Page 133 of Truck Hard

“Strike one!” The umpire calls.

The bleachers around us shake as people stomp their feet and cheer. I can hear Mac’s distinctive whistle cutting through the noise, and Grams’s voice rising above the din. “That’s my great-grandson!”

Cam squares his shoulders, winds up for the second pitch. It’s higher this time, and the batter swings, making contact witha sharp crack that sends the ball screaming down the third base line.

“Foul ball!” The umpire shouts as the ball lands just outside the line.

Hannah’s grip on my hand tightens further. “I can’t watch,” she murmurs, but her eyes stay glued to our son.

The crowd settles into a tense hush, the entire field holding its collective breath. Cam takes his time for this next pitch, adjusting his grip on the ball, eyes narrowed in concentration. I notice how he subtly shifts his fingers, and I recognize what’s coming next—the curveball Tanner Koch’s been teaching him.

Of all the people to end up coaching my son’s summer baseball league, it had to be my high school rival’s younger brother, Tanner. The black sheep of the Koch family, the one who runs the only convenience store near Beaver where we can buy beer. He’s been my family’s enemy for a lifetime, but that ended when Christian married Amelia.

The man knows baseball, I’ll give him that. And he’s been surprisingly good with Cam, patient and encouraging in ways I never would have expected from a Koch.

Cam goes into his windup, and I hold my breath as he releases the ball. It looks like it’s heading straight for the batter’s chest, but then it breaks at the last second, diving across the plate.

The batter swings hard—too hard—and connects. The ball rockets off his bat in a line drive that shoots straight back toward the mound faster than Cam can react. My heart stops as the ball zips past my son’s ear, missing him by inches.

“Jesus,” I mutter, my body instinctively tensing as if I could somehow leap onto the field to protect him. But Cam’s fine, already focused on the play unfolding behind him.

The ball bounces once on the infield dirt before the second baseman—a scrappy kid named Tyler—scoops it up in one fluidmotion. He pivots and fires to first base, where Jake Parker stretches to his full height, his foot planted firmly on the bag.

The runner sprints down the line, cleats kicking up dust as he lunges for the base. The ball smacks into the first baseman’s glove a split second before the runner’s foot hits the bag in a cloud of red dirt.

For one eternal moment, the entire field freezes, waiting.

“OUT!” The umpire finally shouts, and the crowd explodes.

Hannah launches herself into my arms with a shriek of joy, and I lift her off her feet, spinning her around as the bleachers erupt in chaos around us. My brothers are on their feet, whooping and hollering like madmen. Even Warren, usually the most reserved of us all, has his arms raised in victory.

On the field, Cam’s teammates swarm him, lifting him onto their shoulders as parents and siblings pour out of the stands, rushing to congratulate the team. Tanner Koch stands off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, but even from here I can see his satisfied smile.

“They did it!” Hannah says against my neck, her voice thick with emotion. “They actually won!”

I set her down gently, keeping one arm around her waist as we make our way down the bleachers toward the field. “Never doubted them for a second,” I say, though we both know that’s a lie. My stomach’s only just now unclenching.

“Liar.” She laughs, elbowing me lightly in the ribs. “You were as nervous as I was.”

“Yeah, well, can you blame me? That line drive nearly took his head off.”

Hannah’s smile falters slightly. “Don’t remind me. I think I stopped breathing for a second there.”

“He’s got good reflexes.” I assure her, though I make a mental note to talk to Cam about fielding those comebackers. Maybe we should practice that more in the backyard.

We reach the edge of the field just as the team sets Cam back on his feet. His face is flushed with excitement, his cap askew, exposing the dark hair he inherited from me. When he spots us, his grin widens, and he breaks away from his teammates to sprint toward us.

“Dad! Mom! Did you see that?” He shouts, crashing into us with full-body enthusiasm. “Did you see Tyler’s throw? It was perfect!”

I ruffle his hair, pride swelling in my chest until I think it might burst. “We saw, buddy. You were incredible out there. That last strikeout was a thing of beauty.”

“The curveball was working today, huh?” Hannah adds, wrapping her arm around his shoulders despite his half-hearted attempt to squirm away. At twelve, he’s at that age where public displays of affection from his mother are becoming embarrassing, but he still leans into her touch.

“Coach Tanner said it was the best one I’ve thrown all season,” Cam says, his eyes bright with excitement. “He says if I keep practicing, I could make the travel team next year.”

“Is that something you’d want?” I ask carefully. Travel ball means more practices, weekend tournaments, longer drives. It’s a bigger commitment, but if it’s what Cam wants I won’t stand in his way.

“Yeah!” Cam’s enthusiasm is contagious. “Coach says I have potential. Real potential, Dad.”

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