chest, I let the ball fly—palm mostly up—down the hill. It goes low and left toward PJ, who reads the ball, steps out, and slices the ball.
Crack.
Line drive. Everything happens all at once. Blinding pain blooms on my right leg as the ball bounces off my knee back towards home. I stagger back and hit the ground with a whoosh. The fall knocks the wind out of me, but from my periphery, I see Nico charge and slide for the ball. He throws to first, just in time to get PJ out at first for the inning to end.
Fuck, that was lucky.
Nico hovers over me. “I just saved your ass, Miller.”
“Thanks, man,” I croak. I drop my head back against the ground and wait for the air to return to my lungs .
“You alright, Miller?” Reed McKay, my shortstop, leans over with a smile.
“Help him the fuck up, you morons, before Anson calls medical.” Heath Erikson, our second baseman, slides his arms under my armpits and helps me stand. “Are you alright to stand, Cam?”
“Yeah, I’m good. The fallback hurt worse than the knee.” I shake off the pain radiating in my leg. I’m definitely going to have a bruise, but my heart is pumping massive amounts of adrenaline through my system, numbing my senses, so I can’t feel a thing. Tomorrow will be a different story.
Blake Jensen, our third baseman, throws his arm over my shoulder. “You should thank Papí PJ for being allergic to cardio. Fucker could have made it if he spent more time on the treadmill and not balls deep in his wife.”
We all laugh as we walk towards the dugout.
I run my fingers through my hair. “Where’s my hat?”
“Here.” Romero aggressively shoves my hat into my chest. Without a word, he turns and steps into the dugout to take off his gear.
My heart races as I check the inside to make sure my picture is still inside and hidden from view. The top corner pokes out, but otherwise it’s still concealed. My worry recedes for a second until I look up and find Nico staring daggers at me.
Fuck, did he see the picture?
My heart beats in my throat. Fletcher, our left fielder, hits the ball, and I shake off the unease curling in my stomach as the crowd goes crazy. I’m not hitting tonight, so I take a seat on the bench and focus on my notes for the next three hitters on the Sun Rays, repeating my game plan in my head.
When I step on the mound for the ninth inning, I drown out the sounds of the stadium and focus on the batters. I just need three outs, and I’ll have accomplished something very few pitchers have in their lifetime.
I rub at my good luck charm through the side of my hat and take a deep breath .
I easily strike out the first batter. The second batter gets a piece of my slider and pops up behind home plate. Lucky for me, Romero saves my ass again and catches the foul ball.
Two outs, one to go.
The last batter steps up, digging into the dirt. Nico signals that he’s ready, and with an exhale, I let it rip. My opponent is a fast ball chaser, and he does exactly what I want him to, missing three strikes in a row.
Game over.
I did it. No one has pitched a perfect game in years. I’m speechless.
The crowd goes insane.
All I care about is looking for my dad, and I swear I can see him wipe a tear off his cheek as my mom jumps up and down. Pride and so much love shines back at me as he grins, clapping and cheering his head off.
I couldn’t be more grateful that he was here to see me play on the greatest day of my career. All of this wouldn’t have been attainable without him by my side. I point at him and tap my chest. I watch as he returns the gesture before I am tackled to the ground by my teammates.
The only thing that would make this moment better would be my girl sitting in the stands next to my parents. I can’t wait to celebrate with her tonight.
When I stand and the celebrations have died down, I come face to face with Nico. He spits fire as he steps in front of me and places a hand on my chest, gripping my jersey in his fist.
“Why the fuck is there a picture of you and my sister in your hat?” he shouts in my face.
My stomach drops out my ass. That earlier sense of dread comes back full force and blooms into full-on panic because now I know for sure he saw inside my hat. “Calm down, Nico. It’s not what you think. ”
This is the worst possible time for him to find out about me and Talia. Having this conversation in front of the entire team, sports news camera crews, and fifty-five thousand cheering fans is a terrible bad idea.
Coach called it. I’m about to get punched.
“What I think is that you’ve been fucking my sister behind my back.”
“Don’t,” I warn him, clenching my fists at my side.
Reed walks up and pulls my shirt from Nico’s grasp. “Dude, chill the fuck out. There are cameras around.”
Romero throws his head back in maniacal laughter. “You want me to chill the fuck out?” He points at me and says, “I want this guy to stay the fuck away from my sister.” He jabs his finger into my chest.
“What the hell is going on?” Our first baseman, Lance Taylor, grabs the collar of my jersey and yanks me back.
“Nothing. Stay out of it.” I shrug him off and face Nico. Take your lumps.
Nico turns to Lance. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. This piece of shit is fucking my sister.”
“Whoa. Cam, what the fuck?” Lance’s eyes bug out of his head.
McKay steps in front of Nico. He looks me in the eye. “Tell me it’s more than fucking.” I nod. “Alright, I got your back, bro.”
Lance is still fighting to hold Nico back as I step forward and ready myself for the inevitable. “I won’t stay away from her, Nico. I love her.”
Nico’s face turns fire engine red, and he breaks free from Lance. He rears his arm back and punches me square in the jaw. My lip bursts with a pop, and blood spurts everywhere as stars blur my vision. He lands another one on my ribs.
Before Nico can land a third punch, Taylor wraps his arms around Nico’s chest and pulls him back.
Romero fights harder against Lance, trying to break free. “Let me go,” he screams. “I’ll fucking kill you, Miller. Why’d you do it? This some sick sort of revenge? You get off on fucking your teammates’ sisters? Get your fill then toss her aside like every other cleat-chaser you fuck?”
“Now you’re just trying to piss me off. I said don’t fucking talk about her like that.” I rein in the fury that burns in my veins, rearing for the fight Nico wants.
“I can talk about her any way I want,” Nico taunts. He lifts his hands and beckons me to hit him. He wants to have it out.
I refuse to give him what he wants. Talia would be pissed, and the last thing I want is to hurt her.
“The fuck you can. You’re talking about my woman. Your fucking sister. Talia isn’t just some girl. I love her, man. I’m in love with her.”
“You have everything.” Nico stops struggling and throws Lance off him. He points at me, his face raging. “I’m fucking done with you. And her. You can have her.” His voice cracks, and I don’t think he’s referring to Talia, but it kills something inside me anyway.
“Nico,” I call out.
“No! Just stay the fuck away from me.” He rushes into the dugout and down the runway to the locker room, grabbing bats and helmets on his way as he throws them against the wall.
Lance follows as storm Romero hits the locker room in full force.
My chest is tight, and I feel like throwing up. This is all my fault.
“Fuck!” I yell at the sky, eyes pinched tight.
What the hell am I going to do now? I can’t go into the locker room. Romero needs space to cool off. I don’t want to make things worse.
I turn to McKay. “I need to get the fuck out of here.”
“I got you, brother. But we have a problem.” He nods behind me.
I already know what I’m going to see when I turn around .
About twenty cameras pointed in my direction. A variety of sportscasters stand back, frothing at the mouth for the story that just unfolded before them. They may have caught the entire fight on video—a video that is going to be played and watched by over millions of people—but they don’t have the details.
Anson walks over and slaps me on the back. “I’m proud of you for taking the hits, Miller, but now it’s time for damage control.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. My body is screaming at me to run and get to Talia before Nico does. I don’t want her to have to face him alone. I’m the one he’s mad at. It should be me taking his wrath, not her.
Anson grabs my arm. “After. Business first. McKay?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Make sure Nico is gone by the time Miller is done with post-game interviews.”
“On it.”
I watch Reed disappear into the dugout. I owe him for backing me up. Lance too.
Anson points at the camera crews. “No comment. Talk about the game. You got it?”
“Got it.” I crack my neck, wipe the blood from my mouth, and plaster on the Cameron Miller smile I use for the cameras. “Time to spin.”
And that’s what I do. Not for me or for Nico. For Talia.
Being the man she needs me to be and protecting her is all that matters now.