Chapter Thirty-Two

Tristan

“Good catch out there.” Coach slugged Tristan’s shoulder as he jogged down the dugout steps. “Now I want a base hit.”

It was the bottom of the third, and while Jackson was pitching well, a rare error at shortstop had allowed Conroe a run in the second. Tristan’s first at-bat had been a pop fly to center field to end the first. He’d left two men on—two men who could’ve put the Sentinels in the lead.

He swallowed his nerves, nodded to Coach, and climbed up to the on-deck circle to take a few practice swings while Conroe’s pitcher warmed up. The ump signaled time, and Tristan walked to the batter’s box.

“Now hitting for the Sentinels, number twenty-seven, Tristan Murrell,” the announced said over the speakers.

Tristan took a deep breath. Please throw a grapefruit. He stepped in and raised his bat.

The pitcher wound up. In a blink, a curveball raced toward Tristan. He swung.

“Strike!” the umpire yelled.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Tristan stepped out and rolled his shoulders. He could do this. He needed to slow down, just like Alyssa said.

He stepped back in. The next pitch was a wild changeup.

“Ball!”

Okay, he could live with a walk. A walk would be fine. The pitcher watched the catcher, picking the next pitch.

A fastball, right down the middle.

“Strike!”

Tristan stepped out again and squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to remember how it felt when Alyssa kissed him out of the blue that first Sunday. How his brain reset back to caveman and his muscles took over.

He stepped back in, breathed. Another fastball, gorgeous, begging to be whacked over the fence. Tristan swung with his entire body.

“Strike!”

Once he stopped the momentum of his swing, Tristan stamped a cleat into the dirt, frustrated. He stalked into the dugout to sympathetic pats and calls of “You’ll get it next time!” He ignored all of them and flopped onto the bench. He should’ve been up there egging Sawyer on, but he didn’t have the energy.

Dylan came over and sat next to him. “Dude.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Tristan rested his face in his hands. “I thought I had it back. I thought maybe Alyssa was my good luck charm or something. But I can’t hit anything.”

Ting!

Cheers roared from the crowd, and Dylan hopped up to look. “Sawyer crushed a homer. Tied us up.” He came back to the bench. “Enough wallowing. Suck it up, buttercup. The freshmen are looking at you, and you’re acting like a grouchy six-year-old.”

Tristan pushed himself up. Dylan was right. He went over to congratulate Kyle as he jogged down the steps. “Good job.”

“Thanks. Now, we sort you out, and we’ll have ourselves a ball game.”

“I’m going to try.”

“Good.”

Kyle went to grab a drink, and Tristan stared at the team. They were so happy, so pumped to be here. Suttonville’s first state championship team…but only if they won today.

And he had to play a part in that. He was the leadoff hitter in the heart of the order. He had to get it together, fast.

“Bottom of the seventh, one out. Next up, Tristan Murrell of the Sentinels. Two men on, one out, with the Tigers holding a one-run lead.”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium, reminding Tristan this was his last shot. If he didn’t get it done, it would be down to Kyle. Tristan had hit a single in the sixth, but that was the end of his production for the day. He needed to be a hero.

Conroe’s closer was one of the best bullpen pitchers in the state of Texas. He hadn’t blown a save in two years.

No pressure.

Tristan rolled his neck as he walked to the batter’s box. He knew what the guy would throw—either a mean curveball or a fastball that could outrace a Corvette. That didn’t make it any easier to approach the plate. His stomach cramped.

You’re in your own head, man. Stop it. It’s just another pitcher. Tristan squared his shoulders and raised his bat. Just another pitcher.

The first pitch, a fastball to rival one of Dylan’s, flew by before Tristan even got his bearings.

“Strike!”

Okay, fine. No big deal. He was sizing the guy up, was all.

Another fastball. This time Tristan swung and caught nothing but air.

The umpire threw the pitcher a new ball, and he looked it over before smirking at Tristan. As if to say, What are you going to do about it, loser?

Tristan tightened his hands on his bat.

The pitcher wound up and threw him a curveball.

“Strike!”

Tristan let out a ragged breath. The guys on first and second jogged back to their bases to tag up. He’d blown it, big time.

“Stop letting it get into your head,” Sawyer hissed in his ear as he made his way to the plate.

Tristan kept walking and slunk into the dugout to watch. The pitcher gave Kyle the same smirk. Kyle returned it. Improved on it.

And on the first pitch—the first damn pitch—Kyle slammed that fastball into deep right. It dropped into the corner, and the outfielder had to run after it, giving plenty of time for their guys on first and second to sprint around the bases…and win the game.

“Did you guys see that?” Jackson was waving his arms around. “The closer’s face. Oh my God, I’m taking that sight to the grave!”

The team was bouncing around the locker room like kangaroos on meth. Coach had even let them spray each other with soda cans—after lining the room with plastic sheeting.

Tristan was the only one not celebrating. He sat on the bench, staring at the nameplate on his locker. He knew he’d been helpful on defense, especially catching the final out in the seventh and saving two runs from scoring, but he couldn’t call it a success until he came through with his batting when it mattered. People were going to start calling him a choker.

He glanced over at Kyle, who was on the phone, laughing. He looked like he’d won the lottery. At least someone had come through for the team.

Coach came in, telling them to knock off the noise and clean up. “Bus leaves in twenty whether you monsters are on it or not!”

Tristan grabbed his towel, but Coach stopped him on the way to the showers. “Hold up a minute, Murrell.”

Once the locker room was clear, Coach said, “I don’t want to see another performance like this tomorrow.”

“I’m trying, Coach. I’ve been working on my swing—”

“I don’t mean the hitting. I mean the sulking. If you want to be my team captain next year, you need to have some professionalism, young man.” Coach glowered down at him. “This is a team, Murrell, and leadership is required. If you do this again tomorrow, I’m giving the captain position to Dennings. Period.”

Tristan swallowed against the tide of shame constricting his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“All right. Hit the shower.” Tristan turned to go, but Coach stopped him. “And, Murrell? No matter how much I like winning, it’s just a game. It’s supposed to be fun, kid.”

He left the locker room, but Tristan stood frozen. If it was supposed to be fun, why did he feel like his heart had been ripped out and stomped on?

Shaking his head, he stalked into the showers.