“Hell yeah! New York badass!”
She hung up and slammed the phone into the back pocket of her cutoffs before bending down to help the poor security guard clean up her mess.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
The older man gave her a nod. “I sure wouldn’t want to cross you.”
It took two minutes to finish with the garbage can and get back to her seat.
“So, no drinks?” her brother asked.
“What?” Taran asked.
“Didn’t you say text you if we wanted drinks?”
Shoot. She forgot. She clenched her jaw. It was just one small thing. Well, two, if you counted dinner with Seabass. But she wasn’t struggling. The tight knot inside burned again, and she swallowed.
“Don’t worry. I got it.” Tristan stood up and headed up the stairs.
“Everything okay, girlie?” her dad asked, lifting his hand to rub her shoulder. “You look—” He paused to study her face. “Actually, you looked pissed.”
The surprise in his voice reminded her of how little emotion she’d shown over the last few years. She sighed, trying to rein in these feelings she didn’t even want.
“Hey, you’re allowed to be angry. I just asked if everything’s okay.” His concerned tone was everything she hated about the last few years.
“I’m good, let’s just watch the game.” Taran turned her attention to the field but her hope for an uneventful evening went out the window pretty quickly.
The first few innings of three batters up and three down didn’t really register. Corey was pitching well, and she was happy for him. But it wasn’t until after the fifth inning that the mumblings of a no-hitter started. By inning seven, it was becoming clear he was on his way to a perfect game. Not only had Corey not let up a hit, he hadn’t walked a batter either.
“Yeah, Corey,” Noah cheered loudly from beside her as Corey threw another strike to end the seventh inning. Somewhere along the line, Noah had forgotten he was wearing an Astros jersey and was full-out cheering for the Metros.
Taran clapped too, but the nerves were starting in her stomach. Corey might be on his way to pitching his first perfect game.
Tim Tillerson yanked up the mask covering his face as he jogged to meet Corey halfway to the dugout. The two talked as they headed off the field. Right before Corey stepped into the dugout, his gaze flicked her way. Their eyes met and he winked. She didn’t have time to react before he disappeared.
“He does that every time!” Noah elbowed her in the side.
“Told you he chose the seats on purpose,” Tristan teased from behind her.
A slight tingle of embarrassment swam with the nerves in her system. Along with something else that pulled at her stomach. It was overwhelming. She clenched her fists and tried to beat it back.
All too soon, Corey was back out on the mound for the bottom of the eighth. Taran wrung her hands together; it was stressful helplessly watching it play out. The first batter went down swinging. She didn’t know how Corey did it because he looked calm out on the field, standing on the mound in his dark green jersey.
A snap echoed through the air as the throw from Tillerson hit Corey’s glove. Corey bent at the waist and sent Tillerson a nod before he stood up. His windup was clean and elegant. He’d always been touted as a work of art throwing the ball. Taran could see it, the lift of his leg, the pull back, and the snap of his elbow.
The ball cracked against the bat, and Taran yanked her eyes from Corey to see the first baseman easily catch the pop-up. Taran let out her breath. The inning ended with a ground out and another wink that once again flipped her stomach.
Although the game was fast-paced, it still felt like nine innings of torture. She had sat through plenty of perfect games before, and none of them had been this nerve-racking. But it was different this time because it was Corey. She shifted and swallowed the lump in her throat.
The Metros scored another two runs in the top of the ninth, which normally would have had her father spitting mad. But even her dad was rooting for Corey as he struck out batter number one in the ninth.
“I think he’s going to do it, Taran,” he said.
Corey was officially two outs away from his first perfect game as a major league pitcher. Something he desperately wanted before he hung up his glove.
“Two more batters,” Tristan agreed.
But those two had been saying that for the last two innings, while she’d been fighting back nausea. She glanced at Corey again; he stood calmly on the mound with the ball in his mitt. The black number four stood out on the green jersey. In his signature move, he cracked his neck left and then right before he leaned down, watching the catcher for the signal. Corey stood up for the windup, and Taran shut her eyes and held her breath.