Page 61 of The Strike Zone

Jupiter up at bat was always a sight to see. I remembered being a kid and obsessively watching Dodgers games just to catch a glimpse of the great Jupiter Reeves.

Watching him was like watching art come to life.

The calculated positioning of his body, the roll of his neck, the subtle way he shifted his weight from right to left. It was the same every single time, and no matter how much people tried to copy it, they never came away with the same result.

“Fuuuck,” hissed Ace while Lux let out a low whistle, though it was virtually impossible to hear over the roar of the crowd. “That’s gotta be three hundred and fifty feet.”

And just like that we were up another run.

As he took off, Jupiter tossed his bat high into the air, and it landed back on the ground with a thud. It had been known to snap in half before, but from what I could see this time it stayed intact.

His run around the bases was slow and deliberate as he soaked in the deafening cheers from fans. And not just Lions fans, everyone. Jupiter Reeves might be a Lion, but there wasn’t a single person watching who couldn’t appreciate what they’d just witnessed, because he’d long ago cemented himself as one of the greatest players of all time.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, stepping into the dugout wearing a massive grin, and marched down to the end of the row, high-fiving everyone he passed.

He might be the GOAT, but he was also a massive dick when he wanted to be.

“Fucking Reeves,” muttered Ace, because that’s all there was to say, and just like we all did, he flip-flopped between hero-worshipping the guy and wanting to punch him.

“Tan’s at bat,” announced Lux, sitting in the spot Tanner had vacated.

“SMASH IT, SIMPSON,” yelled Ace.

The three of us sat in silence as Tanner readied himself for the ball. Even though he acted a clown 99 percent of the time, the second Tanner stepped onto the field, his entire demeanor changed to one of serious concentration. You could see it from the way he spun his bat in the palm of his hand and got into position; there was an intensity in his expression you never saw him wearing at any other time.

“That’ll get him to second,” said Lux as Tanner grounded the ball to the outfield, the Marlins shortstop narrowly missing it rolling past his leg.

“He might get to third if he sprints,” I replied, eyes narrowed on Tanner powering onto second base, where he stopped.

“Next time.” Ace chuckled.

It was as Boomer Jones stepped up to the plate that I felt the presence of someone sliding along the benches next to me.

“How’s it going with the social chick?” asked Jupiter, taking a long swig of the Gatorade he’d picked up when we first came off the field.

I side-eyed him. “Fine.”

“Got her number yet?”

I shook my head, answering the question for the second time in ten minutes. “Nope.”

“Hmm—” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded, crumpled piece of paper, which he held between his fingers. “It’s your lucky day then, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?” I asked, one eye still on Boomer, who’d managed to get to first base, while Tanner moved to third.

“A cell number,” he replied, snatching his hand away when I tried to take it.

Dick.

“Reeves, I’m not in the mood, and I don’t want a random cell number.”

“It’s not random. It’s Scout’s.”

Turning my entire body toward him, I tried to pin him with one of the menacing scowls he used on us most of the time. But it wasn’t anywhere near as effective. Maybe you needed to be nearing forty in order to accomplish that, or however old he was. Retirement was calling, that was for sure.

“You’re telling me on that piece of paper in your hand is Scout Davison’s cell phone number?”

“Yup.”

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