CHAPTER ONE
FLETCH
“All right, boys, bring it in!” I yell across the field, adjusting my Mudflaps cap to keep my too-long blond hair from whipping into my eyes. “Time to show your families what you’ve learned this week!”
Twenty-two eleven-year-olds in powder blue jerseys with rust-red trim scramble toward me from their warm-up positions. December in South Carolina means crisp air without the bite of real winter—and it makes me grateful I left upstate New York behind. The afternoon sun glints off the outfield wall, and parents fill in the stands behind home plate, ready to watch their kids’ final scrimmage.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.
Sure, it might be Grace—my favorite mystery on the other side of the screen—but I never check it during practice. Never during games. That’s the rule, even if I haven’t heard from her in a couple of days. Even if every buzz makes my thumbs itch.
Bzzzz.
I shove the urge to check my phone aside, focusing instead on the kids lining up in front of me. They’re not perfect, but after five days of winter camp, they actually look like ballplayers—a far cry from the chaos of Monday morning, when a couple of them didn’t even know which hand the glove went on.
Lucas Fischer—my star pitcher and, against my better judgment, my assistant coach for the week—brings his group over with significantly more fanfare. At six-two with a bandana tied around his head and approximately seven necklaces jangling over his Mudflaps coaching shirt, Lucas has the explosive enthusiasm of a 4th of July sparkler.
“Are you ready to rumble?” Lucas shouts, pumping his fist.
His team erupts in cheers. My kids look at me with wide eyes, waiting for permission.
I give them a flat stare. “Really? You want to do a rally cry?”
They nod eagerly, practically vibrating.
I sigh. “Fine. Make it quick.”
They read that sigh like it’s a grin attached to a written permission slip. Then they unleash a rally cry that puts Lucas’s team to shame.
“All right, all right,” I say, holding back a chuckle. “Save that energy for the field, team. Let’s play ball.”
The kids scatter to their positions. Lucas might dress like he’s auditioning for the Savannah Bananas—complete with the flashy accessories and eye black in every colorbutblack—but I can’t deny he’s great with kids. Even if just watching his boundless energy makes me weary. His team takes the field with surprising discipline, and mine heads to the dugout, ready to bat first.
The game starts clean. A few groundouts, a walk, a solid single to left field that gets the parents cheering. Lucas’s pitcher—a skinny kid named Marcus with a fade and a decent arm—isthrowing strikes, and my next hitter, Jeremy, is waiting for his pitch.
And so is Jeremy’s dad.
He’s left his seat in the stands and moved down to the fence, pacing. When he stops to yell, he grabs the chain-link. “Come on, Jeremy! You’re better than this! Keep your eye on the ball!”
Jeremy fouls off the next pitch.
“Jeremy! What did I say? Watch the ball! You’re not watching it!”
The kid’s shoulders hunch forward. His grip on the bat tightens.
I know that body language. I’velivedthat body language.
“Strike two!” the umpire calls.
“Focus, Jeremy! You gotta focus!” his dad shouts, louder now, and several parents turn to look.
Jeremy swings, but the bat meets the dirt with a dull thunk. Strike three.
The kid’s face crumples as he walks back to the dugout, and his dad only gets louder. “What was that? You weren’t even trying!”
My vision tunnels as Jeremy’s dad barks.
Suddenly, I’m not in South Carolina anymore. I’m twelve years old in Rochester, and Granddad is leaning over the dugout railing, his cold, cutting voice echoing in the stadium. “Pathetic, Ollie. You call that hustle? You’re embarrassing the Fletcher name.”
