clenches tighter as the final inning ticks on, tension twisting my insides into knots.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
The first three batters send my pitches soaring into the sky. Before I know it, the bases are loaded. Primed for a home run, which will easily bring them into the lead.
God damnit.
They’re going to score.
They’re going to win.
St. John’s beating us would an unimaginable upset. For the team, for the town, for me. When the next player steps up to the plate, a confident smile on his face, an unfamiliar sensation ripples through me.
Fear.
Fear that I won’t be able to halt their momentum and give us a last minute victory. Fear that I’m not half the player everyone in the crowd seems to think I am.
I’ve never been insecure in my abilities before. Baseball has always been the one thing I could depend on. Whatever else life threw at me — family teetering on the edge of poverty, pretentious classmates, brother with a penchant for fucking up everything he touches — it didn’t matter. Because I always had baseball.
My ace in the hole.
My ticket out of this life.
I don’t know who I am if I’m not standing on the pitcher’s mound, ball in my hand, crowd cheering madly at my back. The thought that it could all disappear is more frightening than a gun in my face. It shakes me down to the very core.
I throw again — a curveball, this time.
It’s a foul, nearly hitting the batter. He jumps back to avoid being slammed in the leg, glaring at me from beneath his helmet.
Shit.
The crowd groans their disappointment.
The umpire looks at me warningly.
Coach Hamm calls for a time out.
My teammates gather in a huddle by home plate, the outfielders panting from their long jog. I can’t quite meet their eyes, afraid I’ll see disappointment there.
I’m letting them down.
I’m letting myself down.
“Reyes, what’s up with you this week?” Coach asks bluntly. “I’ve never seen you play like this.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m sorry, Coach. Guess I’m a bit distracted.”
“Then find a way to focus. I don’t care how.” His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “You have to strike him out. It’s our only shot, here.”
“I know, Coach.”
“I don’t need to remind you that there are scouts in the crowd tonight, son. Half the town’s out there. They expect a win. So do I. So do your teammates.”
“I know.”
“Maybe we should put in the backup pitcher,” Snyder suggests from across the huddle. “Just because Reyes has his period doesn’t mean the rest of us should suffer the consequences.”
Several of my teammates snigger.
My jaw clenches in fury.
God, I’d like to punch that smug smile right off his face.
“Why don’t you leave the calls to me, Snyder,” Coach scolds. “Focus on your own plays. You haven’t made a single out this entire game.”
Snyder snorts. “No disrespect, Coach, but it’s tough to do that with Reyes giving up more hits than a battered housewife.”
“You want to see a real hit?” I hiss, starting forward with full intentions of punching him in the face. That would put a stop to his trash-talk.
Thankfully, Chris steps in front of me, blocking my path before I can do something that would get me tossed from the game.
“Not worth it, dude,” he mutters through the cage of his catcher’s mask. “Let it go.”
“Look, we’re getting out asses handed to us out there!” Coach says, exasperation plain in his voice. “The last thing we need is infighting. I don’t want to hear the words backup pitcher again. Is that clear?”
My teammates are silent.
“Win or lose, the final score doesn’t rest on Reyes’ shoulders alone.” Coach Hamm glares at each player in turn, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his emerald green cap. “This is a team. So get back out there and start showing me some damn teamwork.”
“Yes, Coach!” we all bark in unison.
“Tag them out. Hold the score. Win the game.”
“Yes, Coach!” we repeat, louder.
He holds out his fist. “Wolfpack on three.”
We all extend our mitts into the center of the huddle. As a group, we chant, “One… two… three… WOLFPACK!”
My head hangs low as I walk back to the pitcher’s mound. Restless energy radiates through my every nerve ending. Taking my position, I stare at the dirt caked on my cleats. There’s so much pressure resting on my shoulders, it’s difficult to straighten them back to full height.
The crowd has gone silent, waiting for the game to resume. Waiting for me to throw again. I can feel the weight of their