The crowd gets loud as Solano resets. Once again, he peers back, and this time, Jace moves half a step closer to the base. Javi tips his chindown, exhaling slowly as he turns back, then fires a fastball right down the center.
Strike two.
Oilers fans rise to their feet, the stands buzzing with equal parts noise and energy. The runner leads off the bag a step further than before, ready to take off the moment he gets the chance. But we can't give him that.
I lead toward third, ready to cover J.J. if the ball comes his way. Our opponent taps his bat on his foot, then lifts it, moving it in slow, steady circles. Solano inhales a deep breath, and the noise level falls as his front leg rises. He sends the pitch—a sinker—and the batter swings.
I watch it happen in slow motion, years of experience telling me it's coming sharp down the middle. The ground ball barrels up the gut as the runner takes off, already halfway to third. I look at Holloway as he ranges left, adrenaline coursing through my veins. He finally got his pivot down, but his release has been slow—slow enough, at least, for me to worry now about him getting it home.
He fields it cleanly just behind the bag, but then my fear comes true as he switches his grip.
One movement.
One beat.
Half a second—that's all it takes.
He sends it to Garcia, his throw sharp and direct, but he's too late. The batter slides past the base a split fraction of time sooner than our catcher can tag him.
Oilers' score.
Game tied.
There’s a dull hum on the field that’s indescribable considering the eruption from the crowd. I can’t hear it exactly, but I can feel it—the energy shift of a tied game in the bottom of the ninth.
The outfielders will call to each other, Ruiz will pray the Ave María underneath his breath, and Jace will go so quiet the silence will be deafening.
It’s the sound of potential—to lose hope and the game—or to rise to the occasion. There's only one out left, and as much as I want wheelslifting sooner than later on that flight home, I want to kick some Oilers ass more.
In the thick of the moment, one voice cuts through everything. Ruthie yells from the stands in the same seat she's claimed all weekend, and my gaze finds her like it's wired to. She has her hands on the wall in front of her, leaning forward, her face full of the determination that we need. I wink at her, throwing my fist into my glove, and she bounces on her toes, her two little braids jumping off her shoulders.
I move to spin back toward my outfield to hype up the guys and reset the field—and my mind. But I stall. Despite my best efforts, I can't turn away. Not yet. Because as naturally as they found Ruthie before, my eyes slide to…her.
Tessa is standing, one arm hugged tight across her chest, the other propped on it so she can anxiously tap her fingertips against her lips. She's looking at me the same way she did the other night—half thrill, half worry—and I hate that I notice. I hate that the vision steadies something in me.
Because I might be rusty, but I'm not wrong. Something shifted between us that I can't quite name, but it was there. It's here now. In the quiet of her hotel room, with her pinned between me and the dresser, Tessa saw me differently. Not as her boss or Ruthie’s dad. But me.
And even if I have no business doing it—I saw her too.
I think I always have—ever since she and Sammy shared that stupid ice cream cone. But last night, I actually let myself feel it. That undeniable attraction, the pull I've pretended isn't there. I didn't shove it down or rush past it. There were no flashing warning signs or mental checklists of reasons why that shouldn't happen. For one reckless heartbeat, I just let myself want her.
And I swear, in the one moment I gave us before backing away again… she wanted me too.
Now, under the stadium lights rather than the dull shadow of the hotel lamp, with another batter up and the score even, she looks at me again. The same way she did then—like more than the game is leftunfinished.
And the worst part? That threatens to finish me before my brain can shut it down.
The hum on the dirt rises to a roar, and I force my focus back on the game. This time, I really do turn toward the boys, raising my glove. "One more," I call sharply, like my voice can drown out the one in my head.
I pull in a breath, smacking my bare hand to leather and crouching low.
I was ready before—to let Tessa in, to get closer to her for Ruthie’s sake. But I’d be lying if I said that’s still what this is no matter how hard I'm telling myself that's all that it can be. Now, much like this game, the stakes feel higher.
And the potential loss lingers—strong and heavy.
21
Tessa
