Chapter Thirty-Five

Alyssa

Alyssa held her breath as Tristan made his way to the on-deck circle to warm up. The Reagan pitcher was better than Dylan, and if the Sentinels wanted to win, they’d have to do it by hitting smart and fielding smarter. She was convinced they had the fielding part down—Tristan had almost saved that clear homer in the first—but would they hit off this guy?

Faith patted her arm. “He looks good.”

He did—his stance was nice and loose, bat poised at a good angle. He also looked great in his uniform. She hadn’t thought about that during the mad rush to San Antonio, but the sight of him in those baseball pants made the five-hour drive worth it. The short sleeves were a bonus, too.

“Now batting for the Sentinels, Tristan Murrell,” the announcer said.

Tristan shook out his arms and walked to the batter’s box. Alyssa reached for Faith’s hand. “Come on. You’ve got this.”

The pitcher wound up. Slider. Tristan watched it go by, and Alyssa let out a sigh of relief.

“Ball!”

The pitcher had been testing the waters a bit, she was sure of it. Hell, she’d done the same thing a few times. Throw something a little low, a little outside, and you might get lucky with a missed call by the ump, or a batter who’d swing at anything.

The pitcher watched the catcher, shaking his head once, then again. Finally, he nodded and cupped the ball in his glove. Tristan shifted his weight.

The pitch came—fastball. Tristan swung and made contact. The ball flew into the outfield, rolling far into the corner. Alyssa leapt to her feet screaming, “Run! Run!”

Tristan cleared first base and barreled toward second. The throw was coming, so he slid under the second baseman’s glove, missing a tag by inches.

“Safe!”

Alyssa jumped up and down. “A double! He hit a double!”

Faith shot to her feet next to Alyssa. “Kyle Sawyer, you bring him home!”

Kyle, who’d been stalking to the batter’s box, stopped. He actually stopped and winked up at Faith, who blew him a kiss.

Alyssa shook her head. “You two really are kind of disgusting. You know that, right?”

Faith’s expression was intense. “If he hits a homer, you’ll thank me.”

“If he hits a homer, I’ll kiss him on the mouth.”

“No, that’s my job.” Faith’s eyes didn’t leave Kyle. “Come on, baby. Show off for everyone.”

The first pitch was low and outside. What was it with Reagan’s pitcher and throwing the same pitch every time he felt out a batter? She wished she could text that bit of intel to the coach, but he had to see it himself. One of these days, a batter was going to get wise and find a way to hit that pitch.

The next pitch was a really sweet changeup. Kyle caught the ball on the tip of his bat, sending it just foul of the first-base line.

Kyle shook it off and waited for the pitcher to eye Tristan’s position. Tristan trotted back to second—he’d taken a pretty wide lead back there. Finally, the pitcher threw his third pitch.

Fastball, down the middle.

Ting!

Faith started screaming and waving her arms as the ball sailed up, up, up, and over the fence. The crowd roared, but Alyssa only had eyes for Tristan. He jogged around third to home with his head held high. Kyle followed, and half the team met him outside the dugout for fist bumps and high fives.

Faith threw her arms around Alyssa. “They did it!”

Alyssa hugged her back. “They did.”

And in a way, she and Faith had helped.

“It’s the top of the ninth, and after a wild first few innings, we’re tied up in what’s become a pitchers’ duel here at the state championship,” the commentator said on the radio app Alyssa had downloaded to her phone. “It’s three-three between the Rattlers and the Sentinels, giving us extra baseball. For the listeners at home, high school teams have seven-inning games, but in the case of a tie, they keep playing, and these teams are showing no signs of letting up. Batting next, we start with the top of Suttonville’s order. At least one of these batters needs to find a way on base so the Sentinels’ sluggers—Murrell and Sawyer—have a chance to bring someone home.”

“Yeah, Bob, they need smart play to start off the inning, and a hero to end it,” the other commentator said. “Now, Reagan is one of those fortunate teams to have a solid pitcher in closing position. Suttonville isn’t that deep and will be looking for Dennings to finish the job since their third pitcher is on the DL. That’s a tall order.”

“Definitely.”

Alyssa turned the radio off. She didn’t want to hear the odds. This was too much of a nail-biter, and she’d learned long ago not to listen too closely to predictions. That’s one thing her dad taught her—baseball had as many variables as the weather, and, like meteorologists, commentators were only right about 30 percent of the time.

No, she wanted to see Tristan hit one to the fences. He’d hit two other singles, including one to bring in their third run, before the pitcher had hunkered down. On the plus side, Dylan had hunkered down, too. He went out there, inning after inning, and did his job. So now they had a nail-biter.

“Stop chewing on your fingers,” Faith said, snatching Alyssa’s hand away from her mouth.

Alyssa clutched her hands together in her lap. “I can’t help it. I’m freaking out a little.”

“Me, too.” Faith gazed at the field. “We need a base runner. Hopefully two.”

Reagan’s closer finished warming up, and the first batter took his place. The first pitch was a fastball—fast and straight from a guy whose arm was still fresh. The batter didn’t even twitch.

“Strike!”

“This could be a problem.” Alyssa’s fingers found their way to her mouth again.

Faith swatted at her. “Stop.”

The next pitch, a solid curve, was hittable. The batter made contact, but the ball didn’t have any distance and the left fielder made an easy catch. Out number one.

The second batter did even worse. He hit a pop fly on the very first pitch. After only three pitches, their closer had two outs.

Faith shot Alyssa a panicked look. “Okay, start biting your nails now.”

The third batter came out. He walked slowly to the batter’s box, his shoulders bunched up. The whole inning, maybe even the game, rested on those shoulders—Alyssa hoped he could handle it. He was their only freshman starter, and he hadn’t had a hit all day.

The first pitch was another of those beautiful fastballs. The rookie watched it pass, nodded, and crowded the plate.

“What’s he doing?” Faith asked.

Alyssa felt a smile coming on. “Proving why he made varsity at fourteen.”

The next pitch was another curve, slightly outside. By moving in, the batter had given himself enough reach to pick it up. The ball pinged off his bat, flew over the shortstop’s head, and dropped into the grass ten yards away from the center fielder. With that little, unassuming hit, the third batter had a single.

Alyssa let out a long breath. “Tristan’s coming out.”

He was all business as he swaggered to the plate. If he was worried about being on the hook, he didn’t show it. He’d only flied out once the whole game. The odds of him going four for five were slim, but Alyssa believed in baseball magic, and she felt like he was due for some.

He stepped into the batter’s box, and the crowd hushed. Not even Reagan’s fans were trying to yell and psych him out. The first pitch came—another fastball. Predictable, but when you had the stuff, effective.

Tristan swung, missed.

“Strike!”

The pitcher cocked his head, watching the signals from the catcher, shaking off all of them one by one. Finally, he nodded and wound up.

Another fastball.

Now that was different, but Tristan was ready. Time seemed to slow down. Alyssa saw the slight hitch in Tristan’s movement as he adjusted his swing. His torso twisted powerfully as the bat came swinging around.

Ting!

Tristan dropped the bat and took off for first, not even looking to see where the ball went. He was the only one, though. The center and left fielders were racing across the grass, waving and pointing. The center fielder jumped at the wall, making a wild grab, but the ball sailed into the bleachers, at least ten rows up.

“It’s gone.” Electricity tingled in Alyssa’s fingertips. “It’s gone!”

Tristan was still running when cheers erupted from the crowd. He slowed, bewildered, and looked at the third-base coach, who laughed and waved him around.

Alyssa couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t care, not at all. When Tristan rounded third, she waved both hands, and he grinned up at her before crossing home plate and being swallowed by a mob of bouncing Sentinels at the front of their dugout.

Kyle slapped Tristan on the back on his way to the plate. On the first pitch, he connected but ended up with an easy out on a fly ball to left.

Faith slumped. “Aw, shoot.”

Alyssa stayed on her feet, though, watching Kyle jog back to the dugout for his glove. He’d had that ball. He’d had it and held back. She nodded, smiling. He’d let it go, for Tristan. “Your boyfriend is one hell of a guy, Faith. Don’t be sad.”

“Oh, I know.” She gave Alyssa a side hug. “And what about Tristan? He really saved the day just now.”

“Yeah, he did.”

He’d been the hero, but all she cared about was how the specter of a batting slump was off his back for good.