Fucking idiot.
Adriel and my father never got along, probably because they were so damn similar. And Adriel was the firstborn, so he carried the burden of having to right all of my dad’s wrongs. Not in life, though. Just on the ballfield.
Our dad was a great player, but he never got his shot to really prove what he could do. He bounced around a few teams, spending most of his days in Triple-A ball, and then Mom got pregnant with my brother. Duty made him come home and play dad. It’s probably the only reason my parents married. I’ve done the math. I know my brother was present for their wedding, likely in a bassinet.
But obligation runs strong on my father’s side of the family. So does alcoholism, apparently. My grandfather died of liver disease before I was born. And sometimes, when my dad was being anicedrunk, he got weepy about how hard he tried to make his father proud by making it as a ballplayer. It’s probably why Adriel and I try so hard. We wanted my dad to be proud of us, too. He was harder on my brother, though.
Adriel plays like our dad—physical and fearless. Oftentimes, however, careless. I aim to be disciplined. I’m hard on myself. My father isn’t here to be hard on me, so perhaps that’s why.
So it comes to this moment, right now. We need two outs, and Allen Hills Prep holds all the cards, their slugger at the plate and our closer, Cade, on the mound with an arm deader than a noodle. If this ball stays in the park, I have to catch it. And then, I have to get it to Zach, our catcher, before that runner on third reaches the plate.
No problem.
I pull a handful of seeds from my back pocket and stuff them in my mouth, crunching the salty shells with my molars while I set my feet and pray this ball comes to me. Cade’s first pitch hits the dirt, but he gets a swing. This guy is ready to hit. Maybe Cade will strike him out by throwing nothing but junk.
No sooner do I have that thought than my fellow senior teammate pitches an absolute meatball right down the center of the plate and the Allen Hills Prep hitter nails it so hard I hear the crack of the ball reverberate off the windscreen behind me.
I take off in a dead sprint. If I have any shot at this at all, it’s going to be off the fence. I shade my eyes with my glove as I continue running back, my free arm feeling for the wall, my feet reading the change in the outfield from grass to warning track gravel. The crunch of my metal cleats breaking up the dirt is only broken up by my steady breath.
“Come on, you motherfucker,” I mutter to myself, planting my right foot against the wood base of the outfield wall and leaping as high as I can to snatch this ball from the sky before it ricochets off the fence.
The ball slams into the pocket of my glove a fraction of a second before my body caroms off the centerfield marker on the wall. This guy may have hit four-twenty-five, but that wasn’t far enough. Not today.
I fly off the wall and into a natural crow-hop, slinging the ball to Zach, my eyes narrowed on his glove as he waits at the plate. The runner was off the base, so he had to go back, check, which bought me an extra half-second. All that’s left for me to do now is will the ball there in time.
“Come on! Come on!” I grit out.
Hands on my knees, I pant as the runner races toward home, his body collapsing for a slide just as my throw reaches Zach. Our catcher swoops his glove downward, and in the cloud ofdust, it’s too hard to tell from here whether or not I got him. It feels like forever before the umpire balls his hand into a fist.
“You fucking did it!”
“Hell yeah!”
“Let’s go!”
My teammates join me as we rush the mound with our arms up, shouting every word that comes in our minds, not giving two fucks how foul it might be. Let our school administrators admonish us. Classy, my ass. This damn Allen Hills Prep team has played dirty all damn day. They can hear us celebrate and call them out for playing like losers.
Zach lifts me from under my arms when I reach him, and I plant my hands on the big guy’s shoulders as we scream into each other’s faces, eye black smeared down our cheeks. My back is slapped about a hundred times, the sting a sweet reminder of our victory as well as the fucking miracle I pulled off to get it for us. I will never say it out loud because teamwork is important too, but screw that—I won us that game. One home run, three RBIs, four fly balls caught, and a double-play to end the game. If I don’t win player of the year, I’m protesting.
My brother couldn’t make the game, but I can’t wait to video call him later tonight. And Coach Kessler . . . where is he?
I spin as I stand on top of the mound, scanning the crowd that’s poured onto the field as I search for the man who taught me how to make that catch and throw. I spot the slight bald spot on the center of his head, and the tears collecting in his eyes while he tries to laugh them away hit my chest with a dose of pride.
“Coach!” I holler, swimming through bodies until I get to him. His embrace is everything. His heavy hand on my back as he says, “I’m so proud of you, son,” over and over again into my ear.
Son.
Proud.
This moment. It’s everything. It doesn’t get better.
And then I seeher.
I leave Coach’s embrace, leaving him to congratulate my teammates while I celebrate with the only person I put on a higher pedestal than him. His daughter. My best friend. The person I try to be like in every way. The woman I swear I’m going to marry one day, even if she doesn’t know that yet.
“Jayden, that was amazing!” Colby squeals. I swoop her into my arms, swinging her around as I hug her, laughter pouring out of us.
“Look,” she says, motioning toward the opponent’s dugout as I set her feet back on the ground. I glance in that direction as the Allen Hills team starts pouring their ice on the field, tossing their trash our direction as they let middle fingers fly.
