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Beside me, Tenny sucks in a reactionary breath. A part of me wants to shoulder-check Tenny for the theatrics, but he isn’t the one on my last nerve. Instead, I lean back in my chair, lifting one eyebrow as I maintain eye contact with Mike.

“You finished?”

“You can disagree with me, but the numbers don’t.”

My jaw ticks, but I cross my arms casually. “I think I’d rather take advice from someone who’s actually been in an MLB batter’s box.”

DJ Rivera, our centerfielder, smothers his laugh with his fist. Then, he coughs for good measure. “Sorry. Spring cold.”

I almost crack a smile but focus on burning holes into Mike’s face instead. When he glances away first, victory sprints through my veins. Another click resonates through the silent room as Mike finally moves on.

“They’re carrying eight relievers today. If we knock Mendoza out by the fifth, expect Dawson…”

Hours later, we’re down an embarrassing eight to nothing at the bottom of the seventh. Mendoza has been dominating with nine strikeouts, and we still haven’t gotten a baserunner. Meanwhile, the Admirals have knocked a grand slam, a two-run homer, and a single.

Our first base coach, Lenny Almer, might as well be picking daisies; he’s useless out there. It actually looks like he’s pouting, arms crossed. Of course, that might be because he hasn’t gotten to do any of the silly, personalized handshakes he has with the other players.

DJ and him high five and then bump hips. Colton and him do the I Dream of Jeannie head nod. Though Larry keeps bugging me to pick something, I’m only interested in playing baseball, not goofy rituals.

I tighten my grip around the bat while taking a deep inhale, stepping into the batter’s box. As much as I’d like to ignore Mike’s advice on principle, I can’t afford to now. When the first pitch comes fast and high, I put everything into my swing. The crack reverberates through my hands, and I don’t bother watching. I sprint toward first base like my career depends on it.

“Go two!” Lenny shouts as I catch two outfielders rushing toward the left-center gap.

The centerfielder fires the ball off to the cutoff man just as I slide into second.

Waves Stadium explodes in a deafening roar. I don’t think I’ve heard it this loud all night, unless you count the boos aimed at the Admirals. My chin dips in a curt nod toward the stands before I dust off my pants. As Trevor steps up to the plate, I lead off, only to be stranded at second like a man marooned on an island. Mendoza shuts out Trevor and then Tenny.

Patrick, the team’s manager, claps me on the shoulder as I rush into the dugout to drop my helmet and grab my glove. “Nice work.”

My reflexive grimace makes his salt-and-pepper mustache twitch.

“Have I told you what my goal for you is this season?” he asks, holding me back while my teammates rush onto the field.

“No, sir.”

I imagine Patrick has a laundry list. I’d performed well with the Atlanta Stallions last season, but obviously not as good as I’d thought if they traded me without a second thought.

His hand, scarred from years of baseball, gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I want you to accept a compliment without looking like you’re passing a kidney stone.”

My brows scrunch, but Patrick only grins, thumping my back in a silent dismissal.

Once in position, I put everything into the remaining innings. I race all over right field, capturing an out by vaulting halfway up the back wall and another with a dive so forceful I end up tumbling into a somersault after catching the ball. Even with the entire Waves defense playing flawlessly, the Admirals score another two runs.

We’re holding them at the top of the ninth—two outs, nobody on—when a ball pops into foul territory along the right-field wall. My legs feel like they’re seconds from giving out, but I make it just in time. Placing one hand on the wall, I leverage myself up. But before my glove can close around the ball, a fan in a Yankees jersey shoves his glove atop mine, catching it.

“What are you doing?”

The fan sneers at me, waving the ball. “Oh, did you want this?”

I’m tempted to do something reckless, like fist the collar of his jersey and acquaint his patchy facial hair with the cement wall. A familiar part of me quietly prepares, my muscles twitching in anticipation, adrenaline and liquid fire braiding down my spine. But I made a decision not to fight anymore when I left hockey, and this bozo isn’t worth the consequences.

I drop to the dirt just as the surrounding Waves fans shove him into the aisle.

Tony, the first base umpire, runs up beside me, giving the man the ejection signal.

The crowd roars their approval as they toss popcorn, half-eaten hot dogs, and even a full can of beer at the man as he’s escorted up the stairs by security.

“You okay?” Tony asks.