“Nah, Fisch isn’t the TikTok kid. He’s the ReelDeal,” Coop says, and I groan.
Jake and Rafi laugh and slap my back. “ReelDeal. Even better,” Jake says.
“Are you guys old enough to be so peak Dad Joke?” I mutter, leaning against the dugout rail. We’re back at the top of the order, which means Jake and Coop are getting ready.
When Jake steps up to the plate, we have a runner on second and one out. The crowd roars, hopeful for another bomb.
The pitcher works him carefully—two sliders off the plate and a fastball up. Jake fouls one straight back, then swings through a changeup that dives out of the zone. He doesn’t like that.
Full count.
The pitcher freezes him with a cutter on the inside corner. Strike three looking.
Jake doesn’t move for half a second, then he turns slowly and walks back toward the dugout, jaw tight. He squeezes the handle of his bat so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t splinter.
“Shake it off,” I say, joining the others as Jake walks past us.
He doesn’t look at any of us.
It’s been years since I stepped up to the plate, but the stress there always felt different to me than it did on the mound. Pitching is an extension of yourself. Hitting is a reaction to someone else.
Jake’s whole life feels like one long reaction. To the media. To the fans. To the version of him they decided on or that his family pushed him to become.
I don’t know if he’s ever gotten a fair shot.
Coop comes up next and slaps a single into right, but the inning fizzles after that. Scoreboard still reads 5–2 going into the ninth.
Coop stands next to me at the railing and grabs a handful of sunflower seeds as we watch Logan jog in from the bullpen.
After a quick warm-up, Logan is on fire.
Three up, three down. His knuckleball is untouchable today—a weak grounder, a first-pitch flyout, and a strikeout looking. The last hitter never had a chance.
I’m yelling louder than any fan for Logan, and when he gets back to the dugout, I grab him and pick him up.
“There he is,” I say.
He shakes his head, but he’s almost smiling. “Don’t make it weird.”
I chuckle, letting him down. Then more quietly, I say, “Team Fischer.”
He looks at me for a second. Bumps his fist into mine. “Team Fischer.”
Then he gets pulled into the dugout, where the rest of the team congratulates him. With a lead going into the ninth, Logan’s closing means game over.
We’re barely off the field before Gabriela and Scottie appear at the dugout steps with her clipboard. “Kellogg, Rodgers, Martinez, and Fischers—you’re up.”
Logan and I swap looks, and the excitement he was doing a good job concealing only a minute ago dies completely.
Coop looks at us. “You got this, guys. Just do exactly what I do and you’ll be fine.”
Logan snorts, some of his tension falling from his shoulders.
Surprisingly, Jake looks more nervous than my own brother right now.
Scottie squeezes his arm, leans in, and whispers something I can’t hear. Whatever it is smooths the line out of his mouth.
That shouldn’t bug me.
