The first pitch smacked leather.He didn’t flinch.Ball one.
The second broke late and mean.He swung clean through it.Strike one.
I dug my fingers into the canvas chair and didn’t breathe.Everything hung on the next pitch.
He dropped his shoulder.
This was it.
The bat cracked—sharp, violent—and the ball lifted, climbing past the infield into the outfield.
Holy shit.
Vinny giggled.I’d definitely said that out loud.I snatched his hand and slapped my other palm over my eyes.“Did it clear the fence?I can’t?—”
“Hit the fence,” Vinny said, breathless.“Right in the hole.He’s getting two.Two runners came in.”
My chest burned as I finally looked.Josh slid into second, dirt streaking his pants, jaw set like he’d just ripped something loose inside himself.
The next batter went down swinging.Inning over.
When Josh jogged back toward the dugout, he flashed me a grin—cocky, charged, alive.
I lifted a finger and pointed at him, face hard, unyielding.Not done,my look said.Don’t you dare lose the edge.
ChapterThirty-One
JOSH
I brushedthe locket beneath my shirt as I stepped into the box.
Last at-bat.
I let it settle in my chest.Erika was right—tonight was a gift.Maybe this would be the last time I’d play ball at this level, under the lights, and with something real on the line.Most of these guys were chasing the majors, hoping for a call, a contract, and a crack at the minors.The odds were brutal.
I already knew mine.
I was the old man out here.All I could hope for was to play again.
Terror hummed under my skin, but I buried it.Cleared my head.This is a gift.
The pitcher was barely twenty, all confidence and heat, throwing ninety-something like he was trying out for the Yankees.No one else had touched his throws.
I would.
I dug in, a ghost of a grin pulling at my mouth.This moment right here was mine.I’d beaten the hell out of my pitching machine getting ready for this.If machines had feelings, it would’ve filed a complaint.
The noises of players and spectators dissolved into a distant hum.The world narrowed to a tunnel.Just me and the pitcher on opposite ends of it.My brain stopped churning and simplyknewthe exact path the ball would take.The tilt of his shoulders, the whip of his arm—instinct took over.I could see the pitch before it even left his hand.I made contact, dropped the bat, and ran.
The contact felt good.It’d go far, maybe be caught, but I’d learned long ago you don’t watch the ball.You run.
As I rounded first, I tried to estimate where the ball was but didn’t see it.The base coach yelled, “Home run!Keep going!”
I barely felt my feet hit each base as I rounded them, the cheering noise swelling into something wild and thunderous.People were shouting, hands were slapping mine, but everything was a blur.It wasn’t until the sixth high-five stung my palm that I realized I was smiling—really smiling—like something cracked open inside me.
And then I looked for her.
Erika stood, eyes wide and shining, clapping like she couldn’t stop herself.She was cheering forme.In that instant, every beat of my heart felt like fire.Her expression wasn’t polite or restrained.It was raw and proud.In that moment, the rest of the world vanished.It was just her and the way she looked at me, like I was someone worth believing in.
