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Ben clapped his hand against his glove before throwing the ball back. He gave me the signal for another fastball. I nodded and got into formation. A moment later, I threw another strike from my two-seamer. And a minute after that, I threw another one.

Three fastballs in a row for my fastest out of the game.

Eliza would’ve loved to see it.

Ben stood and held up two fingers to signify our outs and threw the ball to me. I couldn’t see his face, but I liked to think maybe he was smiling. Ben and I had worked on my two-seamer off and on since last summer, but it was never consistent enough for me to really feel comfortable throwing it—till this week.

The next batter took the plate.

My last one of the game. My fastball would make sure of that. And maybe a good changeup to clench it.

But when Ben crouched down behind the plate, he used two fingers and tapped the inside of his right thigh.

A curveball?

I shook it away.

This same batter hit the shit out of my curveball earlier when I first took the mound. No. He needed my two-seamer and then a changeup. Ben must’ve known that.

But he smacked his glove and signaled for a curveball again.

I sighed, and my father’s voice drifted into my head.

If you can’t trust your catcher, you can’t trust anyone, son.

Face hidden by my glove, I imagined Eliza at the plate again and reluctantly nodded to Ben. My knee drew up a second later before I released the ball. And then, everything slowed as the batter’s eyes lit up.

CRACK!

Ben jumped to his feet and ripped off his mask. I whirled around and watched the ball sail deep into center field. Dominic sprinted after it.

“Catch it, catch it,” I mumbled.

Dominic’s glove shot up as he got closer to the wall. He leaped and reached over the top as the ball dropped.

I couldn’t look.

But then the crowd went wild. Our team charged out of the dugout and threw their gloves into the air as the announcer called out our victory of 4–3 over the Centerville Coyotes.

Ben appeared next to me and scoffed. “That was your curveball?”

I flipped my hat up. “Why did you call for it? You know he hit the hell out of mine earlier.”

“I didn’t trust the two-seamer to happen again.”

Seriously? All he’d wanted me to do at the beginning of this summer was master it, to force myself to throw it. Now he wanted me to hold back?

He scowled and walked away toward the guys who crowded around Coach Monaco near the dugout. I tucked my glove under my arm and followed.

Coach raised his hand, and the team quieted. “I know that scoreboard says we won, but we’re damn lucky we did. We had far more errors than the Coyotes. Most of you played like your head was in the clouds instead of down here on the field. The only one who had half his shit together was Cameron. Nice game, son.” He nodded to him, and my face prickled with heat.

“We’ve got almost a week till our next game, and I don’t need to remind you how important a game it is,” Coach continued. “Until then, rest up, be on time for our practices, and for God’s sake, keep your head in the game, where it belongs. We got a lot riding on this one, and a family I don’t wanna let down.” His gaze moved across the group from each player and settled on me. “Have I made myself clear?”

Crystal.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Eliza