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“Let’s catch up after the game though. Okay?” I stepped toward him.

“Yeah. Maybe,” he said before he left for home plate.

The B Field sandlot stands were packed tonight, and those who couldn’t have a seat in the bleachers came prepared with bag chairs near the third- and first-base lines. We were ahead 6–4 in the ninth. It had been a fast game with no errors from either side. Cameron pitched most of it and was relieved by Tom in the bottom of the seventh.

“Fulton.” Coach Monaco patted the top of the dugout fence. “Why don’t you stand up here with me?”

“Okay, Coach.” I rose and stood between him and Cameron. Nana and Granddad waved to me from behind home plate. I smiled, but my stomach soured when the top of the Pistons lineup strolled up to take his stance in front of Ben.

“It would be the top of the lineup right now,” Cameron muttered.

Coach spat a couple of sunflower shells over the fence. “Tom can handle it.”

I hope so.

The first batter crowded more of the plate this time than last. Then again, I would too, if I were 0–2 in at bats tonight. We were lucky though. Both of those outs could’ve easily been home runs if Nick hadn’t snatched them from above the fence like Aaron Judge.

Tom must’ve noticed the change in the guy’s stance because he pitched a brushback. The batter twisted backward out of the box. Another inch and he would’ve taken that ball right in his elbow.

It was a risky pitch but a good one. Sometimes you gotta shake the batter a little before bringing the heat.

And that’s what Tom did.

Three pitches later—two fastballs, one slider—the guy sulked back to his dugout.

“Two to go!” I yelled. “Let’s go, Tom!”

Cameron leaned in closer. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” He spat a sunflower seed. “About Ben.”

“Now’s not a good time.” The last thing I wanted to do right now was receive a guilt trip about Ben and how everything had gone down.

The next batter strutted toward the plate. His cheek bulged with some kind of chew, and he stuck out his chest before he took a couple of practice swings.

Shit. I gulped.

This steroid dude already had one home run this game.

“But something’s wrong with him. With Ben.” Cameron nudged my elbow. “He’s been angrier than usual—”

“We had a fight a little while ago.” I patted his arm. “But it’ll be okay.”

Maybe telling myself that enough would make it true?

Tom threw a perfect curveball for the first pitch. The slap of the ball into the glove gave me goosebumps. The ump’s fist rose into the air. “Strike!”

The next two pitches were straight down the middle, but thankfully, the big guy swung over both. He chucked the bat as he stomped off the field.

Two down.

One to go.

One batter now stood between us and the championship.

Between us and the Crowleys—

“He’s been drinking a lot though,” Cameron blurted.

“Wait. What?” I clutched Cameron’s arm.