Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
I take a deep breath and walk over to the pitcher’s mound. Sheriff Ryland Gray walks over to meet me with his big chest puffed out. The umpire for the day—Greg the doorman from the Greene Mountain Lodge—joins us too.
The cops had their own blue shirts made with their team name—Cuffs and Curveballs.
“Graham,” Ryland says, narrowing his eyes on me as we shake hands. Hard.
“Ryland,” I say as I squeeze his hand harder than he’s squeezing mine. “Ready to lose?”
“Ha,” he says with a deep booming laugh. “Remind me again who won last year?”
I just glare at him.
“This is for charity, gentlemen,” Greg says, already looking exasperated. “Let’s try and have fun.”
“Kicking these fire pussies’ asses is always fun,” Ryland says with a grin.
“Too bad we’re about to spoil your afternoon,” I say, flashing him a cocky smile.
“I see you got Aiden,” he says with a bitter look. “How much are you paying him?”
“Nothing, he just wants to be on the winning team.”
“He’s all yours,” Ryland says. “We got our own secret weapon.”
My stomach twists a little as I look at their bench. It’s all the usual players from the Sheriff’s office—Henry and his wife Natalie, Emmanuel, Santino, and a few other guys from around town like Will from the Post Office and a few of the cooks from Jack Jameson’s Bar and Grill.
“She’s not here yet,” he says when he sees me checking out their bench.
“She?”
He just grins. “You’ll see.”
“Alright, boys,” Greg says as he pulls out a quarter. “Let’s flip to see who has home-field advantage.”
We end up losing, so we’re at bats first.
“Get used to that feeling,” Ryland says as I walk back to my bench.
That fucking guy… I really want to kick his ass today.
“Alright,” I say, calling everyone over. “Doug, you’re up first. Then me, Lincoln, and then Aiden can clean up at fourth.”
“I think Kylee should go second,” Aiden says.
I force out a smile even though I’m feeling a little nauseous.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing hard. “Kylee can go second.”
The cops take the field and are throwing around balls, warming up. Ryland keeps looking at the parking lot as he takes the mound, warming up his throwing shoulder.
“Where’s your secret weapon?” I ask with a grin. “She ditched you?”
He curses under his breath and ignores me. I hope she doesn’t show up at all, whoever it is.
“Play ball!” Greg shouts and everyone watching cheers.
Doug pets Bubba and Charlie for good luck before grabbing a bat and strutting over to the plate. He swings on the first pitch and connects, but the ball hits the dirt, barely rolling three feet. But it’s good enough to get him onto first base.
You’d swear he hit a grand slam in the ninth inning of the World Series with the way he’s dancing on first base and acting all cocky.
Kylee bats second and pops it up. Emmanuel is playing third base and easily catches it.
“Sorry, Chief,” she says as she walks back to the bench with her shoulders slumped.
“No worries, Kylee,” I say with a smile. “You’ll get ‘em next time.”
My turn. I’ll show these boys how it’s done. I’ll show them what a real hit is.
I grab a bat and head to the plate.
“Come on, Grandpa!” a girl shouts from behind me while I’m staring Ryland down.
“Hit it with your walker!” another girl says.
I turn around, shocked until I see who the hecklers are. It’s Tina and Tiffany, the two weird twins who work at the Greene Mountain Lodge. They both have the same round glasses and black bob haircut. They’re sitting on the grass behind home plate.
This is going to be a long afternoon with them heckling…
“I’m only fifty-two,” I tell them as I swing the bat a few times.
“More like a hundred and fifty-two,” one of them says.
“More like you were born in 1952,” the other one adds.
I shake my head and ignore them, narrowing my eyes on Ryland as he gets ready to pitch. I visualize pounding the ball and smacking it over those white-capped mountains miles behind the players in the outfield.
Ryland takes one last look at the parking lot—probably waiting for his secret weapon to arrive—before he pulls his arm back and launches the ball at the plate.
I take a deep breath and swing as hard as I can.
The ball connects right in the sweet spot and explodes off my bat.
It’s a home run. I don’t need to watch it sailing over the centerfielder’s head to know it’s going over the fence.
“Grandpa can hit,” one of the twins says as I drop the bat and start jogging to first.
Doug is ahead of me, dancing and taunting the cops as he rounds second base.
I grin at Ryland who won’t stop glancing at the parking lot as I finally stomp on home plate, making it 2-0.
So far, this game is going just as planned…