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Authors: Tracy March
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stepped into the on-deck circle and practiced his swing with a weight on his
bat, keeping an eye on the action of the game. The Nationals needed this win against
the Braves, and usually the first team that scored ended up winning. The game had
been hitless through two and a half innings until the guys at the top of the lineup
got a couple of knocks, and were now on first and third with one out. Momentum was
going their way.
But the batter at the plate struck out. A fair number of Braves fans cheered and started
that stupid tomahawk chop. Cole checked the pine tar on his bat, tapped the weight
off onto the ground, and headed toward the batter’s box. He tried not to let the crowd
distract him during games, and he rarely looked up at the Diamond Club seats where
players’ friends and families sat.
Most of his friends were on the bases, in the dugout, or in the bullpen, anyway. And
they were pretty much his family, too. Whether he looked or not, he could bank on
Mack being up there in the Diamond Club seats, sometimes with his wife, Brenda, and
often with Frank. He was always nervous when they were there and watching—it was a
different kind of pressure. The eyes of a crowd of forty thousand didn’t affect him
like the eyes of the people he wanted to impress most.
But today he felt different—like he needed a boost of confidence since he’d blown
it with Liza last night and botched Frank’s plan. Deciding it was worth the pressure
of Mack’s gaze to get a little reassurance, Cole glanced up into the crowd and quickly
located Mack. But the woman sitting next to him wasn’t Brenda.
Liza?
The sun caught her hair just right, making it shimmer like dark copper. She stared
straight at him and smiled. His heart hammered faster than the rhythm of his country-song
walk-up music blaring in the background. He couldn’t believe she’d changed her mind,
but he wanted to run up into the stands and kiss her.
He was normally serious when he came to the plate, but this time he busted out a hell-yeah
grin and winked at her. He took his stance and faced the pitcher, ready to knock that
baseball out into the parking lot.
After two swinging strikes and one ball in the dirt, Cole got a fastball down the
middle. He smacked it off the screws, tossed his bat, and sprinted for first, watching
the ball ricochet off the right-field wall. As he rounded first and headed to second,
his teammate scored, and the Nats took the lead.
Thanks to a hot redhead.
Standing on the bag at second, Cole took a deep breath and scanned the cheering crowd.
He loved this team, and he loved these fans. This park was like his home. Maybe Frank’s plan is going to work.
The prediction proved to be true—the first team that had scored had won. The Nats
took it four-one, and were one step closer to the division title, just as Cole had
told Liza they would be.
After the game, the celebrating, and the media interviews, he hit the clubhouse and
showered in a hurry, anxious to get to Liza. One of his smart-ass teammates had bought
thirty copies of today’s Washington Post and plastered his and Liza’s pictures in the shape of a big heart on the clubhouse
wall. This morning, he could barely stand to look at the photo of them together—much
less thirty of them—or good-naturedly take the teasing from the guys. But now he had
hope, and his teammate’s prank had quickly made the start of his fake relationship
seem legit. He couldn’t wait to see her again, so that made it feel kind of legit, too. He snapped a picture of the display and posted it on Twitter.
Cole Collins @ColeCollins
@LizaSutherland Nats clubhouse art. #epiccollage
Mack texted and told him he’d set Liza up in the Nats’ family room, and Cole found
her there. She sat on the edge of a leather armchair, her back to him, watching the Nats Extra postgame show on one of the flat screens. He hung in the background for a
bat, keeping an eye on the action of the game. The Nationals needed this win against
the Braves, and usually the first team that scored ended up winning. The game had
been hitless through two and a half innings until the guys at the top of the lineup
got a couple of knocks, and were now on first and third with one out. Momentum was
going their way.
But the batter at the plate struck out. A fair number of Braves fans cheered and started
that stupid tomahawk chop. Cole checked the pine tar on his bat, tapped the weight
off onto the ground, and headed toward the batter’s box. He tried not to let the crowd
distract him during games, and he rarely looked up at the Diamond Club seats where
players’ friends and families sat.
Most of his friends were on the bases, in the dugout, or in the bullpen, anyway. And
they were pretty much his family, too. Whether he looked or not, he could bank on
Mack being up there in the Diamond Club seats, sometimes with his wife, Brenda, and
often with Frank. He was always nervous when they were there and watching—it was a
different kind of pressure. The eyes of a crowd of forty thousand didn’t affect him
like the eyes of the people he wanted to impress most.
But today he felt different—like he needed a boost of confidence since he’d blown
it with Liza last night and botched Frank’s plan. Deciding it was worth the pressure
of Mack’s gaze to get a little reassurance, Cole glanced up into the crowd and quickly
located Mack. But the woman sitting next to him wasn’t Brenda.
Liza?
The sun caught her hair just right, making it shimmer like dark copper. She stared
straight at him and smiled. His heart hammered faster than the rhythm of his country-song
walk-up music blaring in the background. He couldn’t believe she’d changed her mind,
but he wanted to run up into the stands and kiss her.
He was normally serious when he came to the plate, but this time he busted out a hell-yeah
grin and winked at her. He took his stance and faced the pitcher, ready to knock that
baseball out into the parking lot.
After two swinging strikes and one ball in the dirt, Cole got a fastball down the
middle. He smacked it off the screws, tossed his bat, and sprinted for first, watching
the ball ricochet off the right-field wall. As he rounded first and headed to second,
his teammate scored, and the Nats took the lead.
Thanks to a hot redhead.
Standing on the bag at second, Cole took a deep breath and scanned the cheering crowd.
He loved this team, and he loved these fans. This park was like his home. Maybe Frank’s plan is going to work.
The prediction proved to be true—the first team that had scored had won. The Nats
took it four-one, and were one step closer to the division title, just as Cole had
told Liza they would be.
After the game, the celebrating, and the media interviews, he hit the clubhouse and
showered in a hurry, anxious to get to Liza. One of his smart-ass teammates had bought
thirty copies of today’s Washington Post and plastered his and Liza’s pictures in the shape of a big heart on the clubhouse
wall. This morning, he could barely stand to look at the photo of them together—much
less thirty of them—or good-naturedly take the teasing from the guys. But now he had
hope, and his teammate’s prank had quickly made the start of his fake relationship
seem legit. He couldn’t wait to see her again, so that made it feel kind of legit, too. He snapped a picture of the display and posted it on Twitter.
Cole Collins @ColeCollins
@LizaSutherland Nats clubhouse art. #epiccollage
Mack texted and told him he’d set Liza up in the Nats’ family room, and Cole found
her there. She sat on the edge of a leather armchair, her back to him, watching the Nats Extra postgame show on one of the flat screens. He hung in the background for a
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