Two.
One.
My cleats hit the end zone with three seconds to spare. Arms raised, I spike the ball and turn to the crowd, inhaling the thunder and love.
“Ooooooo-ROOOOOODDDDD!” Topps hooks me under the shoulders and hoists me into the air, Jake in step with us. I spot Danielle in the crowd first, her hands in the air, screaming—Dad, Mom, Ryan, Heather, and Addie high-fiving. Jake’s wide grin is the next thing I see as Topps returns me safely to the turf, and we slap hands.
Coach Lee lets the time run out, extra point unneeded. The refs don’t even seem pissed when the entire Tigers bench floods the field, the end zone and night ours. Grey shoves his way through the bodies to me, picking me up and twirling me like I’m freaking Ginger Rogers, not a sweaty girl in a jersey and pads. The moment my cleats hit solid ground, he pulls me into a deep kiss.
And it might just be my imagination, but the crowd seems to get even louder.
When we part, the band starts into the Northland fight song, our whole side swaying as one, homecoming spirit times a million.
Jewell players hang their golden heads, the assistants already packing up because even champions—especially defending state champions—never dwell on a loss.
Even when they get their asses handed to them by a girl.
Epilogue
IT’S THE BOTTOM OF THE SEVENTH. THE BASES LOADED.Two out.
The crowd is still—orange and purple cleaved together in silence, all eyes pinned to the long-legged strut of the next batter.
The player with the most hits in the state championship game—this year, and maybe ever.
The player who has batted in every run the de facto home team has so far tonight.
The player who is my best friend.
Addie settles into her too-straight stance, always a praying mantis in cleats. From first base—my new, albeit strange home, the position the only one open on an already solid team—I’ve got a great view of the determination on her face. The set of her mouth is deadly, rigid. She’s led Windsor Prep all year with that grit and hauled the Eagles to the final game in May. To the championship againsta team they split games with in the regular season—the revamped Northland Tigers.
She’s the star player and she’s not planning to fail. A home run and she’d walk off a winner—beating us 6–5. Anything less and there would still be work to do. An out and it would be over, Windsor Prep a runner-up for the second year in a row.
Cleats scratching, I bounce in the dirt, my knee not even complaining. Training with Napolitano in the weight room all fall and winter, making sure it healed properly, paid off. My eyes are on the Eagle next to me, Ava, who is ready to run the second Addie makes fair contact.
From the mound, Kelly’s cat eyes check the bases, red ponytail whipping across her shoulders. Rodinsky at first—a replacement for the graduated Sanderson—Janecki at second, Cortez at third. All of us holding strong.
The situation is so similar to last year that my heart starts to pound, bittersweet in the back of my throat.
The same teams.
The same polite cheering from my family and rowdy rumble from football-jersey-clad boys in orange.
The same best friend up to bat, the bases loaded, the win in her hands as Addie stares down Kelly at the mound.
But so much is different—not just my uniform. Not just my family’s custom shirts, displaying both purple andorange, split down the middle, a house’s interests divided. Not just the game, one better than last year.
There’s been no smack talk on base tonight, only mutual respect and admiration. There’s not been a single slur. Not a single punch thrown.
Addie’s prehit ritual over with, her hips sink slightly lower in the batter’s box. Kelly’s arm windmills through the motion, plant leg sliding under the force. The ball rockets through the bottom right corner of the strike zone, whizzing past Addie’s knees.
Strike one.
Addie stands and readjusts her gloves, Velcro cracking into the night. Danielle’s voice shoots out of the Eagles dugout as the team claps and hugs the rail. “Good look, McAndry. Good look. Wait for it. Wait for it.”
Addie nods as Coach Kitt counters from the steps of the Tigers’ side. “Close it out, Cleary.Close. It. Out.”
Behind her, in the stands, a line of boys with boulders for shoulders screams Kelly’s name. Jake, Topps, Brady, the receivers, and tight ends, all cupping their hands around their mouths—Cleary, Cleary, Cleary!All but the boy who shares the name, too divided in this situation to do much more than just stand there, not sure whom to root for. Like during football, like the rest of the softball season, Grey’s voice hits my ears harder than any of the others.
