Phones tucked away, the clubhouse quiets to listen to Patrick’s final notes before we file into the dugout. The batting lineup changed slightly to accommodate Atlanta’s all left-handed pitchers, but otherwise, everything is the same as our season opening games. I down a cup of water while shooting a menacing glare in Colton’s direction.
Look at that. I’m knocking out superstitions while also letting my dumb teammate know that he’s out of line.
Because who really cares if Alex had to borrow my shirt because of…reasons?
And so what if she looksincrediblein it?
No one needs to know that Alex wearing something of mine has electricity ping-ponging around my body—that’s for sure.
And I certainly don’t want anyone finding out that Alex avoiding me for pregame press got under my skin. Even though Alex irritated the heck out of me earlier, I still wanted to chat with her.
Talk about being a complete headcase.
I push my helmet over my simmering brain before pulling on my batting gloves and slipping a single dill pickle sunflower seed between my lips. Instead of hitting five-hole, I’m cleanup, right after Trevor. I move to the railing, watching.
Ricky, our designated hitter, makes a solid line drive between center and left, securing first. Shane fouls off two before popping one deep right. Ricky waits, assuming it’ll be caught, but then the right fielder fumbles the ball, and both Shane and Ricky make it on base.
When Trevor walks to the plate and I step out of the dugout, my blood starts to sing. Trevor is known for dropping bombs, and we’ll be up an easy three if he can knock out one of his famed home runs. I line up my practice swings with each pitch as Trevor gets two strikes and the pitcher throws three balls.
You can feel the energy in the stadium, mostly full of Stallions fans with a few blue shirts breaking up the red and gold. They’re betting this full count will go in their pitcher’s favor.
When Trevor hits it up the middle, just missing the glove of the second baseman, I hoot. As the centerfielder scrambles forward, Ricky and Shane sprint like a rattlesnake is on theirheels. I expect Ricky to make it home, but he gets caught by a bullet of a throw to the third baseman.
Bases loaded.
And I’m up.
A shaky breath fills my lungs as I walk to the plate, readjusting my right then left glove. I can feel my pulse everywhere—fingertips, throat, behind my knees. My stomach twists like it’s a Vegas contortionist. I swallow, but the boulder in my throat doesn’t budge.
Normally, I’d be thrilled to walk to the plate with a chance like this. I’d see it as a challenge and be ready to capitalize on the moment. But ever since I saw Alex’s segment, my confidence has taken a hit. That’s why I called Zona when I was supposed to be at practice. As much as my sister likes to razz me, I always feel better after talking to her.
“All you need is a base hit,” I mutter to myself.
Before I step into the batter’s box, I glance left. I don’t even know what I’m looking for until I see my white shirt jumping, the rolled-up sleeves high in the air. Alex leans out of the press box, framing her mouth with her hands. I can’t hear what she’s screaming, but it’s probably not, “I hate your guts.”
A calm hush resonates in the back of my skull as my nerves sharpen instead of shake me. Tightening my grip on the bat, I step into the box. My heart’s hammering like it always does, but my stance is relaxed, measured. The only two people in the world are me and the man on the pitching mound.
Oh, and the woman cheering me on like her life depends on it.
I smile, loading my back leg, feeling the coil of my hips.
When the pitch comes, fast and a little low, I load more before exploding into my swing. The second it cracks off the bat, I know. Heck, the whole stadium knows. The ball sails over the fence, and I can hardly hear the eruptive mix of groans and cheers because I’m laughing too hard. A grin stretches my cheeks, and I wave as I jog the bases. This ballpark might not be filled with Waves fans, but they’re watching from home.
My teammates, who’d been on the field, wait for me at the plate while two thoughts jockey for position in my overexcited brain. One: that was the first MLB grand slam of the season. And two: Alex willdefinitelyhave to talk to me now. After jumping on home like a kid playing hopscotch, I’m met with exuberant high fives and back pats. The celebration continues into the dugout with Rhett hugging me so tight he lifts me off the floor.
“That’s how you start a game!” He sets me down roughly before jostling my helmet.
I sit on the bench, letting the adrenaline seep out through my pores. There’s still a long game ahead, and I need to stay locked in or, even better, continue this upward trajectory and give Alex even more to report on.
Nine innings later, I’m covered in sweat, infield dirt, and a shimmery coating of joy as we tumble into the clubhouse. TheWaves are generally a happy team. There’s not too much infighting. We all get along for the most part. The only exceptions are the drama Aaron Lawson stirred up last season and Shane’s continued cold shoulder. After winning seven to two, we’re downright giddy.
“Alright, fellas,” Patrick says, leaning against the clubhouse wall. “That’s one. One. That’s what we’re supposed to do. We showed up, we played our game, and we took it. Pitching did their job, defense stayed locked in, and we got timely hits when it mattered—”
“And a GRAND SLAM!” Colton shouts, banging on his locker.
A chorus of cheers and hoots pepper the room as Rhett leans over to shove my shoulder. I smile back at Colton, deciding to forgive him for earlier.
Patrick’s bushy mustache twitches with a subtle smile. “And a grand slam. Can’t forget that. But we’re not done here. We have more games ahead of us. We need this focus tomorrow, and the next day.”
