I have to trust him.
He has to learn to trust himself.
Don't bestupid, Holloway.
Mitchell looks at the batter, then glances back toward me.
Received.
I tip my chin up to him, already positioned closer to second, and he plants his back foot, my vision tunneling as he lifts his left leg.
He fires the pitch, a two-steamer right down the middle—Simpson's favorite pitch. The one he swings at every time. The one that always sends the ball to the exact same place.
"Me," I say sternly, not waiting for Jace to make a call—not needing him to.
Simpson connects with the ball, chopping it straight to the hole. I take off, taking each long stride like it's my last, spotting Holloway make his way toward the plate from the corner of my eye.
One.
Two.
Three steps, and I'm almost there.
The ball is close enough not to waste time on another one, but dips low enough that I need that space to slow my momentum and stay on my feet. Instead of choosing, I split the difference, sliding to it and dragging my back foot behind me. I snag the ball, my body bouncing off one leg as I toss it blindly backhand to Jace at second.
I know from the way the crowd erupts that he catches it, but I'm able to pivot in time to see him tag the base and snap it to first.
Double play.
Third out.
Game over.
We all move toward the dugout, nodding toward each other and slapping backs.
"I thought you said we shouldn't call it too early," Holloway says, jogging beside me.
I shake my head. "I saidyoushouldn't."
He chuffs, slowing as we get to home plate. "What's the difference?"
I pause at the dugout steps, fist bumping Mack who's standing there with his hand out toward me and a grin on his face, eavesdropping as he always does. "Yeah, Liam, what's the difference?"
I smile, smothering my laugh. Looking back at Holloway, I shrug. "About fifteen years."
"Dad, that behind the back toss to Jace was sick."
Laughing, I prop my phone up on the shelf of my locker. "You like that? See, your dad's still got it."
Ruthie rolls her eyes, her hands in something I can't see. There's the squeak of thin plastic, then she shoves something in her mouth. "What is tha—"
"Excuse me."
Tess's voice streams through the speaker and my fingers involuntarily freeze around the top button of my jersey.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Ruthie's eyes double in size and dart above the camera. She pauses mid-chew like she's been caught red-handed. "I, uh…"
