* * * *
Twenty minutes later, the pitching machine whirred through medium heat pitches set at seventy miles per hour. It always felt good to bat. By the time Jared was throwing in high school, his coaches had made him stop batting so he sat for years in the dugout, his right arm in a jacket, keeping it warm and loose. Jared wasn’t a skilled hitter but he enjoyed it enough to scrounge the extra chain link leftover from building cat cages. When the University of South Florida got a new pitching machine, Roscoe, his former coach, had called and let him have this one.
The ball let him focus, its cream blur a place to put his brain. He let his body swing and twist and connect with an arm-tingling thunk as the aluminum bat met ball. The Easton fit him perfectly, its taped grip catching on his leather batting glove just so. Its end got gritty as he went through his pre-swing ritual: tap, set his feet, tap, pull back, bend his knees. Breathe. Swing.
Miguel walked up and stood by the cage, his hands on the chain link. Jared loosened his stance and let his swing really whonk this time. The ball pinged against the bat. The chain link rattled at the back of the cage as the ball hit metal.
Jared stepped out of the batter’s box and stood in front of Miguel. He let the bat balance against one foot, rolling it back and forth as he held Miguel’s gaze.
The kid swallowed and let go of the fence. Jared smelled his sweat—he’d been working today, too—and the breeze blew over a whiff of Miguel’s shampoo.
“I think it’s time you left,” Jared said.
“I’m scheduled until five tonight.” Miguel’s voice was clear, boyish, a little hard to hear with the batting helmet covering Jared’s left ear.
“You know what I mean.”
“I need to finish my thousand hours for my license—"
“Kid, I don’t give a fuck where you get your hours but you’re not getting them here.”
Miguel stepped back from the cage, eyes wide. “I, I, um…I’m sorry.”
Jared wanted to ask and he knew Miguel was frightened enough and young enough to answer.
I don’t really want to know.
“Get out,” Jared said.
Miguel didn’t say anything. His mouth twisted down and his caramel skin flushed red-brown. He looked at Jared’s face then turned and walked away, shoulders sagging, head down.
Jared watched until Miguel was out of sight. He tried a few more hits but his rhythm was gone and he flubbed them, sending zingers straight into the wire above him.