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We just had to hold them for this final at bat. If we kept them from getting any runs, the game would be ours.

I picked up the rosin bag, and something bright reflected from behind the press box. I squinted to get a better look. For the briefest, most foolish second, I swore I saw Eliza’s silhouette. The same outline and stance she’d had the first time we played her father’s team. When she broke through my attempt to block out the fans.

Funny how I had hated the way she did that. How I thought she was the reason I couldn’t get or keep my head in the game this season.

But it took losing her for the truth to finally pummel me: The only one who was responsible for how I threw this season was me. It had always been and would always be me.

The pressure didn’t have to be a distraction. It could be a purpose. Something to throw for and not battle against.

I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured her standing in front of me again. Her hand pressing the baseball into my glove.

No one owns that mound but you.

No one owns the mound but me.

The tension in the air at Crowley Park was palpable when the first batter took the plate. That same on-edge tingle I sometimes felt right before a major thunderstorm, from my neck to my knees. The batter spat close to Troy, who then flipped him off quickly so the ump wouldn’t see. I laughed into my glove.

A second later, Troy asked for the heat, and I brought it.

It was a risky throw, but he made a good call. The idiot on the plate had a shit-ton of chew in his mouth and was too busy pushing it around to focus.

Four pitches later, I got him. Lucky bastard got a piece of a good slider but missed the following one.

The next batter got a piece of my curveball, but Nick was ready in left field and made an amazing sliding catch to give us our second out.

I rolled my shoulders and took in a deep breath.

One more.

One.

More.

So naturally, it would come down to a Fulton pitching against a Crowley.

TJ dropped a white doughnut ring off his bat before he took the plate. He was on fire tonight, 4–4.

I kept my chin low, brought up my knee, and released a freakin’ beautiful slider.

TJ swung and missed.

The ump held up a fist and yelled, “Strike!”

Troy gave the next call, a curveball. It should’ve been an easy throw compared to my slider. It should’ve swooped down as it crossed the plate. But this one didn’t.

The pitch went high and tight. Had TJ not jumped out of the box, he would’ve needed new teeth.

“Ball!” the ump called. And then he stared at me a bit too long before brushing away the dirt on home plate. Translation: Watch it, pitcher.

The boys banged the top of the fence and jumped up and down in the dugout while I faced the outfield and lifted my gaze to the dark night sky. Dad’s tags grew heavy on my chest.

I almost hit a batter. Again.

What if I nailed TJ with this next pitch? What if I fuckin’ blew this shot like I did last summer?

The stands, the lights, the fancy scoreboard pushed against me from all sides.

Blinding.