Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

stayed a step ahead of everyone. You’re smart. Quit sitting on your heels and reacting to everything. It’s a chess game. You have to be thinking three moves ahead.” His hands went to his hips.
    Martinez jogged out from the left field bullpen. He was a monster. Six foot six and built like a brick shithouse, but with a gut. He damn near threw as hard as E, but didn’t have the same quality of secondary pitches.
    I nodded to Coach. “He’ll want to get ahead in the count.”
    “Good. Now you’re being a fucking ballplayer. Go on.” His lips curled up the slightest bit at the corners.
    What sounded like a gunshot shook me from my concentration once more. I turned to see the catcher shake his glove hand like it was hot and toss the ball back to Martinez.
    “Fucking guy can bring it.” Coach glared.
    “Alright. Fine. Let’s see.” I looked up and then back to Coach. “He’ll want to work ahead. His curveball is shit. So I need to sit on first pitch fastball. It’ll be the best pitch I get to hit.”
    “Exactly. You’re a catcher. Use it to your advantage. Think in reverse. What would you do if you were catching Martinez right now? That’s how you have to think, son. It ain’t rocket science.”
    “I hope not. You’d be way out of your fucking element.” I grinned.
    Coach smiled. “You little shit. Go win the fucking game already.”
    “Done.” I called over my shoulder.
    “Batter!” The ump called for me and pointed to the batter’s box.
    I strode back up to the plate as I caught Martinez smiling at me.
    I’m going to fuck you up, fat boy.
    Visualization was the key to success. I don’t know why it worked, but it did. Over and over I pictured the pitch, and me driving it right back at Martinez’s ugly-ass face.
    “Come on, baby! You got this.” Nik’s high, clear voice pierced through the ocean of noise.
    I turned to where the girls usually sat. All three of them were on their feet, waiting in anticipation. Nikki smiled and blew me a kiss.
    Anxiety coursed through my veins, as sure as the energy from the fans rumbled through the stadium.
    Her excitement reminded me of how happy she’d been about the dinner at her parents’ house. I glanced up to the scoreboard, but was confronted with the damn .247 again. Shitty batting average, dinner with the parents—I couldn’t win. I was a hot fucking mess.
    “Focus, son!”
    Coach’s voice. It was like he lived in my head. I regained my focus.
    I held up a hand to the umpire and dug my back foot into the batter’s box dirt like I was staking claim on my territory. When I dropped my hand to signal I was ready, I planted my front foot in and stared out at chubby fucknuts.
    You got this shit.
    I played the perfect scenario in my mind one more time—Martinez starting with a fastball, and me decapitating him with a shot up the middle.
    I looked up and everything else faded. It was me and him, and only one of us would win.
    Fastball. Fastball.
    I twirled the bat in small circles behind my head as he nodded to the catcher and came set.
    Loose hands. Fastball.
    I relaxed my grip. The big bastard kicked his leg high and hard as I rocked my weight to my back foot. As soon as he let go, I knew it was my pitch.
    I swung so hard I nearly came out of my cleats.
    As soon as I connected I knew I was money, because I didn’t feel a thing. The ball connected with the sweet spot and rocketed off the bat toward the left field gap.
    I dropped my bat and sprinted toward first as the crowd came alive around me, and my feet pounded on the dirt. I glanced at Cox, who represented the tying run, jogging from third toward home. Hamilton was flying from second to third, trying to score the winning run.
    I glanced to left field as I was rounding first, just in time to see the fielder lay out and make a catch that was destined to be on Plays of the Week in a matter of hours.
    No! Fuck!
    It was like a sack of rocks landed on my chest. Cox and Hamilton hurried back to their