Page 138 of Passed Ball

No--atmygirl.

She's sitting in the stands, right where she's supposed to be, wearing the jacket I got her. Holland is on her lap, her tiny hands clutching a foam finger twice her size. Tenley leans in, saying something that makes her aunt laugh, and swear I can almost hear the sweet sound like it's meant for me.

Two more innings and I can have her in my arms. We're up four to three and the energy of the crowd is pushing us hard to hold the Comet's off and widen our lead. I pound my fist in my glove, giving our closer, Tyson, the symbol for a fastball with a two-one count. He nods his head once, winding up to throw, and a second later the ball cracks off the bat.

By the sound alone, I know it's not going far. My eyes track it up and over my head. I rip my mask off, but it's already out of play, sliding down the net and landing in the dirt. I pick it up and hand it the ump. Taking the new ball from his outstretched hand, I throw it back to Tyson, giving him a nod.

He's tense. He wants this inning over as badly as the rest of us. The pressure on the mound is over-the-top during a regular game, but I know the game--these players, better than most. Squatting low behind the mound, I watch as the Comet's first baseman grips his bat like he's trying to kill it. The nerves are getting to him. He's antsy and tense. It's a dangerous combo.

A signal for a slider. He's already on edge; let's see if we can make him chase.

It works. A second later, the ball smacks against my glove making my second favorite sound. I glance over my shoulder to see Vivienne on her feet screaming and pointing at me as the batter walks off the field, his head hanging and his shoulders slumped.

I jump to my feet and run to my dugout, flying high on adrenaline. There's only so much you can control in baseball and batting is one of those things. I zero in, more committed than ever to helping the team close out the season with a history-making win tonight. Because when I step off this field, it's going to be with more than just a new championship. It's going to be with the woman I love.

Trading out my catcher's gear for my batting gloves and helmet, I wait on the edge of the dugout taking the open spot between Hendrix and Dean.

"That's the smile of a man that knows he's about to win," Hendrix says, looking around me to Dean.

I don't pull my eyes from where Cruz is at home plate, stepping into the box. "I'm winning either way tonight."

The ump signals a ball and Cruz smirks.

"Yeah, but we're taking this," Dean says, his focus on the field.

"Hell, yeah we are," I echo as the pitcher throws another ball to give my teammate an oh-and-two count.

"The jacket was a nice touch," Hendrix comments offhandedly.

"Shhh . . ." Dean hisses, nodding to where Dom is warming up out in the on-deck circle. "He's got superhuman hearing and you know he'll never shut up about it if you tell him he was right."

Dom was the mastermind behind the jackets. He brought the idea to the team a few weeks ago and there was never a question if Vivienne was getting one. Even with the distance the end of the season and her trip home put between us physically, I knew I wanted her to be a part of this night as much as any of the other women.

We hold a collective breath as the pitcher finally throws a fastball worth swinging at. Cruz sees it too, planting his foot in the dirt and swinging. He connects with a power that vibrates through the stadium, sending the crowd and the dugout into a frenzy as the ball sails over the wall and into the outfield stands.

We pile out onto the field in a rush to get to him as he rounds the bases giving him high fives and pats on the back. The two point lead isn't a bow on the game, but in a situation like this, every run is celebrated because one is all it takes to change everything and shift the power balance. Being up two this late in the game is sure to mess with the Comets.

Their pitcher shakes his head on the mound, and the catcher runs out to talk him down.

Dean presses his helmet down tight and jogs up the stairs, bat in hand, to take his place in the on-deck circle.

It's not enough. Dom doesn't have the same patience as Cruz, especially knowing the man on the mound is shaken. He's got a knack for being able to chase down pitches that aren't quite perfect and he does just that, taking a chance on an outside curve ball, extending his hands and widening his zone to send it right center. It's not his best hit, but it's enough to get him on base.

I pat Hendrix's shoulder. "See you on the other side."

"Give 'em hell!" he yells at me as I run out onto the field in front of our dugout.

I nod, but the brunette waiting in the stands for me snags my attention. She's got her hands clutched in front of her face as she stands frozen in place.

"Breathe," I mouth.

Her shoulders rise and fall and she mouths back, "Thanks."

Ducking my head, I focus on finishing this inning.

Dean is usually one of our more conservative batters, but with the electricity coursing through the stadium, it's hard to hold back, even for the most disciplined player. He lets the first one go, and the ump makes a questionable call, shouting strike. Dean glares, his gaze intense as he resets his stance and stares down the pitcher.

Of all the guys in the league, Dean might be the most intimidating when he's at the plate. His hands twist loosely on the bat, combating the vibes he throws off. The guy is as calm and collected as they come, all the while mean mugging the pitcher.

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