The Body In The Bayou

ch. 1 • Red Handed

"C'mon! Walker! Put him in the books!" Jared's desperate voice carries over the loud cheers roaring from the bleachers. Jared's got a hot glove but he’s still playing defensively near the third base while Coleson, my catcher,crouches behind home plate, giving me signs between his bent legs.
 
This game has come down to my one final pitch.
 
Two outs, bases are loaded, and the tying run is on third base with the winning run behind him on second base. The stakes couldn't be higher. 
 
This is where the boys are separated from the men. 
 
Where a pitcher could fold under the pressure and throw a shit pitch and force the tying run in by an embarrassing walk-off-grand-slam and not to mention fuck up my ERA stats. This is where all the noise and pressure could break someone. But, bloody hell, I live for this shit.
 
I'm ahead in the pitch count, with zero balls and two strikes. And I know, based on the tapes I've watched on the batter, Chris Doyle, can't hit a screwball to save his mother's life, so I've been saving this little gem for this exact moment right here. 
 
In the previous innings my catcher, Coleson, gave me the two-finger peace sign wanting a screwball thrown, however; I shook the sign off knowing it was a guaranteed strike for Doyle and wanted to save it for the most opportune moment. And hell, was I right.
 
This game against our rivals, Louisiana State University, has been close since the first inning. And I've been fucking loving it. While some of my teammates like Jared prefer a blowout, I'd much rather play a close game. I live for the adrenaline, the pressure, and the uncertainty of it all and if we will win or lose. I like a challenge, I crave it.
 
I also crave the attention that comes with being a first-string pitcher, and only being a sophomore, I've got two more years of being the man.
 
I'm Magnolia Fall's All-Star pitcher recruited from The Bush and now everyone's favorite bad-boy -- not my words, I swear. Any bloke who regards himself as a bad boy needs a good smack across the face if you ask me.
 
Although, I can't be held responsible for my bad-boy reputation because I'm covered in tattoos and love the ladies. 
 
Especially when a fit-as-hell blonde keeps eye-fucking me from the packed bleachers.
 
I've given Blondie quick glimpses and even a nod to keep her attention every time I've been warming up in the bullpen, to which she has responded with a bright-white gorgeous smile and a cheeky nod in return.
 
When we win, I'll be sure she's aware of the celebratory party at the house tonight. And the real win will be having this beauty in my bed tonight.
 
Sure, I know I'm a cockhead. But fuck, it's obvious I'm a good-looking bloke and I know I've got what the ladies like. Humor, an outgoing personality, banter, and I reckon I'm the only Australian here in Magnolia Falls, Louisiana. And these American women do love an Aussie with an accent. 
 
My eyes flit to Blondie in the stands again and my tongue wets my bottom lip. 
 
"Walker! Get your fucking head in the game! Stop with the cowboy shit!" Coach Neil screams at me from the dugout, surely agitated with my flirting antics while the winning runner is in such a precarious position.
 
But he doesn't know that I'm already celebrating both wins. The ball game as well as the little staring contest I've got going with the Beaut' in the bleachers.
 
Blondie might as well start her walk to the frat house and make herself comfortable in my bed and Doyle is as good as a K-3 for the books.
 
Colesen's fingers set between his legs and he gives me the screwball sign and I accept with a dip of my chin. 
 
I crack a smile but hide it behind my raised leather glove, covering half my face and finding the laces for a screwball easily. My metal cleat locates the pitching rubber and the bleachers ignite with a roar from the left side where the LSU fans attempt to throw me off with their howls and calls, meanwhile, on the right, our side fades to silence anticipating the next pitch.
 
Playing baseball is as natural to me as breathing. It's how I got a full-ride scholarship to this amazing University and how I'll, no doubt, have an offer to be drafted in the MLB by next year. 
 
Growing up in a tiny town centered in the Australian Outback fostered a love and perhaps a baseball obsession. There was nothing else much to do there besides keep busy with a ball, glove, and bat, and cover myself in tattoos and piercings.
 
So, just as easy it is to inhale a full breath into my lungs, I throw the perfect screwball. It curves down and inwards towards the right-handed Doyle in the batter's box and he swings and misses the curving ball.
 
Strike three. Game over. I win. I always win.
 
My eyes scan the cheering bleachers and lock onto Blondie's just as my teammates rush me at the mound, jumping and hooting because we've won yet another game, all thanks to me.