“Right,” he says. “It’s my favorite Quinn tradition.”
“Of course it is,” I tease with a roll of my eyes. “We’re all celebrating you.”
He gives a shrug that’s a little more performative than it would have been even a few weeks ago. My parents’ love hasn’t been in doubt—I hope—but sitting with the consequences of his actions will be good for Jake. At least, that’s what he said his therapist told him.
There’s a sharp whistle in the locker room, and Jake looks behind him before saying, “That’s my cue.”
“We’ll be the ones in the stands cheering your name.”
He stops mid-spin. Looks back at me and smiles.
“Thanks, Scot. For everything. Not just the … dating. You’ve always been there, and it means a lot to me.”
“You kiss like a squid, but it worked out okay in the end.”
The mention of kissing makes us both shudder. Then he flicks my shoulder. “I’ll catch you in the media room.”
“Go get ’em, bro.”
He nods once—and then instead of jogging off, he leans back through the doorway. “Hey, Fischer,” he calls. “Someone out here’s been looking for you.”
A beat later Lucas appears in the doorway, still in his uniform, cap on, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the corridor.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
Half the locker room is probably watching. Neither of us cares.
“Go throw one-oh-two,” I tell him.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and he leans in, his response tickling my ear: “Yes, ma’am.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m standing in the corridor with my heart doing something embarrassing, and Jake is already halfway down the hall.
And then I go find my parents.
***
Jake’s up first in the inning, and the stadium settles into that low electric buzz that always comes right before the pitch. The crack of the bat comes fast and loud, and the ball shoots past third and down the line. The crowd jumps to its feet as Jake beats the throw to first with a stand-up single, wearing a cocky grin like he had it under control the whole time.
Next up is Coop. After two balls, the pitcher throws a nasty curveball, but Coop sees it coming and absolutely demolishes one to right field. The ball sails high over the fence, and the stadium explodes as Jake jogs home ahead of him. My mom nearly spills her soda celebrating, and my dad is clapping so hard, it leaves his palms bright red.
The inning wraps up a few minutes later, and when the teams switch sides, the bullpen gate swings open. Lucas jogs out toward the mound, glove tucked against his ribs, that loose, confident stride that makes my stomach flip every time.
I’m already on my feet cheering before he even reaches the dirt. My parents are cheering too, but I’m definitely the loudest.
Two rows down, Doug stands and whistles sharply through his fingers before clapping hard.
Lucas warms up with a few quick throws that pop into the catcher’s glove like small explosions. The first two batters don’t last long.
The third guy steps in, and I don’t know why, but I hold my breath.
Lucas sets. Fires.
101.
He catches the return throw, rolls it in his fingers. Sets again.
