Page 81 of Rival Summer

"Yeah, man, I had a really funny dream," he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

“And the pink lipstick I found in the bathroom last night. That was yours too?”

“Yeah, just trying something new,” he said, trying to hide a smirk.

"Uh huh," I knew full well those giggles belonged to Willow. With a shake of my head, I retreated back to my room to gear up for the day.

The clubhouse was buzzing with nerves and anxious energy. We shuffled in, our cleats clicking against the concrete, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Coach was already there, pacing like a caged lion. His eyes were sharp as he checked his watch, and when he finally spoke, his voice silenced the room.

"Boys," he began, stopping to look at each of us. "We've had a hell of a season." His hands gripped his hips. "You've pushed through double practices, you've battled every inning, and you've earned your spot here today."

We paused, waiting for him to continue.

"Today's the day—the championship. Everything we've worked for all summer comes down to this. But remember," he said, softening ever so slightly, "it's still a game. Let's go out there, have some fun, and show 'em what we're made of."

Nods and hoots rippled through the team.

"Alright then," Coach gave a nod. "Let's do this."

We poured out of the clubhouse and stepped onto the field. I jogged between second and third base, taking my position as shortstop and readying for first pitch.

As the stands filled and the noise grew louder, I stole a moment to scan the crowd. I needed to see her—to know she was there. And then my gaze landed on Chandler. Even from a distance, I could see her smile under the stadium lights.

Beside her was my mom. They were both here—the two people I needed to see.

"Come on, Reese! Bring the heat!" Someone shouted from the stands as he took his place on the mound.

Reese nodded subtly, his gaze locked onto Parker behind the plate. With a fluid motion, he wound up and unleashed a bullet straight into Parker’s mitt. "Strike!" the umpire bellowed.

"95!" someone yelled from the crowd, holding a speed gun, and a collective gasp followed. We may not have been on the best terms, but damn if I didn't respect his arm.

Reese didn’t acknowledge the chatter about the speed or the awe. He narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on his target again. This time, he switched tactics. A changeup threw off the batter. The swing came too early, hopelessly out of sync with the ball’s lazy arc into Parker’s glove.

"Strike!" The umpire called out after the last pitch, the stands erupting as the batter slunk back to the dugout, shoulders slumped. Reese tipped his cap as the next batter stepped up to the plate.

"Alright, let’s keep holding them off," Parker yelled, trying to keep spirits high.

The innings flew by, each team's defense refusing to give in. Third inning, nothing. Fourth, zip. The fifth rolled around, and suddenly we found our rhythm. A double here, a stolen base there, and before the other team knew what hit them, we’d racked up two runs.

"Keep it up, boys!" Coach commanded. "Don't let up!"

We couldn’t hold them off, though, and they evened the score in the sixth. Our advantage slipped through our fingers, and the pressure began to mount. Heading into the ninth inning, we were deadlocked.

"Last chance," Coach said as we gathered our batting gear. "This is where legends are made. Let's make sure they remember us."

Bailey was up. He hit a ground ball and just barely made it to first base.

"Reese, let’s go," someone yelled, as I fidgeted with my glove and bat in the on-deck circle. Reese stepped up to the plate, taking position. Everyone was on edge. Reese kicked the dirt, eyeing the pitcher with that cocky tilt to his head that said hewasn’t worried for a second. His swing connected and the ball soared high and deep, right past the outstretched glove of the right fielder.

"Run, damn it, run!" The cheers erupted from our dugout as Reese tagged first and rounded towards second base, sliding in with a cloud of dust. Bailey rocketed to third.

"Alright, Boston,” Coach shouted from the dugout. “You're up." I looked back and caught his gaze before stepping up to the plate.

"Make it count," Parker added.

"Always do," I shot back, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

I stepped up to the plate, the weight of the game bearing down on me. My first swing sent the ball foul. Taking a deep breath, I pictured Chandler's smile, her unwavering belief in me, and swung with all the pent-up frustration of the past few weeks.

---