Page 90 of Switch Hitter

The second pitch is a slider. It looks like it’s coming right down the middle until it drops off the table like it changed its mind.

I swing anyway because I’m cocky and predictable.

Strike one.

The crowd boos me, so I step out of the box, adjusting my gloves and breathing through my nose. Emiliano’s voice drifts over, soft and smug.

“Qué bonito te ves cuando fallas,” he says.

I glare. “Shut up.”

“You love it.”

The catcher throws the ball back, and Emiliano catches it and turns it in his hand like he’s deciding what kind of pain he wants to give me next.

He looks up.

Glove to his mouth again.

“Good boy and strike out clean,” he murmurs, his glove hiding his mouth. “Or do I embarrass you?”

I choke out, “I hate you.”

Emiliano’s eyes darken like I just fed him.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I pitch better when you hate me.”

Third pitch.

Changeup.

My timing is wrong, my swing late, and I know it the second my bat cuts the air.

Strike two.

The crowd is losing their minds now. People are chanting my name, then his, then both, like we’re a damn boy band. I step out again, jaw clenched, heart pounding.

Emiliano is smiling now.

Not a big smile, but the private one that he reserves for me.

I point at him. “One day I’m going to hit you.”

Emiliano’s grin widens. “That’s just foreplay, Cobre.”

I snort despite myself, then set back in.

Two strikes.

Here we fucking go.

Emiliano settles, and the stadium gets quieter, tension pulling tight.

He lifts his leg, and right before he throws, he says, low enough only I can hear,

“After this, you and that perfect ass of yours are mine tonight.”

“Is that a threat?”