Chapter Two

Tristan

Coach waved toward the batter’s box. “Murrell, you’re up.”

Tristan stood and grabbed a bat. He started out of the dugout as Kyle Sawyer trotted down the steps, having just nailed four of seven pitches. “Show off.”

Kyle laughed. “Talent.”

Tristan couldn’t argue with that. Kyle always played like his hair was on fire, but now that he was dating Faith, his game had improved to pro levels. The teams they were playing in the playoffs wouldn’t know what hit them. Not that Tristan was any slouch. As soon as Kyle graduated, the Suttonville Sentinels would be his team.

Tristan trotted to the batter’s box and swung his bat a few times, then posted up for the pitcher to throw to him. Dylan gave him a cocky grin. “Here for some punishment?”

“After what Sawyer just did to you? I’m here to clean up your mess.” Tristan grinned and waggled his bat. “Bring it.”

The first pitch was high and outside. “Ball!”

“Oh, come on!” Dylan glared at him and wound up again.

A nice, fat fastball hurtled toward Tristan. Yeah, this one was a grapefruit.

He swung, hard.

The ball sailed by him.

“Strike!” Dylan called, his grin returning. “Oh, I’m sorry… Were you planning to hit that?”

Tristan stared at the catcher, trying to unstick his brain from the miss. How did he not hit that? It should’ve been a homer, dead-center field. Instead, he’d whiffed it like a third grader.

“Enough with the trash talk, Dennings,” Coach barked from the dugout. “How about a changeup?”

Tristan tightened his grip on the bat. Everyone missed sometimes. When a three hundred batting average was considered good, one out of three wasn’t bad, and Tristan had a three twenty average. He’d hit the next one, no problem.

Except…he didn’t. Out of seven pitches, he only clipped one foul. Tristan glared at his bat in betrayal. The first round of regional playoffs started tomorrow night. He couldn’t go into a slump now.

“Shake it off.” Kyle whacked him on the shoulder when he went back to the dugout. “Look at it this way—you got the bad ones out of the way. Now you’ll be red hot.”

“I guess.” Tristan dropped his bat into his equipment bag.

“Hey, don’t overthink it,” Kyle said. “The more you stress, the worse it’ll get. Let the mojo flow.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. If you looked up mojo in the dictionary, you’d find Kyle’s picture. Badass car, gorgeous girlfriend, money, looks… It almost wasn’t fair. Although, even Tristan had to admit Kyle had been more chill, happier the last six weeks or so since he got together with Faith. Maybe that’s what Tristan needed—a girl.

He snorted. Eight months out of a two-year relationship had him rusty. The idea of trying to hook up with a girl sounded like more effort than he could spare right now.

“Dude, it’s going to be fine.” This from Dylan, the dream-crusher. “I’m just awesome today, is all.”

“Don’t be a jackass and kick him while he’s stewing,” Kyle said, giving them both a dose of his stern team-captain stare. “Go home, get some rest. It’s going to be a long haul if we want to make it all the way to state.”

Right. “Will do, boss.”

Dylan followed Tristan to the locker room. “Seriously, stop pouting.”

“If I hadn’t known you since second grade…” Tristan made a fist. They both knew he was bluffing. Besides, he was being a baby about it. His swing always came back. “I’ll be fine. Want to grab some dinner?”

Dylan laughed. “Is your Mom cooking tonight?”

“Yeah.” Tristan shuddered. “I told her I might have study group. At Snap’s.”

“Okay, I’ll be your cover. Seriously, your mother operates on people’s hearts… You’d think she’d learn to cook.”

Tristan shrugged his equipment bag onto his shoulder. “You’d think. Dad can grill things sort of okay, but it’s ‘casserole night,’ so I’m having a burger.”

“You buying?”

“Sure. As long as you don’t rag me from the mound anymore.”

“Dinner’s on me, then!” Dylan grinned at him. “Just kidding. I’ll stop busting on you.”

“Uh-huh, and the first fastball I send over the fence will end that.”

“Probably.” Dylan looked way too cheerful about it. “Take me to dinner, sweetheart.”

“You better put out later,” Tristan grumbled.

Snap’s was the best sports bar and restaurant this side of Dallas…and Tristan had his own booth.

“Back again?” His favorite server, Kathy, shook her head. She looked like somebody’s frizzy-haired favorite aunt, right down to the shrewd gaze and mischievous smile. Like she’d sneak you into an R-rated movie and not tell your parents. “Seriously, take a load off your folks and learn to cook. Maybe you’ll be good at it.”

“Then I wouldn’t see you three times a week.” Tristan flashed her a smile.

She rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you sweet.”

After she took their order and left, Dylan put both hands flat on the table and announced, “So, there’s this girl.”

Tristan leaned back in his seat. “Seriously? After last year, I thought Dylan ‘Ice Man’ Dennings said girls were off the table until he made the minors. This must be some girl. Who is she?”

“Girl in my AP history class. Not super tall, but not short either. Fills out a T-shirt, if you know what I’m saying.”

“No, Dylan, I have no idea.” Tristan kicked him under the table. “Continue, Captain Obvious.”

“Ow, Jesus. Anyhow, she has curly-ish hair and these big green eyes. Never seen anything like them. I dropped a pile of homework, and she helped me pick it up. Those eyes nearly knocked me over.”

If it wasn’t a girl’s eyes, it was her hair, or her legs, or her smile. Or her ass. Dylan had a deep admiration for the female form. Then again, what seventeen-year-old guy didn’t? Tristan grunted. Still, Dylan didn’t usually do more than notice and move on. “Okay, Romeo, why don’t you ask her out?”

“I need to keep my focus. Maybe once we win state.” Dylan puffed his chest out. “That should make her give me a look, don’t you think?”

Tristan gave him an amused smile. He really has no clue. None of the girls he’d been friends with or gone out with had given a crap about baseball. But Tristan wouldn’t burst his friend’s bubble. “It might.”

While Dylan alternated between attacking his burger like his life depended on it and giving an enthusiastic play-by-play about how he would eventually ask History Girl out, Tristan picked at his dinner. The fries were perfect—thick cut, just the right amount of crispiness—but he couldn’t shovel them down like Dylan. The tourney started tomorrow. Tomorrow. No matter what kind of brave face he put on, Tristan had a growing sense of alarm, and it was messing with his appetite. No surprise there. Because he was hiding something from the team: today wasn’t the first time his swing had deserted him. No, it had been slowly slipping for the last two weeks.

He had to figure out a way to shake off his slump before he ruined the playoffs. Otherwise, his future as team captain would pass him by…and end up going to his best friend.