The ball came whistling out of the pitching machine belt-high, just the way Corey liked it. He turned on it—hips, shoulders, arms rotating—and tried to take a level cut. But he was late getting the bat around, and the result was a weak shot into the right side of the net.

“Okay, that wasn’t…horrible,” Sammy said.

Corey grunted and lowered his bat. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “Was it a base hit?”

Sammy cocked his head and appeared to study the angle at which the ball had caught the netting. “All right, here’s my feeling,” he said. “If the kid playing second base was really, really short? Like if he was seven years old? Then it was a base hit.”

He exploded with laughter and collapsed on a nearby bench.

Corey sighed and got ready for the next pitch. “That’s great,” he said. “The way I’m hitting, I will be playing with seven-year-olds soon.”

“Hey, then you can play with Benny!” Sammy said, referring to his younger brother. “They’ll probably even let you bat cleanup. Dude, I bet you even make the all-star team!”

Corey glared at him, but Sammy was laughing so hard again he didn’t notice.

The Orioles were getting in some batting practice in preparation for the Skills Competition that night and their first game the next morning. The players had taken over the twenty pitching machines and batting cages, all in pristine condition, that were spread across the back of the Grand Slam complex.

Coach had suggested the extra BP as a way to work off nervous energy on their first day in North Carolina, and the Orioles had jumped at the opportunity. But now Corey was getting increasingly frustrated with his inability to put a good swing on the ball. He wasn’t hitting any better here than he had been back home. And with five games over the next week, the prospect of going 0-for-Sea-Isle in a big tournament was making him anxious.

He fouled off two more pitches, then hit a soft dribbler up the middle that clanked off the leg of the pitching machine. On the next two pitches he swung so hard that he missed them completely, his head flying off the ball on both.

“Somebody please tell me what I’m doing wrong!” he muttered, throwing the bat down in frustration.

“Oh, that’s easy, Maduro,” a voice behind him said. “You’re trying to be a hitter. And we all know how that’s been working out.”

Corey turned to find Katelyn leaning against her bat behind the cage, grinning.

“Look who’s here,” Sammy said, leaping off the bench. “I didn’t know they were shooting Mean Girls 3 today.”

“Very funny, nerd,” Katelyn said. “Who helped you think of that one? No way you came up with it by yourself.”

She picked up her bat and took a couple of vicious swings, the bat making whistling sounds as it cut through the air.

“Let me know if you need a lesson in there, Maduro,” she said. “From the looks of things, you definitely do.”

Corey fumed. Katelyn had been making nasty little digs at him for weeks, and for all that time he’d been working hard to control his temper around her. But now he was sick and tired of all the shots.

“Okay, I’m in a little slump,” he said hotly. “But you couldn’t hit with me on your best day.”

Katelyn’s grin vanished. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh?” she said, tapping the head of the bat against her hand. “Then how ’bout we have a little hitting contest? Unless you’re too scared.”

“Bring it,” Corey said. “Anytime. Anywhere.”

By now, a few more Orioles had gathered around the cage, drawn by the sound of raised voices. Corey could feel his hands starting to sweat. This wouldn’t be easy, not the way he was swinging the bat.

Katelyn was one of the best hitters on the team, too. Corey had more power—he was the Orioles number five hitter, after all, and she batted second. But he was feeling so lost at the plate these days that even Benny Noah or one of his little buddies could probably strike him out.

Still, there was no backing down now. Not with everyone standing around looking at them and nudging one another as if a schoolyard fight was about to break out.

“Okay, Maduro,” Katelyn said. “How ’bout we do it right now? Here’s how it’s going to work. We each hit ten balls. Whoever has the most hits wins. Loser buys the winner ice cream back at the hotel. Which means you’ll be buying me a mint chocolate chip cone.”

She stepped back and took another savage swing.

“With three scoops.”

She took another swing.

“And sprinkles.”

“Ooooooh,” the rest of the Orioles murmured. “Sprinkles!”

“You’re on,” Corey said, laughing at his teammates despite his nerves. “But how do we tell who has the most hits? After all, we’re hitting into a net.…”

“Easy,” Katelyn said. “We get somebody to be the judge.”

“How about Sammy?” Corey said. “He’s the most honest kid I know. He’s like the Mount Everest of integrity. He’s kind, brave, loyal—”

“Not to mention handsome in a James Franco sort of way,” Sammy interrupted, taking off his cap and smoothing his hair.

Katelyn snorted. “Nice try, Maduro. Like I’m gonna let you pick your best bud. No way.”

Corey threw his hands up and said, “Fine. Pick one of the other guys.”

Katelyn gazed at the rest of the Orioles and wrinkled her nose. “These goofs? Puh-leeze! No, we need someone who’s totally impartial. And I know just the person. Be right back.”

She disappeared around the corner and returned a moment later with Coach in tow.

“Let the games begin!” he bellowed, rubbing his hands together. “A batting contest? This is my kind of competition! Who’s up first?”

Katelyn elbowed Corey aside and said, “Beauty before—well, whatever it is you have, Maduro.”

She sauntered into the cage and made a big deal of putting on her batting gloves, pulling down on each finger until it was just so, and tightening and untightening the Velcro fasteners at each wrist.

Next she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a packet of Big League Chew, slowly tapping the shredded pink bubble gum into her mouth until it became a wad the size of a golf ball.

Then she picked up her bat and took a couple of swings to get loose.

“Any time now, Katelyn,” Coach said, winking at the rest of the Orioles. “Think they turn the lights out at midnight.”

As everyone chuckled, Katelyn shot Coach a glare and stepped in. She dropped into an athletic stance, bending slightly at the knees and holding the bat high, waving it in tiny circles as she waited.

“Ten swings,” Coach said, pulling a pen and notepad from his pocket. “I’ll do my best to determine if it would’ve been a base hit. Here we go.”

The balls shot out in ten-second intervals. Katelyn put on a show. She made good contact on almost every pitch and sprayed shots to every part of the net. When she was through, she walked up to Corey, jabbed him in the chest with her forefinger, and said, “I changed my mind. Make it vanilla fudge ripple.”

“Ooooh, vanilla fudge ripple!” the Orioles repeated.

Corey stepped in and was surprised by how calm he felt. Maybe it was because his teammates were relaxed, kidding around with Katelyn. Whatever it was, instead of holding the bat with the death grip he’d used for weeks, he held it loosely. He concentrated on seeing the ball the whole way and keeping his head still.

Quick, compact swing, he told himself. Just hit it hard. And now he seemed to be on every pitch, meeting the ball on the sweet spot of the bat, pulling it and driving it up the middle consistently.

From behind him, he heard murmurs of approval. He was hitting better than he had in a long time, and everyone could see it. It was as if a light switch had been turned on and the mechanics of hitting were no longer shrouded in mystery.

After the last pitch, the rest of the Orioles cheered and broke into chants of: “COR-EE! COR-EE!”

Coach scribbled a few more notations and held up his hands for quiet.

“Okay, here’s the final tally,” he said. “Katelyn did an absolutely terrific job. I gave her”—here he paused for dramatic effect—“five sure hits.”

“Only five?” Katelyn cried. This set off a chorus of boos, to which she responded by sticking out her tongue.

“As for Corey,” Coach continued, “also a terrific piece of hitting. Best I’ve seen from him in quite a while. Wish he’d do that in the games. And for him I have—drum roll, please—six hits!”

“YES!” the Orioles cried, pounding Corey on the back as he did a little fist pump in celebration.

“Therefore,” Coach continued, “by the power vested in me, I hereby declare Corey the winner of whatever goofy side bet you guys made.”

“You’re so freakin’ lucky, Maduro,” Katelyn snarled. She threw her bat into her equipment bag and began angrily peeling off her gloves.

“I think I’ll go with chocolate marshmallow,” Corey said loudly.

“Ooooh, chocolate marshmallow!” the Orioles intoned.

Katelyn grabbed her bag and started to walk away, but Corey tapped her on the shoulder.

“Oh, and three scoops,” he added.

Again she started to walk away. Again he tapped her on the shoulder. “With sprinkles,” he said.

“Ooooh, sprinkles!” the Orioles said.

As he watched her stomp away, her gear bag swinging from her shoulder, Corey couldn’t help smiling with satisfaction.

Ticking off Katelyn was probably not going to make his life any easier this week.

But at the moment it sure was fun.