Chapter Thirty-Six

Tristan

Tristan’s ears were still ringing from the cheers when he ran to center field. He had no idea how he’d hit that ball, and all he could remember was thinking slow down and taking a half-second hesitation before swinging.

Alyssa had fixed him, in more ways than one.

“Big hitters coming up,” Kyle called. “Keep an eye out.”

Tristan nodded. The heart of Reagan’s order was leading off, and Dylan was tired. He’d powered through, but he was past ninety pitches now, and his arm had to be hurting. That meant a few long balls were bound to fly their way.

Reagan’s first batter came to the plate. Dylan was already rubbing his hand on his pant legs. Tristan eyed the batter warily and drifted a few steps back. So did everyone else, except first and third base.

The first pitch was a changeup, low and away, and Dylan paced the mound. Tristan wanted to tell him it would be okay, but Dylan wouldn’t be able to hear him.

The second pitch was supposed to be a fastball, but it didn’t clear Dylan’s fingers the right way, so the ball slowed. The batter swung hard, and the ball hurtled into the left-field corner. Kyle ran as hard as he could, but the ball dropped before he made it, and the batter ran to second.

Dylan started pacing again. Their catcher came out to give him a pep talk. The first baseman wandered in, too. The ump only gave them a minute, though, before calling them back.

The next batter came out, strutting like it was Christmas morning and the world was his. Tristan had to stand there and watch Dylan unravel. The batter’s smirk every time Dylan threw a ball made Tristan want to punch something, and when the guy walked, he did it mouthing off to the catcher and the first baseman.

Dylan had his back to home plate and was taking heaving breaths. Tristan pointed at him and mouthed, “You’ve got this.”

Dylan nodded and turned around to face the next batter—Reagan’s best. He was going to swing hard at everything, and probably connect. Tristan took another step back.

The first pitch, a changeup, managed to fool the batter, and he missed. That perked Dylan up a little, and he threw a fastball.

The batter hit it square, and the ball sailed out over center field. Tristan’s field of vision narrowed. Three base runners. Trajectory looking to be inside the walls. Second baseman in his line of sight.

Tristan jumped and caught the ball. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he hurled it toward second base. The runner on first base sprinted toward second, but the second baseman caught the ball and tagged him out.

“Double play!” the announcer shouted.

Tristan, chest heaving, walked around a bit, ignoring the cheers—and boos—from the stands. Great as a double play was, there was a man on third. If the next batter hit a homer, they would have to play another inning, and Dylan couldn’t take it.

Dylan moved slowly on the mound. He looked like a guy past his limit. By this point, he probably had at least one blister, maybe two, so every pitch had to be agonizing. Tristan wished he could take on some of the pain for his friend, but all he could do was make sure nothing went past him.

The catcher threw Dylan a fresh ball, and he took his time examining it. The batter said something to the catcher, who punched his glove and signaled for a fastball.

Dylan nodded wearily and wound up. What were they thinking? Dylan didn’t have a fastball left. Tristan centered himself, ready to run in whatever direction necessary.

Dylan wound up, threw, and the batter crushed the ball. It was headed between Tristan and Kyle, to a perfect spot that neither of them would be able to reach in time. Tristan pushed off, running at full speed, keeping one eye on the ball and one on Kyle so they didn’t collide.

In a rush of adrenaline, Tristan realized he would make it to the ball first. He waved off Kyle, hoping, praying that he had it. The ball was coming down fast—three feet ahead of where he’d be.

Without thinking, Tristan threw himself out flat, stretching out his arm. When he felt the ball land in his glove near the tips of his fingers, he held on for dear life. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he gasped for air even as he slid across the grass.

Cheers rang out throughout the stadium, then Kyle was there to help him up, grinning from ear to ear.

The ball was in Tristan’s glove, and the game was over.