Page 34

“We’re ready.” Ben opened one of the bars and took a big bite. “Thanks.”

“Your daddy would be so happy to see you working on that, Reed.” She grabbed a pair of gardening gloves off the shelf. “Be sure you hydrate. Gonna be a scorcher today.”

“We will.” I crossed the space and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You sure it’s okay that we finish this?”

“Absolutely.” She ruffled my hair. “I’d like to think there are a few things we can finish this summer. The chair is one. The feud is another. Get a win today, boys.”

Ben pointed his water bottle before downing half of it. “Don’t worry, we will. We got the ace on our side. He’s ready.”

I hope so.

Later that afternoon, I warmed up in one of my least favorite places: the enemy bullpen on a game day. Although I loved the pressure, the dare of it, this wasn’t just any enemy bullpen. Plus, I had my coach from Fayetteville, Coach Roeper—a dude more ripped than the Rock—staring down every single one of my pitches.

I threw a slider. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

Translation: I’m not sure.

I switched to a curveball. He spat twice to his right.

Translation: Eh. Maybe.

If he spat to the left, though, I might as well put on an extra pair of pants to keep my ass from getting splinters. They’d bench me for at least three-quarters of the game. The local paper may have titled me the Ace, but Roeper didn’t give two shits about that article. He only read the paper for Calvin and Hobbes.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to show him my changeup. Remembering Ben’s advice, I fixed my footing before the throw. Perfect release with a beautiful slowdown right before it smacked Ben’s glove directly over our make-believe plate.

Hell yes.

Coach cleared his throat, pulled a toothpick from his pocket, and put it in his mouth.

Damn. I got the throat and a toothpick?

“You gonna throw another one of those, Fulton?” Coach asked. “Or just stand there like a toothy moron?”

A laugh drifted from above. Eliza peered down, her blue eyes shadowed by her Crowley Cardinals hat. Lauryn stood next to her, dressed as a cardinal and holding her costumed head in her hands. My ears burned.

’Course they heard that.

“Fulton?” Coach Roeper yelled. “You ready now, or should I come back later?”

I snapped my head back and tried to only worry about the ball in my hand and not the ones that Coach just kicked the shit out of.

Ben signaled his pointer finger down and away.

Slider. Got it.

I took my stance and pressed the glove to the bridge of my nose before winding back and releasing.

Low and true.

Coach gave a quick nod before moving over to watch Cameron Carter, a lefty from my hometown.

Eliza let out a low whistle. “Not bad, Fulton.”

Ben stood. “Don’t you have something better to do, Crowley? Sitting above the press box or posing for pictures?”

“I did.” She leaned over the railing. “But I had to help pick up all the Mardi Gras beads and toilet paper someone put on the cardinal statues. You wouldn’t know anything about that, though, would you, boys?”

Ben and I gave each other a look before shaking our heads.