Page 71 of Force At Third

“Nour?”

“He’s difficult to figure out. He’s guarded.”

“Guarded? Could it be because he’s a rookie and trying to find his place?”

“Maybe.”

“And Locke?” she asks.

I’d usually smash that question out of the park, but I don’t. “Last night, he came down to watch the highlights. After the initial awkwardness passed, and I made him promise to stop using my full ass name when speaking to me, it was good.”

“Yeah?” she asks, surprised.

Nodding, I ask, “Who are the Jersey Ballbusters?”

She laughs. “Honestly, the coolest group of baseball fans you’ll ever meet.”

With two outs at the bottom of the ninth and the score tied at nine to nine, not one person on the plate, all the chill I’ve been feeling is evaporating into the evening sky.

Then I hear Leland yell, “Come on, Steel. Knock it the fuck out!”

And Amias Steel does just that.

Jags-10. Brewers 9. They’ve won this series.

After cheering for the Jags, I post a video of the players and the scoreboard to CeCe’s story with appropriate fanfare. Next, I give Whit a hug goodbye and make my way through the crowd. It takes much longer than it did yesterday.

At CeCe’s Subaru, I grab the picnic basket and blanket from the back, my gun from the box, and hike my ass across the grounds to the bank of the Delaware to set the stage.

* * *

Once the blanket is down, I place the basket in the center. Opened and insta-ready, I snap a picture and post it in CeCe’s story.

Postgame celebration for 2. Loving this #newtradition.

Next, I tap out a text to Rome and Marks: I ran late due to the crazed fans, but I’m here and waiting for Lover Bo?—

The back of my head explodes in pain, my phone drops, and I am lost as I fall down a dark hole. I’m on my knees, trying to push myself up. Then dizzy, nauseous, I am forced down again. Being dragged, face on grass, no gravel.

Fuck, the pain, anger, life …

My gun.

I turn my neck and see dark then him—William.

Kicking, turning, grabbing my gun.

Standing, stumbling, pointing, I’m pushed.

He’s grabbing my gun. I’m falling and grabbing him.

He’s on top of me. We’re struggling, still falling, falling, falling.

My back is on fire, stones like daggers biting my skin.

Cold. Wet. Fading into black.

I’m underwater. He is, too.

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