The Orioles were practicing on one of the back fields at the complex, and Corey was absolutely killing it.

He had already made three circus catches in the outfield, drawing shouts of approval from Coach and high fives from his teammates on all three. And he had pounded the ball during batting practice, spraying line drives to all fields and even jacking two monster shots over the left-field fence.

Coach was rearing back and throwing some hard BP, too—there were no room-service fastballs on the menu today. This wasn’t the Home Run Derby. Not only that, but he was also mixing in lots of breaking balls. Years ago, Coach had been an all-conference pitcher for Salisbury University on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. And he still had a live arm—at least for “a fat old guy in his forties,” as he put it.

Many of the Orioles were only too eager to bail out of the batter’s box against Coach, especially when he whistled a high fastball under their chin or threw a slider that looked like it was about to plunk them on the shoulder before it broke off. But Corey was so locked in that it didn’t matter what Coach threw—he was on it.

At the same time, though, he was still worried sick about his dad. The Orioles had one game left, tomorrow against the powerful Norfolk Red Sox. And all Corey could think about was what kind of horribly embarrassing move his dad would pull this time to leave Corey wanting to scream, put a paper bag over his head, and flee the state.

This morning, he had barely said two words to his dad before grabbing breakfast with the team and getting a ride to practice with Coach and Mickey.

After he had stormed out of the room, his dad had gone looking for him. Joe Maduro had searched everywhere: the pool, the hotel gym, the basketball courts—everywhere but the batting cages.

When Corey finally returned from having an ice cream with Katelyn, he’d found his dad pacing around their room, eager to explain himself. But Corey had waved him off and climbed into bed, leaving his dad sitting by the window, staring out at the night sky.

Now Corey was here at practice, still angry, but somehow looking like an all-star in every phase of the game. This was one of the true mysteries of his life: how it could be that the more worried he was about something, the better he played.

In the last few months of his mom’s life, in the dark days when she was shuttling back and forth between home and the hospital to meet with grim-faced doctors and fight infections and get different treatments, Corey had played the best baseball of his life.

It didn’t make sense—none of it did. He would show up for games with red-rimmed eyes, exhausted from not sleeping, so worried about his mom he could hardly think. But as soon as the first pitch was thrown, he’d somehow manage to block it all out and concentrate on what was happening between the lines, with great results.

The ball would jump off his bat. When he was playing the outfield, he’d study the batter intently and watch for the type of pitch being thrown, then get a great break on the ball no matter where it was hit.

Sure, the minute the game was over, all the worries and fears and worst-case scenarios about his mom and her illness would wash over him again. But at least for those six innings, he could escape.

Baseball would always do that for him. And it was doing it for him again now under the blue, cloudless North Carolina sky.

After batting practice, Corey reached into his gear bag for his glove when he saw it. There in the pocket was a note from his dad.

It was written on white notebook paper and read:

Corey,

I don’t know what to say. Literally. I feel terrible. Your mother begged me years ago to get help for my temper, and I didn’t do it. It was a big mistake, I see that now. But don’t give up on me. I’m trying, even though I know it doesn’t seem that way.

Love,

Dad

Corey shook his head and crumpled the note before firing it into a trash can. He was just starting to feel better. No way was he going to start thinking about all that again now.

Just then, Sammy sidled up to him with a puzzled look on his face. “You know that game What’s Wrong with This Picture?” he asked.

“Sure,” Corey said. “An all-time classic.”

“Okay,” Sammy said, “let’s play it. What’s wrong with this picture? Katelyn hasn’t stopped smiling at you the whole time we’ve been out here. Every time you make a catch in the outfield, she’s cheering like you’re Adam Jones or something and you just climbed the wall to rob someone of a home run. Same thing during batting practice. ‘Great hit, Corey! Way to drive the ball, Corey! You’re really locked in today, Corey!’ Dude, it made me want to hurl!”

Sammy shook his head in wonder. “Oh, and she keeps calling you Corey instead of Maduro. Or nerd. Which, by the way, is still the affectionate name she reserves for the rest of us. Although she likes to mix it up, too. Today she called me a dumb-ass when I forgot to cover second on one of her throws.” He stared at his friend. “So what’s the deal? Why has she suddenly morphed into the president of the Corey Maduro Fan Club?”

“Guess she came to her senses,” Corey said, grinning. “She finally realized a kid like me is the total package: good looks, brains, charm, athletic ability…”

“Yeah, that must be it,” Sammy said, rolling his eyes. Suddenly he grabbed Corey’s shoulders, spun him around, and got him in a headlock.

“If you don’t tell me what’s going on,” he said, “I’ll choke off your air supply. I can kill a man with these arms, you know. They should probably be registered as deadly weapons.”

“Okay, okay,” Corey said, laughing and throwing up his hands in surrender.

Quickly he recounted the events of the night before at the batting cage, including the conversation about Katelyn’s out-of-control dad, her initial resentment of Corey playing center field, and her praise for his diving catch-and-throw against the Indians.

He told Sammy the main reason Katelyn was being nice to him—okay, maybe she was even going a little overboard—was probably that she felt sorry that he had a dad who was a whack job at games, too.

When he was done, Sammy whistled softly. “Seriously?” he said. “That is so not like Katelyn. Maybe it wasn’t really her. You said it was almost dark, right? Maybe it was some other girl, a girl with an actual sweet personality. And you only thought it was Katelyn.”

Corey chuckled. “No, it was her. She even bought me that ice cream she owed me.”

“That does it!” Sammy cried. “Maybe you had a really high fever and you were seeing things.”

A moment later, Coach called them together at first base.

“Probably don’t need to tell you we have a tough game tomorrow,” he said. “The Norfolk Red Sox have two pitchers who hit close to seventy on the radar gun. So we might be slightly, uh, limited when it comes to offense.”

“Great,” Justin whispered a little too loudly. “We’re doomed. All life is over.”

“No, we are not doomed, Justin,” Coach said, glaring at him. “But we need to maximize any scoring opportunities we get. So now we’re going to work on baserunning drills.”

The Orioles let out a collective groan. Baserunning drills were boring. They were all running and no fun—glorified wind sprints. It was the last thing they wanted to do in a gorgeous baseball setting like this.

What they really wanted to do was get back to the hotel, jump in the pool, and enjoy their last off day in Sea Isle.

“Okay, I can see you’re all looking forward to this,” Coach said, holding up his hands. “But if we get on base against the Red Sox, we’re going to be looking to steal—every time. So I’ve brought along a friend who might be able to help us. In fact, some of you might recognize him.”

Now the Orioles’ jaws dropped. Walking toward them with a big smile was Nate McLouth, the undisputed stolen-base king of the big-league Baltimore Orioles. He was currently on the disabled list with a shoulder injury, which probably explained why he had enough free time for a trip to North Carolina.

“All right, let’s get to work,” he said. “Who’s the fastest runner on the team?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” Katelyn sang out. “It’s Corey!”

The rest of the Orioles looked at her as if her head had just exploded.

“That’s it,” Sammy whispered to Corey. “I’m officially going to puke.”

“Uh, no,” Coach said quickly. “Actually it’s not Corey. Hunter is our fastest runner.”

“Fine,” Katelyn said, pouting. “But Corey’s probably the second-fastest.”

Now Sammy made low, retching sounds until Corey elbowed him in the ribs.

“All right, Hunter, come here,” Nate McLouth said.

He had Hunter drop into an athletic stance, knees bent, weight shifted slightly forward, and head up, to take a lead off first base. Then he went over how to break for second, how to explode to top speed during the first three steps, and how to slide into the bag at the best angle to avoid the tag.

For the next twenty minutes, the Orioles practiced the drill under McLouth’s watchful eye. When he was satisfied with their progress, Coach brought them together again.

“Now we’re going to work on a secret play,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

A low murmur of excitement rippled through the Orioles. It made Corey chuckle. Nothing seemed to get young baseball players more fired up than the prospect of a secret play. It seemed as if every team in the country had a secret play, or was working on one.

In fact, there were so many secret plays out there that Corey couldn’t understand how they could be secret anymore. Especially since kid baseball players were the biggest blabbermouths in the whole world and loved telling everyone about the great secret play their team was working on.

And anyway, with twenty-nine other teams in the tournament, Corey wouldn’t have been surprised if at least a dozen of them already had the same secret play in their playbook. But as long as the Norfolk Red Sox wasn’t one of those teams, the Orioles might be able to make it work.

Coach had Gabe go to the pitcher’s mound, Mickey get set up behind the plate, and Sammy take shortstop, each with their gloves.

“The Norfolk pitchers are pretty good, so it might be hard to steal on them,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t steal on their catcher. Nate?”

McLouth nodded. “Okay, here’s how it works.” He told Hunter to take a lead off first base. “The pitcher throws a pitch, right? What you want to do is break for second the instant the catcher throws the ball back to the pitcher. Got that? Most catchers kind of lob the ball back to the pitcher. Some even stay in their crouches and lob the ball back.

“So if you get a good break,” he continued, “you should be sliding into second base before the pitcher gets the ball and can whirl around to throw you out. Let’s practice it.”

Even with Gabe and Mickey knowing how the play worked, Hunter was easily able to steal second three times in a row. Gabe grew so frustrated he slammed his glove to the ground.

“That’s cheating!” he cried. “And if it isn’t cheating, it should be! That’s not baseball, that’s…cheating!”

“Not at all,” McLouth said, chuckling. “That’s smart, heads-up baserunning. You even see guys do it once in a while in the major leagues.”

The Orioles were impressed with the play, nodding and fist-bumping one another.

“Okay, not every one of you is as fast as Hunter,” Coach said. “But every player on this team should be able to pull it off if we call on you. It’s more about getting a good lead and timing than about pure speed. And who knows who’ll be on base when we need it?

“It’s probably a play that’s only going to work once,” he continued. “After that, the catcher will practically walk the ball back to the pitcher to prevent a steal. But the one time it does work might win us the ball game.”

Each of the Orioles took turns leading off first and practicing the play, with Gabe, Mickey, and Sammy rotating in as base runners, too. Twenty minutes later, practice was over.

“You guys are ready,” Nate McLouth said, smiling again. “I can’t stick around for tomorrow’s game, but I’ll get the play-by-play afterward from Coach. And I definitely want to hear if the secret play works.”

He tipped his cap and the Orioles gave him a big round of applause. Then they began gathering up their equipment.

Making sure he was out of earshot of Katelyn, Sammy draped an arm around Corey and said in a high-pitched voice, “Who’s the fastest runner on the team? Oh, that’s easy! It’s COR-EE!”

“Shut up,” Corey said, his face reddening.

But secretly he was thrilled to have Katelyn cheering for him instead of always making him look bad.

His dad was doing a good enough job at that.