Page 41 of Shades of You

“Nice hit. Just bad luck,” Evan called from where he stood in the dugout, arms folded across his chest.

“Thanks,” I grumbled as I put on my catcher’s gear, offering him a nod. I’d been on pins and needles all game, trying not to make a big deal of him being there.

Despite everyone on our team knowing it was a huge, monumental deal.

We transitioned to defense, and I crouched behind home plate. Evan stood tall at first base, his figure casting a long shadow in the infield as he scooped up a grounder.

Gabe was on the mound, and the Barracudas were ahead three to one. With each pitch, Gabe strained, his arm losing the fight against fatigue. When a towering pop fly headed Evan’s way, he instantly moved into position, then caught it without a hint of strain. Facing the other way, Gabe winced, rubbing his shoulder.

“Nice catch,” I said over the cheers, clapping my mitt in quiet support.

“Thanks,” Evan replied. His eyes scanned the field, taking in every detail.

The next inning rolled around quickly, and it was Evan’s turn to bat. He walked up to the plate with a nonchalance that belied the tension of the moment. He wasn’t even limping, though I suspected that easy stroll cost him some effort. Tom wound up and threw a ball that came in high—close to Evan’s head. He didn’t even flinch. Just stepped out of the batter’s box as the umpire yelled, “Ball!”

Maia laughed next to me, not a little pride in it. The next throw had the pitcher releasing a fastball that seemed to scream through the air with the fury of a hundred storms.

Evan swung.

The crack of the bat meeting the ball echoed like a shot across the field. Time slowed as everyone’s heads craned to follow the trajectory of the baseball as it soared high and far over the outfield fence. A solo home run.

“Yeah!” I shouted, joining in the eruption of cheers from the Stingrays’ bench. We were only one run behind now, with the ninth inning looming ahead.

We held the Barracudas at bay in the top of the ninth, our defense as tight as the knots that tangled my insides. And despite Gabe being a little wilder on the mound, he held them. Pride in my family surged through me. Excitement buzzed through the team as we took our last chance at bat. I toed the chalked box for the fourth time. The last time. The first pitch hurtled toward me, and it looked outside. I held my swing.

“Strike!” The umpire’s call pierced the tense silence that had settled over the crowd, and I shot him a dirty look. Probably in his mid-twenties, the kid pursed his lips together but held firm.

“Shake it off, Hunter!” Maia yelled from the dugout. The weight of every gaze was fixed upon me.

Determined, I steadied myself for the next pitch. My hands gripped the bat, the tape pressing into my skin. When the ball came, I swung with all I had but only met air. A swing and a miss.

“Strike two!”

“Goddamn it,” I muttered under my breath, stepping out of the batter’s box for a moment. My heart hammered against my ribs as I tried to focus, to find that sliver ofcalm. I stepped back in, Tom already winding up for what could be the final blow. And then it came—a blur of white heading straight at me.

Another swing. Another miss.

“Strike three! You’re out! Game over.”

The wordoverknifed through the evening, severing the thread of hope we’d clung to. We lost by one.

“Good game,” Wyatt, who was Maia’s husband and our center fielder, said quietly as he passed me, his hand briefly touching my shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“Next time, Hunter,” Stella said, patting me on the back before she joined the others collecting their gear. Her smile was encouraging, but the disappointment in her eyes mirrored my own. Resting the bat on my shoulder, I made my way over to the dugout.

“Hey, Evan,” Maia called out, her voice slicing through the murmur of disappointed chatter and the clanking of metal cleats against concrete. “Maybe you should be the one coaching the team, not me.”

Evan laughed, the sound somehow both lighthearted and tinged with melancholy. “You’re doing a great job, Maia. No need for a last-minute substitution.” His eyes didn’t quite meet hers as he shoved his glove into his duffel bag.

I turned away from them, my gaze settling on Manuel. As the driver of the resort dive boat,Shark Bait, the guy could read the ocean like nobody’s business, but now his gaze was fixed on Gabe, who was nursing his pitching arm with a wince.

“Think you might need a break next game?” Manuel’s concern was evident even in his casual tone. And he’d pitched in the rec league before.

“Maybe,” Gabe grunted, rotating his shoulder with a grimace. “If this doesn’t shape up, the mound is yours.”

The idea of Manuel stepping onto the pitcher’s mound brought a round of good-natured encouragement, but wary glances kept darting toward Evan. He was the elephant in the room—or rather, the hurricane whose presence had changed the dynamics of our team massively.

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