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Ben called the next pitch, and I did what Dad had taught me years ago—made the crowd fade away in the background, underexposed. Put them in shadow. Out of sight, his voice whispered inside my head. Focus your breathing. Slow and steady, Reed.

Slow and steady. Slow and…

But one person still stayed bright when everyone else went dark.

Eliza stood alone outside the press box. Her arms crossed in front of her. Ponytail fluttering in the breeze. Eyes staring directly at me.

Did she have nothing better to do?

TJ stepped back out of the box—of course—so I used the quick break to turn around and take off my hat. Sweat beaded on my eyebrows. My arm throbbed.

“Do not pay attention to her,” I mumbled. “That’s what she wants. To distract you. Get you back for bothering her yesterday. Don’t let her.”

I rolled my shoulders. After another deep breath in, I faced home plate again and ignored Eliza, who still stood by the press box. I leaned forward and focused solely on Ben’s glove.

“You got this, Fulton!” Brent yelled from second.

I straightened up and pulled my arm back to throw what should’ve been my slider.

But it went right to TJ’s left shin.

Oh, fuck.

Ben jumped up and ripped off his mask.

TJ threw down his bat, hopped around a few times, and charged me. Coach Crowley ran out of the dugout and yelled at him to stop.

Ha. TJ Crowley never stopped for anything or anyone.

Ben dropped his glove and sprinted after him, reaching him a second before he could throw a punch.

My heart hammered so loudly that my teeth numbed. I took a few steps toward him with clenched fists, but Brett’s arms wound around me and tugged me backward toward the mound.

None of them understood. This was about so much more than baseball.

I wanted TJ to hit me. If he did, I could finally push back like I should’ve all those years ago. I wasn’t a scrawny coward anymore.

TJ shrugged off Ben and stormed away to first. Coach Monaco then called a time and jogged out to the mound.

My stomach clenched, and my mouth tasted grittier than the dirt under my cleats. It was embarrassing enough to know when you were done. But having a coach come out to tell you so in front of hundreds of people only made it worse.

“You tryin’ to get your teeth knocked in, Fulton?” he asked me with a glint in his eye.

I rubbed the back of my now sunburned neck. “Just trying to finish out the game.”

He spat a sunflower shell to his left.

Coach Monaco translation: I was done.

Dammit.

“You threw a great game,” he said.

Must’ve been a really great game if I’m out after one mistake.

Coach spat another seed. “Tom’s ready to come in and finish it.”

I sighed and handed Coach the ball. Dad always told me to never drop my head when a coach took me out, so I kept my eyes on him and said what Dad always told me to say in this situation: “Thank you, sir.”