The good news was that she had gotten the first out, at least.
She was still shaky, but worked the next batter somewhat more competently. Low outside four-seamer, high inside two-seamer, in on the fists, out at the edge of the zone. But, he walked on four pitches—two of which she would have sworn were strikes. Damn good strikes, even. But, glaring at the umpire wasn’t going to help—and since Marcus had taken a few seconds to adjust one of his shin guards—with his lips moving—she assumed that he was expressing a strong opinion about the strike zone to the guy.
The next batter looked supremely cocky, and when her first pitch was called a ball, he grinned out at her.
“Move in a few steps,” he said. “Might be easier for you.”
Which she found far more infuriating than she should. And she had also forgotten to check the runner, who stole second so effortlessly that it was downright embarrassing.
Her next pitch skidded into the dirt. Marcus was able to block it, so the damn runner didn’t take third—but, it was a close call. Too close.
Marcus wanted the next one in on the hands, but it got away from her and hit the batter in the thigh.
“Ow,” the guy said, and laughed. “That tickles.”
She knew he was just trying to get a rise out of her—and, damn it, he was succeeding.
The cleanup hitter was so eager to face her that he practically ran to the batter’s box. Could hardly wait to hit a three-run homer off her, apparently.
Which seemed all too likely to happen.
It was tempting to look up at the owner’s box, to see if the GMs had their heads in their hands, or anything similarly demoralizing—and even more tempting to scan the crowd for her mother and Theo. At the moment, she really wanted her mommy.
Marcus trudged back out to the mound with yet another new baseball.
Because the bad mojo was everywhere.
“Is that son of a bitch ever going to call a strike?” she asked.
Marcus shrugged. “He’s squeezing you, so what? Start pitching, Jill.”
Which pissed her off enough so that her first pitch to the cleanup hitter was definitely at least ninety-three miles an hour, and she put it right on the black, where Marcus perfectly framed it—and the god-damn umpire called it a ball.
She wasn’t going to get mad. It wasn’t going to help, if she got mad.
And she wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the task at hand, of course, so she absolutely did not notice that most of the crowd sounded unhappy, frustrated, and disappointed. Or that the guys in the visiting dugout were laughing and taunting and catcalling.
The two-seamer had some good late movement tonight, and the guy fouled it down the third base side. Marcus and Geoff both raced over there, and Geoff almost fell into the stands, but made a great, off-balance catch.
“Two down,” he said, and flipped the ball to her. “Piece of cake, Cafferty.”
Yep. She was almost out of the inning. Could go sit in the dugout, and put a towel over her head—or maybe dunk said head into the Gatorade container for a while.
Except for the part where she walked the next hitter on five pitches—three of which looked perfect to her. But, the bases were loaded now, and this was all on the verge of getting even uglier.
What a totally awesome debut. A dream come true. Women everywhere must be feeling so proud and empowered.
And here came Marcus again, starting to look a little weary.
She bent to pick up the rosin bag, bounced it on the back of her right forearm a few times, and then—to her own amazement—spit violently into the dirt.
Marcus blinked. “Did you just spit?”
On national television, no less. “Weak moment,” she said grimly. And her mother must be cringing.
“Nothing personal,” he said, “but it’s really not a good look for you, Jill.”
Maybe not, but the urge had been truly irresistible. “Just give me the damn ball,” she said.
Now—oh, hell—her manager was strolling out of the dugout. Not the pitching coach. The manager. Was he going to yank her out of the game, in the first inning? Jesus, what a debacle.
She turned enough to glance at the bullpen, and no one was warming up yet—but, a couple of them had started moving around, and one guy was even stretching.
Not a good sign.
“This isn’t exactly a made-for-TV movie, is it?” Adler asked, once he had gotten to the mound.
More like a horror show. She shook her head. “No, sir, I’m afraid not.”
“Wouldn’t have pegged you to crack under the pressure, though,” he said.
Neither would she—indicating that they had both severely misjudged her psyche. The infielders had all wandered over now, and were standing in a little cluster behind them. The second baseman, Diaz, spoke almost no English, but Raffy seemed to be translating for him.
“You want me to pull the plug?” Adler asked. “You can hit the showers, call it a night, rethink your entire life?”
God, no. She shook her head.
“Well, then, maybe you should throw some strikes,” he said mildly.
Easy for him to say. “I am throwing strikes,” she said. “That—” She couldn’t think of a non-profane word to use. “That person isn’t calling them.”
And, right on cue, the umpire showed up.
“You all plan on breaking up this little tea party anytime soon?” he asked.
“Not until someone serves the cucumber sandwiches,” Dimitri said.
The umpire, however, was not amused. “Did you see her spit?” he asked her manager.
Adler nodded. “I did. It was pretty awful.”
“Disgusting,” Geoff said, and grinned.
“I damn near ran her, right then and there,” the umpire said.
He couldn’t throw her out of the game for spitting, could he? At least, not as long as she didn’t spit on him.
Which, at the moment, she was considering.
Now, the infield umpire came over. “Was the game called, and nobody told me?”
Everyone was just hilarious tonight. She gritted her teeth.
“We were talking about her spitting,” the home plate umpire said.
“Oh, that was gross,” the other umpire said, looking very amused. “Never expected to see that. I almost lost my dinner.”
Were they kidding? “I’m a professional baseball player,” Jill said. Was she? “Or, anyway, theoretically. And spitting is a time-honored tradition.”
“Please be quiet, Cafferty,” Adler said, and then turned to the home plate umpire with a bland smile. “Calling things pretty tight this evening, Joseph.”
The home plate umpire shrugged. “Not my fault. Tell her to throw strikes.”
She wasn’t going to spit again, but it was so tempting.
Adler nodded. “I suggested that, but maybe it would be nice to have a zone bigger than a postage stamp.”
“Tell her to throw strikes,” the umpire said gruffly, and scowled at her. “Spit again, and you’re out of here.”
Yeah, fine, whatever. She gave him a very terse nod.
“Throw strikes,” Adler said, and went back to the dugout.
Well, what incredibly helpful advice. If only she had thought of that.
Bases loaded. In the very first inning, of her very first game.
And the front office was probably trying to figure out whether they could nullify her contract somehow. Maybe a morals clause—or a decorum clause, if there was such a thing.
The next batter was looking quite happy to be facing a rattled and sublimely incompetent pitcher. It was hard to be offended, since she would feel exactly the same way, if she were in his position.
She paused to check the bases—the loaded bases—and several of her teammates promptly spit, and laughed. Because baseball players were nothing, if not reliably goofy.
She managed to throw a strike—a good one, sneaky fast, right on the inside corner—so, the batter swung at the next pitch, and sent a sharp grounder up the middle, which she didn’t manage to get anywhere near.
Terrific. That meant two runs, and she was a complete—except the shy second baseman streaked over, flicked it backhanded from his glove to Raffy without missing a beat—and that was the third out.
What a great play! And he’d made it look easy.
She was so relieved that she intercepted him on his way off the field and couldn’t stop herself from giving him a truly heartfelt hug.
He looked horrified, and extricated himself, speaking so rapidly in Spanish that she only managed to catch a few phrases, most of which were along the lines of “Holy Mother of God!”
So, she backed away from him, raising her hands apologetically—but, still, that had been a big league play. She was practically in love with him, for making that play. Deeply in love.
It felt as though a huge weight had lifted from her shoulders, and she suddenly felt so cheerful, that she almost wanted to bounce into the dugout.
She paused in front of Adler, waiting for his reaction.
He looked at her for a few seconds, with about eight expressions moving across his face, before settling on a small frown.
“Don’t hug the infielders,” he said. “They hate that.”
Seemed that way, yeah. “I won’t, sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good.” He motioned towards Sawyer. “See if you can teach her something, Dave, before she has to go back out there.”
Was it her imagination, or did Sawyer look pessimistic about that?
The dugout was pretty boisterous, with a lot of guys giving Diaz high fives and fist bumps, but since she hadn’t exactly earned any of her own, there was something of an awkward silence as she made her way to the bench. But, really, what could any of them say after a debut inning like that?
Looked like she was going to need to set the tone. “So,” she said, as she picked up a towel to wipe off her face. “I have a no-hitter going. How about that?”
Most of them laughed—even some of the ones who really didn’t want her here—and she felt a little more weight leave her shoulders.
Then, in almost perfect unison, at least eight of them spit on the dugout floor.
“It was a glorious moment,” she said. “Play of the Day, no doubt.”
There were some more laughs, and then, guys started going about the business of getting Gatorade, putting on batting helmets, and the like.
She sat down next to Marcus, who looked a lot more hot and tired than players usually did after half an inning.
“I got four grey hairs during that,” she said. “How about you?”
“More like forty,” he said.
Usually, she just slipped a jacket over her left arm between innings, but Sofia came over with a moist hot pack, swiftly strapping it around her shoulder with a thick ACE bandage.
“How’s the arm feel?” she asked.
“Inept,” Jill said. “Confused. Uncertain.”
Sofia looked taken aback. “Are any of those things painful?” she asked, after a pause.
“It’s a little death of the soul—but, physically, no,” Jill said.
Now, Sofia was the one who looked tired. “I think you would have been a lot happier at Stanford.”
No doubt. “I’m incredibly happy,” Jill said, and gestured towards Marcus. “I’m sitting here with my new bestest pal in the entire world, and I’m on television, and—really, could I ask for anything more?”
“Unh-hunh,” Sofia said, and went to lean against the dugout railing and watch the game.
Some of the manic energy was fading away, and she looked at Marcus. “That inning was pretty abysmal.”
He nodded. “I would have said putrid—but, abysmal works.”
That was about the size of it, yeah.
Sawyer was, indeed, an avid details guy and sabermetrician, because he sat down on her other side with spray charts and diagrams and statistical models. He started giving her extensive advice, some of which she actually managed to take in.
Although, in the end, didn’t it all really come down to “throw some damn strikes”?
In their half of the first, the guys scored three runs—maybe the over-the-top hoopla was making the other pitcher nervous, too—and so, she went back out to the mound with a cushion, and the ability to breathe almost all the way down to her diaphragm.
A lazy pop-up to left, and then another walk, but a quick double play took care of that, and she did not hug Diaz, even though he caught Raffy’s toss, spun, leaped over the sliding runner, and threw to first with astonishing grace. The third inning was also relatively smooth—including her first strikeout, on the curve Sawyer had promised she could throw, if she had two outs and two strikes on a hitter. Then, since she was at sixty-three pitches, she was done for the night.
She went back to the quiet clubhouse with Sofia, where she was stretched and massaged and bundled up with ice, and then pedaled a stationary bike for a little while, before returning to the dugout to watch the rest of the game.
Which they won, six to four. She hadn’t helped much, but at least she hadn’t hurt the team, either.
She went out to the infield and lined up to high-five her teammates, including quite a few whose names she still didn’t know—and several of them, including Owen and two relief pitchers, made a point of avoiding her hand entirely. Which was disappointing, but not exactly shocking.
At least half of the crowd was still in the stadium, and a line of police officers, security guards, and ushers had moved into a ring around home plate and up past the dugouts on either side. She couldn’t see her mother or Theo, or her aunt and uncle, but she was pretty sure that Keith and some of the other National Guard members were in a group up by the third base concourse.
The grounds crew had assembled a stand, with several chairs and a rectangular table—which was being covered by a cloth with the ESPN logo all over it, and television techies were snaking thick wires all over the place, and setting up lights and microphones. Jeremiah—and the intern sidekick whose name kept slipping her mind—were standing nearby, watching the preparations, and when Jeremiah looked over at her, she nodded, so he would know she was aware that she had Media Responsibilities.
“I was two for four,” Scott said, coming up next to her. “Think they’re waiting for me?”
If only. “Well, if you want, you can go out there and talk about how fabulous you think I am,” she said. “They would probably eat it up.”
He shrugged. “Fork over ten dollars, Three, and you have a deal.”
That would be pretty good bang for her buck.
Most of her teammates had escaped to the clubhouse, and there were only a few guys left in the dugout, including Hector and Dimitri—who both seemed to be enjoying the hell out of what was unfolding on the field, and Marcus, who was packing his catching gear into a Pirates bag.
It occurred to her that she probably looked a little bedraggled, so she used her hands to smooth her hair, put her cap on more neatly, and swiped on some lipstick from the tube in her back left pocket.
“Oh, no, you did not just do that,” Dimitri said.
Yes, she had, and yes, she carried it in her back pocket during games, so that it would be handy. Lip gloss, too, which she was now applying. “Television lights are tough,” she said. “I really don’t want to look too terrible.”
He studied her briefly. “You look all right. I mean, I’ve certainly seen worse.”
A tepid assessment—which about matched the way she had pitched tonight.
Scott laughed. “Really, dude? Way to go! That’s going to be a nice boost of confidence for her.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Dimitri said defensively. “She looks fine. I mean, are you all bent out of shape, Cafferty?”
“Well, I’m maybe feeling weepy,” she said, and gulped. “But, I’m trying to hold it together.”
Dimitri smiled nervously.
“Hey, if you ask me, you look hot,” Hector said. “Go get ’em, tiger!”
Okay, she liked that assessment much better.
The interview area seemed to be just about set up now, and Jeremiah came over.
“The networks want you first,” he said. “And both GMs are going to be up there with you. Then, we’ve agreed to a small presser with the rest of them, down in the main conference room.”
It sounded like all of that was going to take forever, but she nodded cooperatively.
“We’ll try to wrap it up pretty quickly, so you can go see your family,” he said, “but it’s a big night, you know?”
That was the rumor, yeah. So, she nodded again. “Sure, no problem,” she said. “But, this’ll die down soon, right? I mean, we’re not going to need a press conference after every game, are we?”
Jeremiah shrugged. “I honestly have no idea—we’re just feeling our way along. I assume it’ll mostly be on nights you pitch, and at every new venue, when the team is on the road.”
She had chosen this career, so it didn’t make sense to complain—even though she was tired, and hungry, and really wanted a shower.
But, yeah, the damn circus was in town—and the animals needed to be fed.