Free Switch Hitter by Roz Lee

plate umpire signal a foul ball.
    “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, retracing his steps back to second base.
    Full count. Hit the damn ball, asshole.
    Again, poised on the balls of his feet, ready to run, he watched, anticipated, planned for every possible scenario.
    The next pitch was better, the batter swung, got more of the bat on the ball. There was no time to waste. He ran. Seeing the third base coach wave him on, he called on every ounce of power he could, sliding across home plate a fraction of a second before the catcher tagged him.
    “Safe!” The umpire shouted.
    He popped up, smiling. They were one run away from a tie game, with the tying run was on base. They might just pull off a win yet.
    Wedging himself in along the dugout fence, he followed the action. When Sean stole second base, he pumped his fist in the air and cheered his teammate on. A solid base hit would get most runners across home plate from second base. Even Flannery, with his previous injuries, should be able to make it.
    Next up to bat was the right fielder, Jake Riley. There was a reason he was batting eighth, one rung above the pitcher. He couldn’t hit for shit. Crossing his fingers, Bent leaned over the railing in support of the second weakest batter on the team. Around him, he could feel the tension from his teammates. Everyone wanted to win, but they’d settle for getting the tying run across home plate.
    Wade could hit. He just didn’t do it very often, even less in clutch situations. You couldn’t ask for a better right fielder though.
    The count escalated to no balls, two strikes in a heartbeat. Leave it to the pitcher to find his control now, or maybe Riley was swinging at pitches he shouldn’t be. It was hard to tell from where he stood.
    The pitcher set. Bent held his breath. It looked like a good pitch. The batter thought so, too. He swung. Connected. The ball zipped past the short stop’s glove. Sean was off and running, but he had to dodge the short stop who had stumbled in his effort to waylay the ball. Precious nanoseconds ticked by while the left fielder ran in, scooped up the ball then threw it to third base.
    The result was a cluster fuck. Unable to continue on to third base, Sean turned back to second, only to be cut off there, forcing him toward third again. Bent dropped to the dugout floor, watching the disaster unfold from there.
    Fuck.
    Back and forth, the ball went between players as the opposing team squeezed Sean into an impossible box before tagging him out. Game over. Five game winning streak—over.
    It wasn’t the first game they’d ever lost, and it wouldn’t be the last, either. The locker room was quieter than it would have been had they won, but the players were used to the you-win-some, you-lose-some nature of the game. Many found things to smile or laugh about still, including Sean Fucking Flannery.
    For reasons Bent didn’t want to examine, the sight of him joking around, accepting good-natured ribbing for getting caught in a rundown between bases, made his blood boil. Clenching his fists at his sides, he tried to reason with himself.
    Calm down. It’s not the fucking end of the world. He screwed up. It’s not like you haven’t done it. Shit happens. Forget it and move on.
    Except, he couldn’t forget it. The more Sean laughed and smiled, the more he wanted to punch his lights out.
    By the time the team arrived at the restaurant where they were obliged to eat dinner as guests of one of their biggest sponsors, most of his teammates had forgotten the loss and were in good spirits. Booze flowed freely at the reception preceding dinner, from which Bent snuck away in order to call Ashley.
    “Hi, Babe,” he said when she answered. “It’s me.”
    “I saw the game. I’m sorry. You were so close.”
    He sighed, rubbing his face. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m so pissed, I can’t think straight.”
    “Oh, honey…don’t take it so hard. Tomorrow’s another day. Another game.