Page 104 of Highball Rush
“Shit,” I muttered. I cast a glance into the stands, finding Callie. She sat next to Shelby with Cash in her lap. Someone had given her a Cock Spurs cap and her colorful hair hung around her shoulders. Damn, she was adorable.
Blowing out a breath, I turned my attention back to the game. Bowie was still on the pitcher’s mound, but he was swaying like he might not make it through the inning.
“Come on, Bow,” I shouted. “Bodine up.”
Like I’d just yelled a sobriety-inducing battle cry, Bowie straightened, getting his legs under him. He wound up for the pitch, looking steady and focused. Opal signaled behind the batter. We just needed one more out, then we’d have a chance to win.
If any of my players were still capable of hitting.
Bowie’s pitch flew straight, smacking into Opal’s mitt with a puff of dust.
“Strike,” June yelled.
The crowd cheered but quickly quieted again. Bowie dug his toe in the dirt, rolling the ball in his hand. After another signal from Opal, he nodded. Wound up. Let loose.
I heard the smack of the ball hitting leather. The Miner stumbled, the force of his swing almost pulling him over. The crowd cheered again. Bowie didn’t acknowledge it. He was in the zone.
“Strike.”
A hush settled over the field. One more out was all we needed. Half the Miners had passed out in their dugout, but they had just enough conscious players to finish out the game. And the score was still tied.
There was a rustle of air as everyone present took—and held—a collective breath.
Bowie’s pitch flew dead center over the plate. The Miner swung and for a second, it looked like he’d connect.
His bat came within a kitten’s whisker of skimming the top of the ball. Opal caught the pitch, the Miner spun around in a circle, and June yelled the final, “Strike.”
I blew out the breath I’d been holding. Bowie took off his hat and waved at the crowd as they cheered him in. Cassidy ran out and jumped on him, throwing her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. They toppled to the dirt together, laughing to even louder whoops and hollers from the crowd.
But it wasn’t over yet. Bottom of the ninth and Jonah was up to bat.
He chugged water, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Go get ’em, brother,” I said.
The Miners took the field and their unnaturally liquor-tolerant pitcher stood on the mound. The girl didn’t even look tipsy. It was like she was Gableton’s version of Scarlett.
Jonah’s Cock Spurs shirt was snug around his muscled arms. He held the bat up, his eyes on the pitcher, stance firm.
The first pitch flew in, sailing past Jonah’s bat.
“Strike.”
“Shit,” I mumbled.
Jonah readjusted his footing and got into position, the end of the bat wobbling in a tight circle over his shoulder.
Second pitch and Jonah swung hard, his body twisting. The ball hit the catcher’s mitt with a thump.
“Strike.”
Growling, I clenched my teeth. “Come on, Jonah!”
The chant started low while the pitcher took her time setting up. It rose behind me, the word rippling through the crowd, gaining strength and volume.
“Jo-nah! Jo-nah! Jo-nah!”
Feet stomped against the bleachers, hands clapped in time with the syllables of his name. Scarlett and Opal joined in beside me, cheering for him.
