“Good?” Callie arches an eyebrow.
“Yeah… good.”
They both look at me.
“I hate you both.” I roll my eyes at them playfully and cross my arms.
Below us, Decker fields a sharp grounder and throws to first, and the crowd cheers. I watch him jog back to his position with the same unhurried movement he has when he’s in his element. The ad flashes on the screen once more. Apparently, I have zero self-control because I can’t take my eyes off it.
“Every day we’re just a little closer,” Callie says. “Oh, complete transparency, I… um… have a bet with Foster.”
“What?” I frown.
“I can’t tell you the stipulations because that would be cheating, but I think I might win. And I can’t wait to rub it in Foster’s face.” She continues eating her chips.
I decide not to ask questions I probably don’t want the answers to.
In the top of the eighth, the lights go out, and Callie gets on her feet, cheering. “Ellis, baby, Daddy’s up.”
The Jumbotron flashes ALL ABOARD! in bold, blinding letters as “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne plays. A train engine bursts from the shadows on the screen, wheels sparking as it barrels down tracks of pure lightning.
“Don’t tell Foster, she’s asleep. Somehow,” Mrs. Carlisle says.
I watch Foster knock his glove with all the infield players, including Decker, and Decker pats him on the back. Look at the progress those two have made. Anything between Decker and me would only derail that.
Foster abandons two Minnesota players on the basepath to end the inning.
Decker is the starting batter in the bottom of the eighth, and we need at least one run to tie the game.
“Can’t Stop” by Red Hot Chili Peppers plays, and Hazel and Monroe jump to their feet.
“Decker!” Hazel turns around. “Decker, Mommy!”
I smile and nod. “I see.”
They both raise their hands, cheering him on. He looks over at the stands and waves to the little girls, which makes the camera for the Jumbotron scan over to us. Everyone claps, and the announcer says something about his cheering squad.
Decker gets into position, feet first, shifting his weight. His stance has changed over the years—probably from working with a lot of instructors. He’s hitting the best he has in years, so I try to figure out what’s different.
This is the problem with my dad being a coach—it’s hard to just sit and enjoy the game without getting all in my head.
The first ball comes in, and it’s so inside, Decker twists his body, but thankfully, the ball doesn’t hit him.
“Bully!” Monroe shouts, and a few people turn around.
“Monroe!” Leighton leans forward and whispers something in her ear.
Decker steps out of the box and takes a practice swing. I have no idea why my throat feels like a boulder is lodged in it since he looks so at ease in the box. He gets himself prepared again, and the pitch comes in. Outside, and he doesn’t swing, but it’s called a strike.
The third pitch looks like it’s going to float over the plate, but at the last minute, it tails, and Decker reacts, twisting. It nails him in the back.
“He’s gonna need someone to tend to that bruise.” Callie’s eyebrows waggle.
“I volunteer as tribute!” a woman says one row down and over.
Get in line, lady.
Decker jogs to first, shaking his head.
