a family. And while you’re on my field, or in my locker room, or on my bus, you will act like you’re on a damn episode of Little House on the Prairie instead of some reality BS. Do we understand each other?”
I lower my head and mutter, “Yes, sir” along with everyone else.
“And for God’s sake,” he adds. “Watch your damn mouths.”
The doors squeak. Coach stomps off the bus, which I guess is our cue to follow. The team mood’s gone from low to downright funeral-worthy. This game should be a blast.
Coach is standing off to the side as I step off the bus. He curves his finger, signaling me over. I tug on the brim of my cap, shielding my eyes from the setting sun as I walk up to him.
“That van isn’t here for you,” he says in a low voice. “I got a message from the Eagles’ coach, telling me the local news is doing a showcase on their pitcher. He’s heading to Florida State this fall.”
My lungs deflate. For some stupid reason, Matt got to me. I should’ve known better.
Coach pats me on the back. “Don’t let people like him under your skin. You’re better than that. He isn’t worth your sanity. You hear me?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Tunnel vision,” he reminds me. “Go take your place, and let’s play some ball.”
We’re winning. I don’t know how the heck it happened or what twisted sacrifice one of our guys offered to the baseball gods, but I’m not one to question the powers that be. When who I hope is the final batter steps to the plate, we’re up 4-3. All I’ve got to do is keep it that way.
I glance over my left shoulder. Over my right. Runners are at the corners, holding steady at first and third. My arm’s sore as all get-out, but if I can just send this guy packin’, we’re golden. Three more strikes to conquer the Beaufort curse. I can do this. I have to do this.
Wind up. Release. The ball soars into Jay’s glove with a solid smack. Okay. Maybe this is actually possible. I send another ball flying past the batter, one that he never even saw coming. Jay lofts the ball back to me, and I roll my shoulders, gearing up for the final strike. Because it will be the final strike, damn it. And in Jay’s words, we’ll be one step closer to knockin’ back beers at the river and livin’ easy during Spring Break.
On home turf, now would be the time to scan the bleachers for Marisa’s smiling face, for that last push of motivation. Here, even glancing to the bleachers would be a death wish. Dozens of fans drove out here from Lewis Creek, but I have a feeling I don’t want to see their faces.
My knees buckle slightly as I stare down the batter. One more strike, and I’m golden. Jay signals curveball. I grip the ball just right. Wind up. Release.
I already know it’s off.
Crack.
The ball soars over my head. I whirl around, praying that Matt snags it in centerfield. Going. Going. Matt slams into the fence, his glove outstretched as the ball sails right over it. Gone.
Game. And a piss-poor one at that.
Jay stands as the Beaufort players spill onto the field, tackling their guy once he crosses home plate. He pulls up his mask, shock clouding his face. I know exactly what he’s thinking: What the hell just happened?
And I know the answer: Long live the Beaufort curse.
Yanking off my glove, I head into the lineup that’s forming. I walk down the line. Shake their hands. I hate ’em. But they played better.
Their pitcher is at the end, a guy named Troy. He grabs my hand in a shake, a smirk on his face as he says, “I’m still wide awake, Sandman. Didn’t live up to your hype. Not that I expected you to.”
I freeze. His eyes lock on mine, daring me to say or do something, anything, that’ll make for a good show. But what he doesn’t realize is that I just don’t have the damn energy. I snatch my hand from his and keep walking.
The bus is silent as we pile on. I flop back in my seat, with Eric doing the same beside me. No one speaks to me. No one even looks at me. Here’s to hoping it stays that way. Coach stops in the aisle up front, waiting for us all to settle down. His gaze passes