Page 36 of Stealing Kisses

As Davis placed the baseball in Teddy’s glove, he teased, “If I was smitten with Baylin O’Casey, I’d want to get rid of Crockett, too.”

With no plausible defense, Teddy remained quiet.

“Here we go,” Davis hollered in a jaunty voice as he jogged to center field.

The catcher stood to the side of home plate for Teddy to warm up with a few pitches. The disgruntled umpire called everyone back to their places to resume play.

Teddy called time again, gesturing for the catcher to meet him in the infield.

“Good heavens to Betsy,” the umpire growled.

“Hi” Teddy said, sounding more awkward than he’d hoped. “I’m Teddy.” He hesitated again. “I should’ve asked if you’ve caught before,” he said with concern.

“Nice to meet you; I’m Rhys Larsen,” the catcher offered, pulling off his catcher’s mitt to shake Teddy’s hand. “And, uh… I’ve been catching the entire game.”

“I don’t meanhere.” Teddy looked around at the high school baseball stadium, at the crowd bundled up under coats and blankets in the stands. His eyes settled on Baylin, who smiled in return.

“I know what you mean, Gwenn.”

Teddy looked him right in the eye.

“You won’t hurt my hand. Just throw the ball, so we can steal this win right out from under ’em.”

Teddy searched Rhys’s face for a hint of false bravado but found nothing beyond sheer competitive spirit. Both men nodded at the other in agreement and walked back to their spots behind the plate and on the mound.

After rolling his shoulders and popping his neck, Teddy dragged his front foot across the pitching plate; he didn’t even have cleats on.

Why in the world was he making such a big deal of this game?

He played in much bigger venues 162 times a year. Too bad his ego refused to accept reason.

His gaze darted to Baylin, and his determination clicked up yet another notch.

Certain Crockett would watch the first ball for timing, Teddy wound up and released afastfastball. A satisfying snap echoed from Rhys’s mitt.

“Woo-wee,” someone howled from the stands.

“Strike one,” said the umpire.

“Nice pitch,” Davis hollered from center field.

Teddy walked back to the mound, fixed the dirt, rocked back, and fired another fastball — even faster — into Rhys’s glove. Crockett had let it go by without swinging again.

“Strike two!”

Teddy scanned the fans as he circled back to the mound a final time. The spectators sat on the edge of their seats, many yelling for one team or the other…a few whispering and pointing in Teddy’s direction.

Baylin sat tall, her back ramrod straight. A questioning look had replaced her easy smile.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Teddy took his place on the mound, smoothed the dirt, pulled the ball and glove to his chest, and released the slowest changeup he’d seen since Little League.

Crockett bit, expecting another fastball and swinging for the fences. He’d swung, missed, and dropped the bat all before the ball had reached Rhys’s glove.

“Strike three! Ballgame,” the umpire announced. “Everybody outta the cold and on to the Sweetheart Festival.”

Cheers erupted from the fire chief’s dugout. Grumblings sounded from the police chief’s bench. Both coaches and all the players formed two lines to shake hands and offerGood Gamesto one another.

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