Free Sweet Spot by Rae Lynn Blaise Page A

I not only strike out again, but I fumble the ball at the bottom of the inning and fuck us out of an opportunity to get a double play. They score three more.
    “What’s going on?” Jamie hisses at me as the bottom of our order takes the plate to bat. “I’ve never seen you so distracted.”
    “Just got a lot going on.”
    “We all do. You’ve had a lot of big shit go down and you still never fucked up a double play like that.”
    “Sobriety sucks.” I flip him off behind my glove and lean back on the dugout bench. Five to nothing, White Sox. Sure, we could come back. We could also burn the fuck out and lose. Memories of this morning flood me, where I just knew we would kick ass and I pompously promised I’d score another run for Ally.
    I can’t become this pile of broken promises. It’s time to do one thing at a time. With as little lying as possible, ideally.
    “Talk to me, man.” Jamie rummages through the caddy of candy bars above his head and settles on a Baby Ruth, my favorite. He snaps it in half and offers me one, but I stick to my sunflower seeds and pretend each seed I spit out is another one of my sins.
    Absolution by sunflower seed.
    Except it’s not working.
    “I’m just having an off day. Shit happens.”
    He looks at me weird again and I’m over it. He’s been side-eyeing me for four fucking days and I don’t like his Jiminey Cricket bullshit. “What can I do? We need to get you back in the game.”
    “Everyone has an off day. From now on, I’ll let you field the double plays and I’ll pay more attention to the strike zone. Back off, alright? God, you’re worse than Coach Bart.”
    “Coach Bart sent me over here.”
    I can’t help the heavy sigh. “Fucker.”
    “Don’t want Henry taking your place.”
    I set my jaw. “Fucking Henry is not taking my base. Period. Are you done?”
    I know I have to ease up. Any more and he’s going to think I’m guilty with Coach’s daughter and that will be freaking career ending. He’s my boy, but his loyalty to the Royals runs deeper than anything else.
    Jamie doesn’t move and I know I have to give him something. This is going to kill me, I can already feel it.
    “Look, don’t say anything, okay?”
    He’s skeptical, but nods.
    “My knee has been fucking up lately.” I can’t even look at him, but I can feel his whole demeanor shift. “Shh! I’m serious, Jamie. Don’t say a fucking word.”
    “You need to—“
    “I know. I know what I’m supposed to do, okay? It’s not bad enough to take me off the roster and I’m sure as fuck not going down to Triple A for rehab.”
    “You could fuck up your career over this, Kemp.” Jamie’s voice is low but the stadium is wild. Octivio hits a long ball into right field and we’re finally on the board with one run. We both clap and high-five Octivio after he makes his celebratory lap around the bases. I hope this means Jamie is done talking, but he finds me after the dugout settles down again.
    “I’m serious, man. A knee injury is a career killer.”
    “I know.” I finally glance over at him. “You can’t tell anyone. I’m serious. I’ve been icing it and putting shit on it. It’s getting better. I just overdid it in the gym this morning and it hurts.”
    “Jesus Christ.” He runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game, brother.”
    “That’s baseball.”
    Risking Triple A and hospitals is better than risking Coach right now. And it wasn’t a bunch of bullshit either. I can already feel my knee swelling and I’m pretty certain I’m fucked. It’s only getting worse and eventually, I’m going to have to say something. That’s just one more conversation I’m not looking forward to.
    The fourth inning closes out without any more fuck-ups on my end and I manage a solid double in the fifth, sending Carlos home. We’re at 5-2, White Sox, but it’s something. What’s also something is my goddamn knee, which seemed to have