Chapter One
Reece Steele
Pitcher
The thing about opening season at home is that the entire city goes wild.
Fifty-two thousand people crammed into Wildcat Stadium on a cool March night, and every single one of them is riding that first-game-of-the-season high. They scream themselves hoarse, wave rally towels, and wait for me to do what I’ve done for the past three seasons—dominate.
I roll my shoulder, feeling the familiar pull of muscle and tendon as I stand on the mound. The evening air has a crisp edge to it, the kind that makes your breath visible between pitches. The stadium lights blaze against the darkening sky, and the scoreboard reads…
Wildcats 2
Tahoe Blues 2
Bottom of the 7th
Tied game. Two outs. Runners on second and third.
The crowd is a living thing, roaring, churning, desperate. Every eye in the stadium is locked on me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get off on it just a little.
“Come on, Steele!” someone bellows from behind home plate. “Strike this punk out!”
I tug the brim of my cap lower, hiding my smirk.Punk.The batter stepping up to the plate is Marcus Webb, six-foot-four, built like a tank, batting .312 last season. He hit two home runs off me in last year’s playoffs.
He thinks he has my number.
He’s about to learn otherwise.
I catch the sign from Garrett, our catcher. Fastball, high and inside. I shake him off. Garrett frowns behind his mask, then flashes another sign. Curveball, low and away.
Better.
I wind up, feeling every part of my body align like a machine calibrated for one purpose—making that ball do exactly what I want. The roar of the crowd fades to white noise. Webb’s cocky stance narrows to a single point of focus. My fingers find the seams, grip perfectly, and I let it fly.
The ball drops out of the strike zone like it’s fallen off a cliff.
Webb swings through empty air.
“Strike one!”
The stadiumerupts. I don’t react. Don’t pump my fist or showboat. Just catch the return throw from Garrett and get back into position. That’s the thing that drives batters crazy—I never give them anything. No emotion, no tells, nothing but cold efficiency and the unspoken promise that the next pitchwillbe worse.
Webb steps out of the box, adjusts his batting gloves, trying to reset. I can practically see the gears turning in his head.
What’s he throwing next? Same pitch? Different location?
Good. Let him think.
Garrett calls for a slider. I nod this time. Webb settles back into his stance, bat cocked, weight balanced. He’s guessing fastball.They always guess fastball.
I throw the slider.
It starts middle-in, and Webb’s eyes light up, thinking he has it. But the ball breaks six inches to the right at the last possible second, painting the outside corner.
“Strike two!”
Now the crowd is chanting. The sound starts in the bleachers and rolls through the stadium like thunder.
