Page 81 of The Way We Swing Back

But this time was different.

I wound up. Threw. Strike one.

Gavin didn’t have to move his glove. The pitch landed exactly where I wanted it. Outside corner, knee high. My arm rotated smoothly: no pain, no tension. Only purpose.

The first three batters went down in order on nine pitches. Two strikeouts.

I glided off the mound. No nerves, only a fire that had burned for two years. This was my game. No one else’s.

In the dugout, I grabbed my bat and moved toward the on-deck circle. It was the one the Quinn family had gotten me for Christmas—the first bat that was really mine since my mom had died. I ran my fingers along the barrel, the metal warm to the touch.

I pushed the memory aside. Now wasn’t the time.

Gavin jogged over, catching up with me as he shed his gear.

“A righty,” I said, pointing toward the mound.

“Good thing you taught me how to hit left-handed,” he grinned, swinging his orange-and-yellow bat—the one with my name stamped on it. It was the only bat brand he used now.

He walked to the plate like he owned it. And in a way, he did. He looked so much like his brother. He had Tanner’s walk, that same smooth swing, and his hair spilled out the back of his helmet in the same way. Even his pants fit like Tanner’s had.

The pitcher wound up.

Gavin didn’t wait. He never waited.

I didn’t even have to watch the ball fly. I heard it off the bat, the crack that said, This is gone. Gavin knew, too.

First pitch. Home run.

I leapt in the air. So did everyone else. We met him at the plate, a tidal wave of cheers crashing on him. His signature smirk—the Quinn smirk—was plastered across his face as he rounded third.

It cramped me a little, all of us mobbing him. From joy. From hope. But I held back. I still had a job to do.

It was my turn. Left foot in the box. Then right. Bat resting on my shoulder. Eyes locked on the pitcher’s face.

He looked scared.

And I felt calm.

The pitch came in—fastball, inside. I saw it out of his hand. My body just... moved. Muscle memory. Another crack. This one vibrated through the bat and into my chest.

Gone.

I rounded the bases, head down. I didn’t need to see where the ball landed.

2-0.

Another mob at the plate. Another explosion of sound.

Back on the bench, I sat and elevated my arm out of habit to keep the blood flowing. Gavin took a seat next to me, strapping his shin guards back on.

“Nice hit,” he said.

I bumped his fist and nodded. Then tuned it all out. I was already planning the next inning.

I didn’t have to worry. I put them down in order in the second and again in the third. Still no runs.

In the bottom of the fifth, Gavin did it again. This time from the right side of the plate. Home run number two.