Connor didn’t wake up until nearly ten o’clock the next morning, after a night spent trying to get comfortable and trying to shut off his brain so he could sleep. Throwing off the covers, he felt a stab of pain in his side, a reminder of everything that had happened since that weasel Billy had drilled him in the ribs.

What a nightmare, he thought.

Immediately after he’d punted the wastebasket at St. Vincent’s, his mother had chased him down in the hall and gotten in his face to tell him how disgraceful he’d acted. Then on the ride home, Coach had lectured him on how life isn’t always fair, but that you can’t get upset and lose your cool every time something doesn’t go your way, because it never helps the situation.

“Sometimes,” Coach said, “you just gotta suck it up and deal with it.”

The truth was, Connor felt worse than anyone about this latest meltdown. He had agonized over it right up until the time he finally fell asleep. Why couldn’t he keep his temper in check? Hadn’t he been doing so well lately—at least on the baseball field?

Well, maybe. But one thing was clear: he still needed to work on controlling it all the time.

As he shuffled downstairs in his pajamas, he heard a strange sound coming from the first floor. It almost sounded like someone was…whistling. In fact, it sounded like his dad. He hadn’t heard his dad whistle in quite a while—not since losing his job, anyway.

He found both his parents in the kitchen, his dad washing dishes at the sink while his mom made a grocery list at the table.

“Glad somebody around here’s in a good mood,” Connor said, flopping down in a chair and wincing again.

“Your dad thinks he may have a job,” his mom said, looking up and smiling.

Connor eyes widened. His jaw dropped. He looked at his dad, who was nodding and holding up his hand for a high-five.

“Got a call from Hewitt Chevrolet,” his dad said. “Big dealership in Ellicott City. Nothing’s guaranteed, but it looks good. I have another interview with them Monday.”

“That’s great, Dad,” Connor said. He rose slowly, slapped him five, then gingerly gave him a hug. “That’s really great.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they hadn’t come out with nearly enough enthusiasm.

He was happy for his dad, he really was. But seeing his glove on the counter now—he’d left it there when he came home from the hospital—reminded him that he wouldn’t be playing baseball anytime soon. He could feel his spirits sinking fast.

As if reading his mind, his mom said, “I’m glad you’re up. Let’s talk.”

Here it comes, Connor thought, steeling himself. Another lecture about my stupid temper and how I’d better get a grip on it if I ever want to do anything in this life. Well, go ahead. I deserve it. Especially after that ridiculous performance in the ER last night.

“To begin with, Dr. Rose said he felt terrible telling you you couldn’t play ball,” his mom said now.

Great, Connor thought. Bet he didn’t feel nearly as terrible as I did.

“Anyway, he came to see me before I left work last night,” his mom continued. “And he had an idea. He said if you could wear some kind of protective padding over those bruised ribs, you’d probably be okay to play the next game.”

Connor was still not fully awake, so it took a moment to process what his mom was saying.

When it finally registered, he let out a loud whoop. Then he hugged his mom and did a little dance—no crazy moves; it hurt too much. “YESSS!” he shouted.

Protective padding! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Or some kind of hard plastic like big-league batters wore after they were hit on the elbow or the wrist or the shin. He remembered hearing an announcer on the MLB Network say that these days hitters wore more body armor than U.S. combat troops overseas. Why couldn’t it work for a twelve-year-old who’d just been drilled in the ribs by a hard-throwing wacko?

But what could he wear that would protect his ribs and still allow him to bat and throw?

Then it struck him: rib pads—what football players wore! They’d work perfectly. He’d wear them inside his uniform jersey. He might end up looking a little like the Michelin Man, but Connor could live with that as long as he could still play ball.

Maybe Jordy’s older brother Jack, who played Pop Warner football, had some extra rib pads lying around somewhere. If not, Connor was sure he could get them cheap at Second Time Around, the big used–sportinggoods store in town.

He was reaching for the phone to call Jordy when his mom cleared her throat.

“One more thing, young man,” she said.

Uh-oh. She wore her Serious Mom face now and was speaking in her No Nonsense tone of voice. Connor knew that whatever was coming, he wouldn’t be breaking out any dance moves to celebrate.

“You are to sit down today—right now, in fact—and write a letter of apology to Dr. Rose,” she said. “You’ll tell him how sorry you are that you acted like a spoiled brat. I’ll give it to him tonight at work.”

Connor breathed a sigh of relief. He’d expected to hear something far worse—maybe even that he was grounded for flipping out and being so rude to the doc. A letter of apology would be a piece of cake. He’d make it sing, too. Wasn’t that what his English teacher, Mr. Korn, was always urging the class to do with their papers? Make ’em sing?

“Oh, and one more thing,” his dad said. Connor held his breath again. “A girl named Melissa called while you were in the ER last night. Melissa Morrow.”

Melissa! But why would she—?

“She wanted to know if you were okay,” his dad continued. “You owe her a phone call.”

His mom and dad stole a glance at each other. Both were grinning now.

“She’s just a girl in my school,” Connor said quickly. “So forget whatever you’re thinking.”

But it left him wondering. Why exactly had Melissa called? To make sure he’d be able to play in the next game? Otherwise, it was bye-bye, Connor Sullivan profile.

Or was there something more to it? She had been fun to talk to the other day. Could she actually be concerned about him?

Sure, he’d call her back. No problem! He’d call everyone in the phone book if they wanted him to, now that he could play ball again in the biggest game of the season.

Two more days. Game 2, Orioles vs. Red Sox at Eddie Murray Field. A chance to settle things with Billy. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the big guy’s face when he showed up ready to play.

Bet the smirk’ll be gone, Connor thought. How sweet will that be?