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Should have left them in my bag. But I was beginning to think they might have to be pried out of my cold, dead hands.
The sun set as the game went on. We played these dickheads too often for my taste. Not only was Danville our high school rivals, but our town’s, and now our softball team’s too. I played against half their team in school, some even in college. These days, they were the only thing standing in the way of us making it to the state champs. If we won that, we’d qualify for regionals, then the championship. A new league had opened up a handful of years ago, and the billionaire who ran it had thrown all his weight behind it, getting sponsorship from the biggest brands, even landing the World Series on ESPN 2. But the wildest thing was the cash prize—each bracket’s winning team landed two hundred grand to split between them.
It might not have been that much money to some, but it could change the lives of more than a few of my teammates.
The score had been back and forth for nine innings, thanks to some unforced errors on our part. But we’d made up for it with enough good bats to tie us six-six. Wilder had pitched a shutout in the top of the ninth, earning us a shot at winning.
And then we’d struck out twice.
The crowd was out of their seats and screaming as I walked onto the field, but I barely heard them. I felt the thud of my heart, the turf under my feet. The bat in my hand as I walked up to the plate, drew a deep breath, and shut everything else out with the flip of a well-worn switch. I didn’t see the glower on the pitcher’s face, but I knew it was there. My eyes were on the ball in his hand as he turned it with his thumb, the moment of anticipation stretching out.
He wound up and let loose—it’s high, let it go—the pop of the ball into the catcher’s mitt sounding just before a ball was called. I stepped back for the throw back, then into the box I went, the bat squeaking against my gloves when I tightened my grip. Another pitch—outside, leave it—another ball. Nerves began to jangle in my belly, itchy to hit the ball and end the anticipation. Which was why I swung at something I shouldn’t have. I knew it was too low the second it was too late to turn back.
“Strike!”
Which was probably why I let the next pitch go. Thankfully, it was low again.
I swallowed hard, teeth grinding as I positioned myself.
When he whipped the ball, it was so close, I didn’t want to risk the strike, hoping it was another ball and would walk.
“Strike two!”
The crowd screamed encouragement at me at a thousand decibels.
“Fuck.” I stepped out and turned, swinging a couple of times to shake myself loose and focus. Coach made his way over to me.
“Whatever it is, just fucking hit it.”
I nodded.
He nodded.
And that was it. I headed back to the box. Felt my ribs expand and contract with a breath.
He pitched.
I swung.
Crack.
The hit was spot fucking on, and it sailed to the far right corner of the field as I ran like a motherfucker. Rounded first with my eyes on their outfielder as he picked up the ball. He threw it just as I approached second, and I stopped where I was, safe and sound.
As much as I’d have liked a homer, I’d take a stand-up double. Because Wilder batted next.
The beast strolled up to the plate like he owned the stadium, smacking his gum and shooting me a wink as he stepped into the box. He’d pitched for LA until a couple years ago when he was injured.
He might not have been able to pitch fast enough again, but the man was born to play.
He didn’t even have to try, just swung with the ease and grace of a pro, hitting the ball with that glorious sound, a line drive between first and second that was too fast to catch. But when it hit the ground, the right fielder scooped it and let her rip for home.
I saw it all as I ran like hell for home plate, pushing hard when he threw, sliding as soon as I could—just as the ball fell into the catcher’s mitt, which was on my hip, the two of us still in a cloud of swirling dust.
“Safe!”
And then all hell broke loose.
I bounded to my feet as the bleachers erupted, the catcher spinning around to argue with the ump. I didn’t wait around, running toward the dugout where the team spilled out to meet me and Wilder. We ended up in the knot of our team, screaming and hollering and clapping shoulders and jumping on each other’s backs. The crowd was still up and losing it. I threw a hand in the air, shit-eating grin on my face as I waved to the stands. I found Jessa, pleased to see her smiling and bouncing with Cass, a look of unbridled joy that only sports could bring on her pretty face.
