Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,40

ball!”

The guys and I hurry back to the dugout to gear up. I grab my glove from the bench and slide it on, breathing deeply. My pulse skyrockets, going into overdrive. The crowd roars and hollers as we line up at the dugout’s opening.

The speakers crackle, and the announcer’s voice booms throughout the stadium. “Welcome to a brand-new season of Lewis Creek baseball, ladies and gentlemen! Skip Harris here, along with Jerry Cox, ready to guide you through another W-filled spring.”

“We’re going into our sixteenth season as your view from the top,” Jerry says, “and I tell you what, these boys just get better every year. Let’s hear it for them as they take the field! Your first baseman: Kellen Winthrop.”

Kellen darts onto the field, waving as the crowd bursts into applause again. One by one, the announcers alternate player introductions. And second by agonizing second, my heart beats faster and faster.

“Second baseman: Jackson Davis.”

“Shortstop: Landon Stephens.”

“Third baseman: Brett Perry.”

“Right field: Randy Eldredge.”

“Center field: Matt Harris.”

“Left field: Chris Lincoln.”

“And these final two need no introduction,” Skip says with a laugh.

Freakin’ finally.

There’s no holding back my grin as Jay and I stand next to Coach at the dugout’s opening, waiting for our cue. All-Star Duo, remember? Coach smirks and slaps my shoulder.

“Tunnel vision,” he reminds me. “Take your place, son.”

The opening notes of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” blast through the stadium’s speakers, and the crowd damn near explodes. Jay shoves me forward.

“We’re up, Sandman,” he shouts above the roar. “Let’s put some batters to sleep.”

Damn straight.

I jog to the mound, tuning out the cheers (and jeers, thanks to the visiting Cardinals’ fans). This is my safe haven. Hell, Marisa was right. It’s my freakin’ kingdom.

While kicking the dirt so it’s just right beneath my cleats, I scan the jam-packed bleachers and grin. Red and white pom-poms shake wildly in the air. Brett and Eric’s momma holds their youngest sister, Emma, who’s already covered in cotton candy and yelling louder than everyone in the stands. A bunch of junior and senior girls hang over the fence, wearing Bulldogs decals on their cheeks and cheering at the tops of their lungs. Rednecks and old-timers and cheerleaders, all mingled together for the best night of the year.

I’m telling you: it’s magic.

Inhaling deeply, I zero in on Jay, who’s crouched behind the plate. He pulls his mask down and wiggles the fingers on his free hand, signaling he’s ready when I am.

The Cardinals’ lead-off hitter steps to the plate, sending the crowd into another uproar. I study his stance. Gauge the cockiness in his stare. Watch how he grips the bat. He’s good.

I’m better.

When Jay signals for a curveball, I’m reminded why he’s such an important part of the All-Star Duo—he reads my mind like no one else. Game on.

I fire the first pitch of the season into Jay’s glove, making the batter swing like an A-Rod wannabe. He’s an eager fella. After throwing the ball back, Jay signals fastball. Don’t mind if I do.

Wind up. Release. The ball hits Jay’s mitt with a resounding smack. I smirk. No chance to even swing. Time to make him chase it? Once again reading my mind, Jay signals slider. I nod once and fire it in there.

“Strike three!” the ump yells. “You’re out!”

At times like this, I wish victory dances were allowed on the field. You’re out, sucker. Jay lofts the ball back, and while the next guy steps to the plate, I glance back to the stands. This time, Brett’s momma isn’t wrangling Emma into her lap. Now, she’s making room for the people sitting beside her.

She’s making room for Momma and Marisa. It’s got to be Marisa because she’s the only person I’ve ever let wear my lucky Braves hat, and that girl sure enough wore it here. She looks up and catches my eye, beaming as she waves. I can’t help but grin like a fool. I tip my cap before moving back into position. The last guy was just a warm-up. Now it’s time to show her what this arm can really do.

The next batter is a beanpole, as tall as Brett and half his weight. He readies himself over the plate, glaring me down like I’m the damn devil incarnate. It’s all right; two can play that game. I steady myself, watching for Jay’s signal.

He says fastball. I say sure thing.

And the ump says, “Strike one!”

Smirking, I hold the batter’s gaze while catching Jay’s throw. Next up is a no-brainer: change-up. Jay agrees.