The sky over St. Paul was a bruised purple, the kind of shade that meant shit was about to go down. Inside the grimy, beer-and-regret-scented bowels of the River Monsters' clubhouse, Erik Brooks sat alone by his locker, staring at the faded photograph of his rookie season a wide-eyed kid with a 98-mph fastball and no fucking clue what was coming.
Now, he was older, meaner, and his arm hurt a little more every morning. Like many his age, OOTP 25 was not kind. Leaving him struggling to focus. Playoffs. Contract year. One more shot.
"BROOKSY!" came the unmistakable rasp of Gerald Brandt, his manager a grizzled bastard with a sunburned neck and a heart that pumped pure chewing tobacco.
Brooks looked up. "What's up skip?"
Brandt didn't even sit. He just stood there, all fifty-seven years of rage and caffeine packed into a cracked windbreaker with a mustard stain shaped like Texas.
"You got one job tonight, Erik. One. Fucking. Job."
Brooks smirked. "Yeah? Lemme guess. Win the game?"
"No, asshole," Brandt barked. "Make Alan Ehlers shit his expensive khakis in the owner's box. I want that tightwad dialing your agent before the seventh inning stretch and begging him to name a number."
Brooks cracked his neck. "He's been ghosting us for weeks."
"Good," Brandt said, eyes burning. "Then make him haunt you. Make him wake up in a cold sweat every goddamn night until he signs the kind of contract that makes the salary cap cry uncle. You'll be a legend Brooksy. You don't deserve to pitch anywhere else."
Brooks stood now, pulling on his jersey. The weight of the moment was heavy, but the adrenaline made it feel like it was carved into his bones.
"If I throw a gem tonight," he said, "am I a River Monster legend?"
Brandt leaned in close. "Look at where this franchise was when you got here. It was a F'n disgrace. You pitch this team to a Brewster Series, kid... you'll be more than that. You'll be a fuckin' ghost story they tell rookies. The kind that makes 'em piss themselves before the home opener. Don't just pitch tonight. Hunt. If you put this team on your back and win a Brewster.... you'll be writing your own contract."
Brooks nodded once, sharp. "Time to eat."
He walked down the tunnel, cleats clicking like a goddamn war drum. The crowd above was already roaring, and in the distance, the crack of a bat sounded like gunfire.
Tonight, Erik Brooks wasn't just pitching.
He was coming for blood, a contract, and immortality.
I wanted to do this the way I did it and have no regrets. If it isn't your cup of tea, I'm sorry. After 17 real life years of playing in writing based leagues, I need something fresh. I used AI for the image and to help write the story. So keep the 2 PP. Side note. I didn't realize how ridiculously ugly our uniforms are until I created the image. Might need to freshen them up while staying true. Brooks and Brandt look on point though.
