Page 63 of Fastball Fever
"That's it," Amy whispers, her face illuminated by the screen's glow."We've got them."
I start to move toward the door, but Amy grabs my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Not yet," she murmurs."Let them finish.The more evidence we have, the better."
I force myself to stay put, watching as Jared meticulously works his way through our bats.He's saying something to his accomplice, but the audio is too faint to catch clearly.Phil texts that he's moving to a position near the back exit in case they try to leave that way.
After what feels like an eternity, Jared straightens up, admiring his handiwork.He's wearing that smug, self-satisfied grin I've seen a thousand times across the plate.He high-fives his accomplice, and they start packing up their supplies.Only then do we get a good look at the other guy.We learned two vital facts tonight.Jared is irrefutably the one doctoring our equipment to drug us.
And his accomplice is one of our own—Coach Adrian Rivera.
Chapter Thirty-One
Braddock vs.Morris
Game seven of the World Series will begin this afternoon.The Admirals will trounce the Altitude.I'm certain of that.Since Jared's team will be using torpedo bats, the Admirals have decided to do the same.Only a select group of our hitters will employ them, and they know they're allowed to use them whenever they want.
The playing field will be level this time, though Jared has no idea why.He thinks our guys are high on dope thanks to his marijuana oil trick.
Prepare to be annihilated, Morris, you evil son of a bitch.
But for now, I'll spend some time with my fiancée to relax and prepare for the game this afternoon.Amy is a phenomenal coach, and she gets me in shape for our face-off with the Assitudes.I feel more ready for this game than for any other in my entire career.
This isn't Altitude vs.Admirals.No, it's good vs.evil.
My guys are the warriors for good.I almost wish I had a sword, like a medieval knight.Maybe a horse too.
A few hours later, it's showtime.
The stadium is packed.Fans from both sides fill every seat, their excitement generating palpable energy.I can spot our fans right away.They wear the standard navy blue and gold of the Admirals, hoisting banners and foam fingers featuring our team.The Altitude fans show their forest green and silver throughout the stands too.Signs for both teams chant and raise foam fingers.
I perform my warmup routine in the dugout, watching Jared do the same out on the field.Our eyes meet, and we both smirk.Morris twirls his torpedo bat with an arrogance that he'll soon regret.
"Don't let him get in your head," Amy reminds me, having sidled up beside me.Her hand rests briefly on my shoulder, firm and reassuring."Morris is counting on that."
"That reptile can't slither inside my head anymore.I feel good—fantastic, actually."
She studies my face, then her lips curl in a slight smile."You're ready, Braddock."
The announcer's voice booms through the stadium, and the crowd roars as a familiar name is announced.The batter jogs onto the field, his torpedo bat seeming more like a weapon than sporting equipment.
"And now, batting for the Aspen Altitude, Jared Morris!"
His teammates clap and whistle while Jared acknowledges the crowd with a raised bat.
In the bullpen, Amy gives me a subtle nod that confirms what I know I must do.She mouths, "Destroy Morris."
Okay, maybe she didn't actually say that.I was adlibbing in my head.
The first few innings are a deadlock.Neither team scores, though we come close in the third when Rodriguez nearly clears the wall.The Assitudes' pitcher is on fire, but so is ours.The tension builds with every pitch, every catch, every close call.
In the fifth inning, Jared gets his turn at the plate while I'm on the mound.He taps his torpedo bat against home plate and winks at me.
"Let's see what you've got, Chucky," Morris shouts, loud enough for everyone in the first few rows to hear."Or are you too busy thinking about your wedding?Maybe you should've picked a different career.Baseball was never really your thing."
I grip the ball tighter, feeling the seams dig into my fingers.Focus.I wind up, delivering a fastball that screams toward the plate, but Jared connects.The crack echoes through the stadium as the ball soars toward left field.
But Rodriguez is there, leaping at the wall, his glove extending just enough to snag it before it clears.The crowd erupts, and I pump my fist as Jared throws his bat in disgust.
