Page 132 of The Shake Off

The camera stayed trained on him as he sat down in his chair, next to the water cooler. Parker took the spot next to him and neither said a word as The Lions started at bat.

Penn walked into the suite and picked up the phone again.

“What’s he doing?” I asked Lowe.

She turned to look at him. “He’s probably calling the camera guys to get them to move off Ace. He won’t want him distracted.”

She was right. A second later, the screen changed to the crowds, and Jupiter Reeves running to second base.

The Lions were soon up six to nothing.

Which became seven to nothing.

And Ace’s fifth inning turned to his sixth and seventh, still without one Phillies player making it to first base. I felt sick. Penn looked like he might be sick. Even Lowe had stopped jumping up and down, and cheering into the crowd.

The atmosphere in the stadium became eerily calm. We were on the precipice of witnessing one of the greatest feats in baseball. You could almost feel everyone wanting this for Ace, even The Phillies fans.

He stood on the mound and rolled his shoulders. The bat cracked loudly as the ball made contact, firing it high into center field. Lux sprinted back as fast as his legs would power him, Saint Velazquez sprinted from right field until they almost crashed. Lux dived forward, his glove outstretched, and rolled onto the ground.

The crowd waited.

Lux held his hand in the air, holding the ball.

New York would have been deafened from the cheer ripping around the stadium.

Kit pointed to the screen, which had frozen on the catch. “How the fuck did Lux do that? Look at his body. It’s flat in the air, like he’s Superman.”

I shook my head. It was all I could manage.

After the first pitch, The Phillies batter seemed to crumble under the pressure.

Ace was now eight innings and twenty-four batters without a hit, walk, or hit batter. No one on The Phillies had made it to first base.

Parker, Saint, and Tanner, all hit home runs in the bottom of the eighth, like they couldn’t get it over soon enough so Ace could start his quest to become only the twenty-fifth pitcher to complete a perfect game.

Ace walked slowly to the mound, his head down. I didn’t know who was listening, but I sent out a prayer to anyone who might be.

Please let Ace make this. Please let Ace make this. Please let Ace make this.

The first pitch was a strikeout.

The second batter grounded to third, Jupiter Reeves snatched it up and lobbed it to Boomer Jones who caught it before the batter could pass.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” Lowe squeaked.

The crowds were deadly silent. You could have heard a pin drop.

One more batter.

I turned around to find Penn sitting on a chair in the corner of the suite, head in hands, fingers in his ears. He’d given up watching in the seventh inning.

I knew exactly how he felt, but this batter could quite possibly be the one that leads to the twenty-fifth perfect game in one hundred and fifty years of the MLB, and I couldn’t physically tear my eyes away from Ace.

He stood tall, his blue eyes closed as he drew in a breath. When he opened them, you could almost see the fire behind them as his arm pitched back and the ball left his hand, spinning toward the batter.

My heart thundered in my chest, my ears rang, even the nerves in my belly froze as the ball powered through the air.

Even with the loud crack of the bat, the crowds didn’t make a single sound. The ball soared high into the air… but not high enough. Tanner Simpson could have been a basketball player in the moment he leapt up to catch the ball, and secured it firmly in his glove.

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