Page 3 of The Umpire Strikes Back

I ignore his dig. The next pitch comes in low and away. “Ball two.” Riptide squares up, but he still sneaks a glance my way, as if challenging me to say something. The crowd’s volume seems to taper, everyone waiting to see if we’ll have another altercation.

Pitch three is right down the heart of the plate. “Strike!” I announce clearly. Riptide scowls, but he doesn’t argue. He steps out of the box, takes a practice swing, and steps back in. The next pitch is borderline, painting the black on the outside corner. It could go either way, but from my angle, it nicks the strike zone. “Strike two!”

He exhales, jaw clenched. I watch him tighten his grip, probably wishing he could do something to retaliate. Then the fifth pitch is a nasty slider in the dirt, and he holds off. “Ball three.”

Now it’s a full count. The stadium is electric again. The fans who love him cheer wildly; those who hate him boo just as loudly. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. The pitcher sets, eyes locked on the catcher’s mitt, and unleashes a rocket of a fastball. Riptide swings, making contact with a deafening crack. The ball slices foul down the left field line, landing among a scramble of fans leaping for a souvenir.

We reset, still locked at three balls and two strikes. The tension is thick as smog. The next pitch is another fastball, but it sails high. “Ball four, batter takes first,” I announce. I give him a little wink. “Maybe you’ll hit it out of the park next time, Rip.” I step aside as Riptide tosses his bat and jogs down the line.

As he passes me, he mutters under his breath, “Don’t think this means we’re cool,” and continues on. I don’t respond. Let him stew. I’m not here to make friends.

Eventually, the inning ends without him scoring. There’s two innings left, and anything can happen in baseball. But for me, the real story of the night has already played out. I called a balk on the local golden boy, and now he’s got a personal vendetta. Fine. I’ve dealt with bigger tempers and stronger personalities.

I take a breath, letting the humidity fill my lungs. The lights overhead are at full brightness now, illuminating every blade of grass and every speck of infield dirt. The scoreboard glows with the 4–3 tally, reminding me we’re not done. I brush dirt off my pants and settle my mask back on my face, preparing for the top of the eighth.

No matter what else happens tonight, I know I made the right call. Riptide can seethe all he wants; I’m not backing down. If he balks again, I’ll call it again. That’s how this game works.

And as I crouch behind the plate, scanning the field for the next pitch, I feel the usual rush of satisfaction. There’s nothing like being in the thick of a high-stakes game—rules, tempers, and all. This is baseball, and I’m here to make sure it’s played fair.

If that means facing off against Ripley “Riptide” Johnson, so be it. Because I might sweat in this summer heat, and I might get screamed at by managers and players alike, but there’s one thing I never do: I never compromise the integrity of the game. And if Riptide wants a fight, he’ll learn soon enough that I’m not the type to back down from a challenge.

2

Ripley

I’m still riding the high of our win as I stride into the locker room, cleats clacking against the concrete. The place reeks of sweat and sports drinks, but for me, it smells like victory—despite the fact that the new umpire did everything in her power to sabotage me. Okay, maybe noteverything,but she sure as hell handed the other team a free run with that balk call. If we’d lost, I might’ve lost my mind.

I drop onto the bench in front of my locker and start unlacing my cleats. Fenway’s the first to wander over, a lazy grin on his face. “Hey, Riptide. Nice job out there,minusthat hiccup.”

“Hiccup?” I glare at him, but I can’t help smirking. “That ‘hiccup’ almost blew the game for us.”

“Dude, we won!” Fenway says, slapping my shoulder. “Way to bounce back.”

Mike, toweling off his hair, jumps in. “And you can’t blame the newbie ump for calling it like she saw it. Maybe you should have made your move less… questionable.”

I huff. “Questionable? Come on, that was a clean pick-off attempt. She just—she didn’t see it right, that’s all.”

Jace, never one to miss an opportunity, laughs. “Or maybe she saw it fine and you’re just salty.”

“Shut up, Jace,” I grumble, which only makes him laugh harder. I roll my eyes and change the subject. “By the way, did any of you notice who was under that umpire’s mask? I mean, she pulls it off, and—bam.”

Fenway wiggles his eyebrows. “So Riptidedidnotice. Thought you only had eyes for the strike zone.”

“She blindsided me,” I admit. “I wasn’t expecting someone who looked… well, like that. Didn’t mean I appreciated the call. But still.”

Mike whistles low, clearly amused. “I sense a little tension in the air.”

“Yeah, the tension of me wanting to never deal with her again,” I say quickly, trying to rein in my thoughts. She may be beautiful, but still. I shrug and push up from the bench. “Anyway, I’m out of here. I gotta pick Juniper up from my sister’s place.”

“Give the kid a high five from me,” Fenway calls.

“Sure thing,” I say. “If she’s still awake.”

* * *

I swingby Hattie’s place around nine. She lives in a cozy little house in a cul-de-sac with a big oak tree out front that Juniper loves to climb—at least, whenever Hattie lets her. The moment I knock, the door flies open, and Juniper barrels into me, nearly knocking me off my feet.

“Daddy!” she squeals, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I heard you won your game!”

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