Page 4 of The Foul Out

But Uncle James excelled in the art of buying my kids’ love. My jaw locked, and a niggle of guilt ate at me. That wasn’t entirely fair, especially with our complicated relationship, but it alsowasn’tinaccurate. He’d meant well when he gave her these tickets, but very few people understood my child and the challenges that came with her. A game sounded like fun on the surface. But he was clueless about all the details, all the difficulties associated with changing her routine, taking her somewhere new, putting her in a place with so many people and so much stimuli.

Piper nodded, still not meeting my eyes. “Yes. It’s going to be the best.”

I wished I could agree. But in my heart and in my head, I knew it would be exactly the opposite.

A loud whooshof air escaped Mason Dumpty as the center fielder spit a sunflower seed across the dugout.

No one commented.

Normally, the mood on the bench was lighter, teasing. Normally, we were a bunch of smiling assholes.

But today was too important. And we were all feeling it.

“Striii,” echoed from the plate.

“Fuck,” Mason muttered into the silence.

“We got this.” Emerson Knight, our third baseman, assured him, sounding far too unaffected by the tension in the air. I loved the guy, but despite the couple of years I’d known him, I still couldn’t understand the source of his constant state of positive chill. “Angel Boy’s bat has been on fire the whole series.”

Emerson wasn’t wrong. Our catcher, Asher Price, had led the team’s bats this season. He’d been a one dot for the last month. During the playoffs, that was nothing short of a miracle. Withthat on-base percentage and his slugging, it was likely he’d score. But it was the bottom of the eighth, and we were only ahead by one.

“We need a bigger lead, since I won’t be controlling the ball.” Christian Damiano kept his expression neutral, even though we all knew he’d prefer to be outright glaring at our head coach. Not that long ago, he’d have lost his shit the second Coach Wilson pulled him. But that was before Christian’s fiancée, Coach Wilson’s daughter, wrapped our pitcher around her finger.

Not that he was alone.

At the start of the season, Eddie Martinez had been the only guy on the team in a relationship. Then the owners brought in family-man Asher Price, and slowly, a few of the guys coupled up.

Not long after Christian and Avery got together, Mason had fallen hard for the Revs’ trainer and had swiftly moved her into his place. Earlier this week, Emerson had proposed to Christian’s sister. That potential clusterfuck turned out way better than I thought it would when I first discovered our third baseman was hooking up with Gianna behind his best friend’s back.

I shook my head. It had better not be something in the water cooler here. I had no intention of settling down ever, let alone this year. My role as a professional baseball player was all the responsibility I could manage.

“You’ve thrown too many pitches already this week, Dragon,” Mason, our team captain, reminded him. “You’re lucky he left you in through eight.”

Christian crossed his arms and glared at the field. If Tom Wilson let him, the guy would pitch every game in its entirety.

The sound of wood shattering startled me, and I jumped to my feet. It was the opposite of the good type of crack. This was the sound of a bat that had met its end. The shattered piecesof wood flew farther than the ball, which hardly rolled into the infield, making it easy for the catcher to scoop it up and toss it to first long before Asher Price made it to the bag.

Out number three.

I tamped down on the nerves skittering through me.

“We’ve got this, guys.” Emerson, always the peppy cheerleader, clapped his hands. I had a mind to punch him, but he was too damn happy, and if I did that, I’d feel like an ass. If he could find it within himself to grumble a little, maybe I’d be able to smack him when he was being annoying. That’d never happen, though. He was too supportive and positive to ever get outwardly angry or even frustrated. “Leading by one into the ninth is a great place to be.”

“Leading by five would be great,” I muttered.

With a shake of his head and a smirk, he grabbed his mitt and headed to third. Annoying as it was, I envied his ability to smile. There was no way I could force my lips up. Not with so much on the line.

I climbed the stairs and stood in the grass with my team as the crowd cheered around us. The deafening sound sent a chill down my spine. Five years ago, when I joined this team, I couldn’t have guessed that we’d ever be this close to the big game so soon, and yet here we were. As I trotted out to right field, I took in the moment. The fans, the guys. The score board. The night. We were just three outs from the dream I’d been chasing for most of my life.

Three outs, and the Boston Revs would secure a spot in the World Series.

From center field, Mason tossed the ball to me. I settled into my position in right field, then threw it back. After four more warm-up throws, Mason turned the crowd, searching for a fan to toss the ball to. His head moved from side to side as hescanned the bleachers of deep right field, where fans waved and screamed, hoping to be chosen.

So much excitement. Unlike some guys, I never promised a fan that I’d get them next time. When the inning started, my mind was focused on the game only, and a lot could happen between then and the next time I took the field. The last thing I’d want to do was forget someone. It was a simple thing, a baseball, but in a setting like this, one given to a person directly from a member of the Revs was a big deal.

Even when I’d just joined the team and we’d lost almost 70 percent of the games we played, fans still shouted to us from the stands, always clapping and cheering. Now, five years later, we were finally about to prove that we’d been worthy of their support all this time.

A teenager jumped up to swipe the ball Mason gently tossed to him, cheering as he did.

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