Page 56 of Stetson

The Harlequins ate up the field. There was a reason why we were left to battle it out for that spot in the finals. Those few hours were the most stressful of my entire life. Tension simmered through the air. There were no playful jabs between the team. Every man out there knew how serious this game was. Hell, even the coaches were oddly quiet.

We’d already gone into extra innings, and you still couldn’t guess the outcome of the game if you tried. The score was five to five. The board hadn’t changed in what felt like days, and the two “out” lights taunted me. The guys were tired, every single one of them, and it was starting to show. Number thirty-eight stepped up to the plate and lifted his bat. The pitch…

Strike one.

My hands tightened around my water bottle. I’d emptied it ages ago, but I needed something to do. Tossing the crumpled plastic aside, I stood and went to the edge of the dugout.

Our batter cursed and set up for his next attempt.

Strike two.

One half of the crowd cheered, while the other groaned. Even from a distance, I could see the look of mutual disappointment and determination on my teammate’s face. When he raised his bat again, his eyes blazed.

I clenched onto the railing in front of me so fiercely that my knuckles turned white. The stadium was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Not even the opposing crowd heckled the batter. There were no phones out. I didn’t even think anyone was breathing.

And then there was the final pitch.

Strike three.

We were in sudden death.

None of us blamed the batter who’d struck out. We all knew what kind of an arm the Harlequin’s pitcher had. That didn’t stop him from kicking himself, but we didn’t have much time to think about it. Two sets of coaches huddled near the pitcher’s mound, and we knew what was happening.

In the event of sudden death, the home team picked either offense or defense. Offense being the ones to bat, and defense on the field. Offense would start with a runner on first base, and they had three outs to either get in a run, or the defense would walk away with the win.

I glanced around at my team. We couldn’t let the Harlequins get their pitcher on the mound again. If we did, we were screwed. I swallowed against a lump in my throat, hoping that my apprehension didn’t show on my face.

When the head coach turned around and locked eyes with me, I knew.

“Swindon, you’re up!”

“No,” was my first thought. “Hell to the no,” was my second. I didn’t want that pressure. Especially since he knew what this game meant for me. I didn’t want the weight of the World Series on my shoulders. If we didn’t make it, it would go down in history thatIwas the one to screw it up.

But I also knew my coach: you took what you were given and you didn’t argue.

If he wanted me up to bat, then he must have seen something in me that I didn’t see in myself. So I sucked it up, grabbed a drink to wet my dry mouth, and snatched up my batting helmet.

Despite my nerves, fatigue hit me like a freight train. Halfway to home plate, I paused in my tracks. Something trickled in through the sound of blood rushing in my ears, followed by…laughter. Music played, but it wasn’t my usual Guns N’ Roses. When the sound registered, I couldn’t help but smile ear to ear.

“Diva” by Beyoncé.

Well played, Rookie.

Tongue in cheek, I continued to home plate.

I swear two strikes happened before I could even blink. Despite the autumnal chill in the air, my blood boiled. Heat surged through my veins, sweat drenched my clothes. I pushed up my long sleeves, took a deep breath, and raised my bat. The pitcher had a gleam in his eye, and that was it.

I was determined now.

I squared my feet and dared that motherfucker to challenge me. I wasnotgoing to be the one to screw this up for my team. He rolled his neck, and I saw movement behind his glove that indicated he was rolling the ball around, more than likely trying to determine the perfect pitch to take me out. My eyes stayed laser-focused on that mitt. I wasn’t looking at the pitcher, I wasn’t looking at my coaches, and I definitely wasn’t looking at the crowd. The only things on that field were me and the ball.

Pitch.

Swing.

29

STETSON

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