Kate hastily dried her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Abby walking to the dugout. She stopped to meet Kate’s gaze. Her amber eyes darkened, her jaw clenched, and she knew in the wordless exchange, one that put a pit in her gut, that everything was about to change.
The fivesome waited with their families ahead of the ceremony, in which the announcer would call them one by one before they accepted applause and flowers for their accomplishments. Mick’sbubbly mom and dad babbled. T.K.’s divorced parents wouldn’t speak to each other, her mother scowling at her father, who plugged one ear with his finger while he screamed into his phone. Jill’s parents wore matching tie-dye shirts with her face printed on them. Isla talked lowly with Abby, who gazed off as if bereaved.
Kate introduced her parents to the strange mix of her friends and their families, balking when she came to Abby. “This is Abby Cruz, my—” Kate stopped. “The third baseman.”
Mick, Jill, T.K., and Isla stiffened, or perhaps Kate imagined it. Either way, Abby certainly did. She didn’t speak, just nodded at Ray and Beth as she shook their hands.
“Nice to meet you,” Ray said. “You’re Audie Cruz’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“I’m Isla, Abby’s sister,” Isla cut in, and Kate bit back a thank-you. “I’m a professor here, and Kate’s my best student. You must be so proud.”
“Isla helped me get into Berkeley,” Kate said.
Beth’s eyes stretched wide. “You got in?”
Abby glared. “You didn’t know?”
“So where is Audie?” Ray asked. Kate didn’t know what enraged her more—her father asking about Audie or that he ignored her news about law school.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Abby said. “But, since we’re asking unpleasant questions, why’d you decide to come after you turned your back on Kate this winter?”
“Okay, let’s not do this,” Kate said through her teeth.
Ray furrowed his brow at Abby. “You’re the one who picked her up, aren’t you?”
“Dad, tell everyone who you voted for last election.” Mick smacked her father’s mammoth shoulder, and he hissed. “Or T.K., where’d your mom get her tits done?”
“Sadie!” Mick’s mother pinched her ear.
“What? They’re nice,” Mick muttered, before T.K. squeezed her other ear. “Ow!”
“My surgeon’s in Miami, sweetie. I can refer you,” T.K.’s mother said as she finished reapplying lipstick and snapped her compact closed.
Kate glared at Abby, and she spitefully returned it. She thought enduring their last home game without her parents would be unbearable, but this was worse.
The PA announcer boomed above, kicking off the ceremony. Mick went first, then T.K., and Jill. The crowd roared for Abby, her lengthy list of hitting records, and her imminent title of conference Player of the Year. The announcer called Kate last, the captain, the Rich Aldren trophy winner, most stolen bases in school history, a contender for Defensive Player of the Year. When they stood next to each other for photos, first with their families and then the formidable fivesome, Kate’s smile was made of plastic.
She struggled to steady herself. Their supporters chanting and stomping on the bleachers left her twitchy and nauseous. Fortunately, T.K. and Mick thrived. The first batter went down on a called third strike, the second popped out, and the third batter only took four pitches to send back to the dugout. The crowd rumbled as T.K. and Mick bumped fists and the rest of the team jogged off to bat.
As always, it was up to Kate to get them started. She tried to steady her breathing as she chopped a few practice swings on deck.
“Leading off for the Eagles, team captain and shortstop, number three, Kate Hutchins!”
Cheers followed. Kate settled into her left-handed stance, exhaled, completed her ritual three pendulum swings with the bat before flexing her fingers on the handle and resting her hands near her ear. The first pitch blew by.
“Strike one!” the umpire shouted with extra pizzazz as if also fired up by the fans.
Kate nodded. She always took the first strike. That was simply what a leadoff hitter did. She stepped out of the box and Coach Whitley gave her a flurry of signals—a tap to her nose, tug of her ear,hand to her stomach, her chin, then two taps to her left shoulder. Fake slap. Kate touched her helmet in confirmation.
The next pitch finished high, but she swung instead of faked and missed beneath it at a run. The crowd sighed with her. “Strike two!”
She could handle two strikes. She usually worked the count to two strikes. But that was on her own terms. Now her heart thundered. She glanced at the stands to her father, still making out his voice above the noise. “Come on, Katie! Eye on the ball!”
Kate firmed her grip. Skipped her pendulum. Held her breath. The ball veered low and outside, but she swung for the fences. “Strike three!”
She grimaced. She couldn’t recall the last time she struck out on three straight pitches. Perhaps not even that entire spring. Certainly not since Abby. She refused to look at her in the dugout as their teammates slapped her shoulder in encouragement. Kate ripped off her batting gloves and nodded along. She’d struck out before. She could come back. It wasn’t the start of a slump. She shouldn’t even think of the dreaded word.
Izzy Palamino sliced a ball to third base, made it safe by a hair. Mick drew on the swell of the crowd, got up with a glint in her eye, the one before a bomb. She hit a double to left field and hustled her weathered knees to second, as the outfielder heroically launched a throw to stop Izzy from scoring.
