Page 34 of The Future Play

Miles said he and Trevor would be here tonight, so as I walk out to the mound, I glance over to the small set of bleachers next to the fence, and almost trip over my own damn feet when I see strawberry blonde hair glinting in the late afternoon sun.

I pause for half a second, just to make sure it’s actually her.

Missmm, too bad I have plansis sitting on the bleachers between Rae and Trevor, eyes locked on me. She arches a brow as she smirks at me, then flips a hand through her hair and looks away.

That’s all it takes to remind me what I’m supposed to be doing.

Knowing that she’s here kicks my adrenaline up a notch. Not my nerves. Fuck no. This is what I’m made to do, and I’m about to pitch the best game of my life to impress her.

Maybe I shouldn’t want to show off for her when there’s nothing going on between us, but I can’t help it. Seeing her in action was mesmerizing, and I stupidly want her to watch me and feel the same way.

We’re aboutto start the top of the ninth, and I’ve been fighting with Coach all game to keep me in. He says I should rest my arm. He says we should let the other team have a break—since we’re smoking them. Our best batters came to hit today, and I came to pitch. I’ve let two hits through, one of which was a home run, but I’m convinced that kid would’ve swung at any ball. He was fucking determined to break their no-run streak. It didn’t happen until the seventh, but they haven’t gotten another hit out of me yet.

I don’t give a fuck if my arm is a little tired. I don’t care that we’re leading them seven to one. It’s one more inning, and I’ve got three more strikeouts in me.

“C’mon, Coach. Please. Let me have this one.”

“Why? It won’t be a no-hitter or a shutout. What does it matter?”

I clear my throat and look at Aaron, who is staring back at me with one brow arched. I have no idea if he knows it’s because Amanda is here. The connection between Amanda and me is something I haven’t told anyone about—because they’re a bunch of meddling meddlers who think finding your soulmate and getting married at nineteen is just what people do.Small towns.But Aaron is perceptive as fuck, so there’s every chance he knows. He doesn’t call me on it, though. Instead, he waits to see what I say to Coach.

“It proves my stamina. I’m still pitching well, and I can close out this game. It’ll look good to anyone who’s watching me and prove what I’m capable of.”

Coach glances at Aaron, who shrugs.

“Fine. But if you injure yourself, it’s on you. Got it?”

“Got it, Coach.”

“All right. Get out there.”

I tug my cap farther down and jog out to the mound. Thereare a handful of cheers from the bleachers, but I don’t look to see if Amanda is one of the ones cheering.

The only thing I need to do is close out this game. Earn the win all on my own. Yeah, yeah. Baseball is a team sport. But it starts with the pitching. Hitters aren’t assigned a win or a loss at the end of the game. No infielders or outfielders have to worry if they get an extra L on their record. But pitchers do. We carry a certain responsibility for the game.

And tonight, I’m carrying us to the win.

I throw a couple of pitches with Z, then the first batter for the other team steps into the box.

Then I take a deep breath and do what I do best. My first pitch is a slider. And when the umpire calls it a strike, I smile to myself.

The thump of the ball hitting my glove sends a high through me, and I’m ready to go again. It’s an easy one-two-three strikeout for this batter. Next guy up reaches for pieces of the first two pitches and fouls them off. I blatantly throw one a little high and outside, just to see if he’ll reach for it. He does. If he’s going to swing no matter what, I need to throw him one that’ll make him miss.

So I rely on my old favorite. Two-seam fastball. And when the batter leans into the swing, I already know he’s a second too late and swinging too high. When the ball lands in Z’s glove, the batter walks away, muttering under his breath.

Another round of cheers come from the bleachers, but again, I focus on the plate.

Of course, it’s my luck that the next batter up—thelastbatter up—is one of the best hitters on the team. He hasn’t gotten anything tonight, so he’s out for blood.

Z signals to me, and it’s already what I was planning. There’s nothing like a changeup to throw off a hungry batter.

And it does its job. It looks like a fastball coming out of my hand, but it’s much slower, and when a batter is desperate for ahit, they won’t be patient. They’ll swing like it’s a fastball and miss.

Strike one.

For the first time, I steal a glance over at the bleachers, just long enough to see Amanda’s eyes locked on me.

Two more strikes.

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