Page 74 of Rival Summer

"Alright, enough," Coach barked suddenly. "If you don't shut up and get to the dugout, I'm going to bench all of you. Get the hell out there."

The locker-room talk died instantly, each of us straightening under his tone. We knew the look in his eyes meant business with no room for delay.

"Let's move it!" he added, with a pointed glance at the clock hanging above the doorway to the field.

We filed out of the locker room, our cleats clacking against the concrete corridor that led to the bright open stadium. Once we ran onto the field, the noise of the crowd swelled around us—a living entity of cheers and anticipation. My gaze wandered over the bleachers, scanning faces until they landed on Chandler. Her wavy hair fell over her shoulders as she laughed at something said by the person next to her.

"Your mom's here," Parker whispered, tilting his chin toward where Chandler sat.

And there she was, right next to Chandler and Parker's parents. Mom's presence always brought a sense of calm over me.

Reese didn’t mess around while on the mound. He was throwing fire today, each pitch more lethal than the last, his eyes fiercely locked onto Parker’s signals. "Come on, Reese! Let’s get this W, baby!" A voice from the crowd cheered.

Reese nodded once before winding up. The smack of the ball into Parker's mitt was almost simultaneous with the umpire’s call. "Strike three!"

"Nice work!" Parker bellowed, clapping him on the shoulder as we jogged off the field.

We were down by one, last inning, with the weight of the game resting on our shoulders. The first two batters stepped up and were retired just as quickly—two up, two down. The pressure was on.

"Time to shine, Carrington," Coach yelled, his intense eyes shining beneath the brim of his cap.

"Always do," Reese said, swaggering up to the plate. With a crack that echoed through the stadium, he sent the ball whistling past the second baseman and into the outfield. The outfielder retrieved it quickly, holding Reese to a single.

"Keep it going, Riley!" Coach called out, reminding me this was it—my moment to keep us in the game.

I tried to shut out everything but the pitcher and the ball as I dug my cleats into the dirt of the batter’s box. The pitch came in right down the middle. I swung with everything I had. The sound of the bat connecting with the ball rang in my ears, and I watched as the line drive soared straight to left field.

"Go, go, go!" Coach yelled.

I bolted for first, eyes locked on the left fielder who dove for the ball, missing by inches. The center fielder backed him up, holding me to first. Reese stopped at second. I turned to see Parker step up to the plate.

"Knock it out of the park!" Willow jumped up, her cheer unmistakable.

Parker paused, glanced back, and I swear I saw it—a wink aimed right at Willow. Then he turned his head back toward the pitcher.

The pitcher wound up, delivered, and Parker connected. I heard that unmistakable crack, and I knew without a doubt—it was gone.

Reese touched home, and I was right behind him, the roar of the crowd ringing in my ears. Rounding third, I saw Parker trotting the bases after me.

"Outta the park, Parker!" someone shouted, and I couldn't help but join in the chant as I crossed home plate.

"Home run, my boy!” I said, my voice nearly lost as the team swarmed us, celebrating the win. And just like that, it was over.

The crowd erupted with postgame chaos, and I followed suit as we lined up for the postgame handshake. When we were finished, my attention was snagged by Coach who had been pulled off to the side, engaged in a tense exchange with Reese's dad.

I couldn't make out the words, but the tight squint of Coach's eyes told me he wasn’t happy about the conversation. Reese's dad exuded the same cocky confidence as Reese. He clapped a hand onto Coach's shoulder—and I watched as anger simmered on Coach's face when he turned away, jaw clenched.

I was packing up my bat, and helmet when his yell caught me off guard.

"Riley! Meet me in my office when you’re packed up." His tone was gruff, lacking any hint of the joy from the win. No trace of a smile creased his stern features.

I gave a short nod, my fingers tightening around the strap of my equipment bag. Something was up, something stirred by that conversation with Reese's dad, and it left a taste more bitter than defeat in my mouth.

Coach’s office door was open, and he was already inside. He was leaning on his desk with arms crossed—lost in thought. "Have a seat," he said, not quite meeting my eyes.

"There's something I need to talk to you about," he began, as he scratched the back of his neck. "You didn't do anything wrong this week..."

But even before he continued, I knew this wasn’t going to be good.

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