Page 5 of The Foul Out

It was hard not to smile at the glee in his expression. But I reined in the emotion and spun back to the plate as the fans settled into their seats. Shutting my eyes, I took a deep breath, and when I opened them and recentered, I focused on Tugerot, who was digging his foot into the sand of the mound. We really could have used Dragon for our final inning. No one threw fire better than the first guy in our rotation. But he’d spent the playoffs killing his shoulder, and with the possibility of going to the World Series so close, he’d have to rest that arm. I couldn’t disagree with Wilson’s decision to pull him after the eighth inning.

I scanned the stadium, zeroing in on the box where the men who controlled our team stood watching. Beckett Langfield and Cortney Miller. They were by far the best leaders in major league baseball. We were lucky to play for them, and we all knew it. They wanted this win almost as much as we did. Or close to it. I wasn’t sure anyone could want it as much as I did. My desire tostep onto the field at the World Series was so strong I could taste it.

When the first batter went down swinging, I let myself start to believe this could be real. A pop fly made it more possible. Even the base hit didn’t get me down. We only had one more out, after all. We could do this. Just one more. The guys tossed the ball from base to base before it ended back in Tugerot’s glove.

Heart pounding, I beat my fist into the leather of my own mitt. We had this.

The first pitch was followed by the ump’s strike call. Two more.

The batter swung at the second pitch and made contact. The wooden bat cracked against the leather, sending the ball flying. The sound was the kind we all paid attention to. A solid hit. And in a blink, it was headed my way, and I was running. As it flew over Emerson’s head, I sped up. Before I could worry about the bounce, it turned foul and hurtled toward the stands. If I made this catch, that’ d be it. Game over.

My heart pounded as I pumped my arms and legs faster. The win was in my hands.

My quads burned as I passed the white line in the dirt, heading for the stands. With my gloved hand in the air, I tracked the ball over my shoulder. I was right there. I had this. Quickly, I risked a look at the people in the stands above the padded blue wall.

I wasn’t at all prepared for what I saw just two feet away. Red pigtails, blue headphones. The little girl was maybe six. The mom was…not six. I couldn’t help but take in the smooth column of the woman’s throat or her amber eyes. The breath rushed out of my lungs.

Lonely eyes.

It was a term people tossed around often. But I’d only seen an expression this sincerely lonely on one face in my entirelife. Staring into the deep amber-brown eyes shorted out my thoughts.

It was only a blink, hardly a hesitation. But it was just long enough that the woman moved. Her hand came up to block the ball headed for her kids. And before I could get my mitt up to make the final move to catch it, she’d swiped it out of the air.

A collective gasp echoed around us.

She grimaced and shook her hand, causing the ball to teeter and then slip out. In slow motion, the ball bounced. And a small boy bent to pick it up.

The stadium grew eerily silent, the crowd shocked. This woman in front of me had caused the ball to be foul. The ball that would have been the third out. The ball that would have sent the Revs to the World Series.

The young girl with pigtails and sporting Revs pinstripes called out. Though her lips were moving in a way that looked like she was saying my name, I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t respond. Headphones. Sad eyes.

No.

Violently, I shook off thoughts of them. Two seconds of distraction had already ruined what should have been an out. I spun from them, searching out the third base umpire behind me.

“Fan inference,” I demanded.

He shook his head.

My hands trembled, and my knees shook. “What the fuck, man? That was catchable.”

“Was,” he agreed. “But you didn’t catch it.”

Chest puffed, I took a step toward the guy, but before I could do more than that, Emerson was in my face.

“Step back,” he demanded.

“Move,” I sneered, lit by a burning need to blame someone for the play. And the man in white and black was an easy target.

Emerson pushed my shoulders, sending me stumbling back a step. “I’ll let you hit me before I let you get ejected from this game.” Shrugging, he pasted on a smile that was all wrong after the play hadn’t gone our way. But the fucker was always happy.

“Field,” Tom Wilson barked at me as he stepped into my fight. “This is my job. Get the fuck out in the grass. If we need the bottom of the ninth, you need to be at bat.” With a quick shove to my arm, he turned to the umpire.

I glanced back over my shoulder. To the family of three. The little girl’s arms flew, and her face was red. She was yelling, and if I wasn’t mistaken, she landed a hard kick to her mother’s shin. Rather than getting upset, her mother kept her expression neutral, though she was entirely focused on her daughter. The little boy beside her was just blinking at the white ball in his hands.

My temper spiked. That ball should be in my glove. I should have caught it, and then, with a smile, I should have fucking tossed it to the little man. Because Iwouldhave caught it if not for the woman who didn’t trust that I could. If she hadn’t ruined my chance…

Clenching my right hand, I stormed back to right field, anger brewing in my gut. That quickly turned to rage when the umpire waved a hand, ordering Tom Wilson out of the game for finishing the fight I’d started. The emotion only compounded when the next pitch was a two-run homer. Then when the Vegas Heat scored one more run. It didn’t cool when we only got a single run in the bottom of the ninth. Or when I barreled into the locker room. It sure as shit burned hot when the microphones were shoved in my face.

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