Page 62 of Stetson

We emerged onto the field, and the noise was deafening. My plastered-on smile eased into something much more genuine. The stadium was decorated in color. Pride flags lit up the stands, bright, shining rainbows commanding the attention of anyone who dared challenge them. I blinked against the burning in my eyes. Stetson and I shared a quick, knowing glance. We’d done it. We’d truly done it.

We’d made a difference.

“From The Atlanta Thrashers, batting second, pitcher, number twelve, Stetson Holloway!”

With the ball in his hand, Stetson gave my fingers a squeeze before heading to the pitcher’s mound. I accepted my glove and took my position.

“From the New York Hellbenders, batting fourth, behind the plate, number ten, Barrett Swindon!”

The roar from the crowd was so intense that I couldn’t hear myself think. Almost as if in the distance, music filtered through the speakers: Brooke Eden’s “Outlaw Love.” The ground beneath me seemed to vibrate. I crouched behind home plate and locked eyes with Stetson. He winked, then he leisurely threw the ball in my direction. It smacked into the glove, and the screaming around us intensified. Stetson stepped off the mound and made a clear path to me. One voice stood out amongst the thousands, and I searched for Levi in the stands. Tears shamelessly danced down both cheeks. He made no move to wipe them away. I blew him a kiss, which he caught and returned. Mouthing an “I love you,” I met Stetson halfway. It was time to switch gears. I ignored the heat behind my own eyes, but reached up to brush Stetson’s cheekbones dry. I kept the PDA to a minimum, taking his hand in mine for a handshake. Shutters clicked and video cameras moved around us, capturing every angle of the two most popular men in baseball.

With a newfound confidence, Stetson and I joined our respective teams. With the first pitch out of the way, the start of the game was almost uneventful. Every bit of pressure I’d felt up to that moment faded. It no longer mattered if I got this ring or not. The only thing that did was that I got to play the game I loved, and I got to go home to themenI loved afterward. Some of my teammates may have felt differently, but I didn’t care. We got here by playing our best, and I would do nothing less now.

The first inning passed easily. The Hellbenders caught up to the Thrashers at the last second, with me crossing over home plate just as our fifth batter was tagged out at second base. I paused briefly to catch my breath, then we switched for the second inning. I had every bit of faith in my team, but that never stopped the self doubt from creeping its way in. Though as we prepared to take the field, that one run up gave me a boost of confidence. When the first batter struck out, that hope flourished. Stetson sauntered up to the plate, and I watched out of the corner of my eye. Though the chuckle from the umpire told me I wasn’t being as subtle as I thought. He let it slide, and Stetson gave me anot-so-subtle once-over as he took his place.

I made my call and when our pitcher didn’t shake his head, I considered it accepted. “Ready for me to kick your ass, Rookie?” I muttered.

He shot a look over his shoulder, and my heart flipped. “Yes, sir.”

32

STETSON

One Week Later

I thoughtI knew what exhaustion meant.

I thought I knew what it felt like to feel so tired that you’d fall over at any given second.

I was horrifically wrong.

Heading into the final game of the World Series, we all felt it. The silence in the clubhouse wasn’t charged. There was no lingering tension. It was understood. We didn’t need to talk. Each of us knew what the other was thinking.

When we entered the final seven games, we’d beaten the Hellbenders a couple of times already. I held out hope for Barrett’s sake, but I think the rest of the team got one hell of a wakeup call.

We were tied. This last game would decide everything. Either we would be world champions, or we would fall second to the Hellbenders.

The thought of Barrett losing had my gut in knots. The outcome of tonight’s game didn’t matter: it would be his last. This was his final shot at getting that championship ring.

We agreed not to see each other once we were at the field, Levi included. We had a private moment before we left the house that morning, and then we separated to get into our individual mindsets. The last thing we needed was to distract each other.

Suddenly, I felt the need to move. Not that it came as a surprise to anyone. When I shot to my feet, not a single person said a word. They’d grown accustomed to my high energy level by now, even without the added stress of boyfriends and Daddies and…

Ugh!

I found myself in a long hallway, pacing back and forth. On the wall were four picture frames: one for each World Series win the Thrashers had, even from before they moved to Atlanta. The photos dated all the way back to 1914, the most recent being just a few years old. Standing there, something switched inside me. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it made me feel uneasy. I studied the frames hanging there in front of me.Fourtitles compared to the Hellbenders’s two.

Did we really need a fifth?

I instantly shook off the thought. What thehellwas I thinking?

The door to the locker room opened and the team filed out to the field. I’d run out of time to think aboutanything. It was exactly what I needed. I could barely hear myself think over the crowd and the thundering sound of “We Will Rock You.” The noise worked as a distraction while I settled on the pitcher’s mound and shook away the unexpected nerves. I’d been so sure of myself. I couldn’t waver now.

I struck out the first batter easily. Barrett stepped up to the plate and flashed me that heart-stopping grin, and that’s when I started to falter. That smile had my stomach doing somersaults. I swore my arm moved before I could even think, sending the ball right into Barrett’s path.

It wasn’t until he made contact that I realized what I’d done: I’d given him an easy pitch. Even if my brain hadn’t caught up, my heart had made its decision. I was only in my first season. There would be so many more chances for me to get this. It was Barrett’s last shot.

Whether I did it consciously or not, I began to play my worst game ever. It was like playing while my body was trapped in cement. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t seem to remember how to make my legs move, or make my arm toss. My coaches and so many of my teammates yelled at me to get my head in the game, but no matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t work.

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