Page 80 of Curveball

A few pitches later, the count ran full. The stadium was a living thing—roaring, holding its breath, roaring again. I decided to put him out of his misery and went right back to the curveball.

Another chase. Another miss.

Out number two.

One more.

Their last hitter walked up like he had a mission. His eyes never left mine. We both knew what this at-bat meant. I glanced toward our dugout—and behind it, the first row.

My whole world.

Farrah had her hands tightly clasped in a prayer; her eyes focused on me. She quickly blew me a kiss, settling my nerves, grounding me in this moment. I turned back to the plate.

Time to finish the job.

Drake and I agreed on the pitch. I nodded and sent a slider that clipped the zone.

Strike one.

The batter stepped out, jaw tight. He reset and tried again.

I threw the curveball next. He made contact, but it skittered down the foul line.

Strike two.

He fouled off another pitch.

And another.

And another.

It was getting fucking old.

I went with the fastball, daring him to do something with it.

He did.

A sharp line drive tore off the bat and screamed toward the gap between third and second.

“Fuck!” I barked, already seeing the no-hit bid die right in front of me, until Cohen launched himself like a man possessed and snagged it out of the air.

Out number three.

The stadium exploded. I sprinted toward him and jumped into his arms like I weighed nothing. “How the fuck did you catch that? How the fuck were you already there?”

Cohen grinned like a menace. “I’ve got you.” He smacked the bill of my hat. “I wasn’t about to let that asshole ruin your no-hitter in the World fucking Series.” My throat tightened. The boys piled in—helmets and gloves and shouting, a dogpile of pure electricity. The game wasn’t even over yet, but it sure as hell felt like we’d already won.

The rest of the game flew by. Shane came in to close and pitched like his life depended on it. And when that final out, a strikeout no less, landed in Drake's catcher’s mitt at the top of the ninth—when the scoreboard locked in 3–0—the Austin Aviators became World Champions.

Finally.

Streamers fell like rain. Champagne sprayed. The noise was unreal and I was standing on the field trying to burn it into my brain… because fuck, I was going to miss this.

Farrah and Hadley came running toward me. Farrah had Hadley on her hip, both laughing, Farrah crying, and I pulled them into me so hard I felt it in my ribs. I kissed Farrah first. Deep and grateful. Then I kissed Hadley’s cheek as she grabbed for the streamers like they were falling stars.

“You did it, Ace!” Farrah gushed. “I’m so proud of you. You were incredible!”

“Walk win!” Hadley squealed. “Walk win!”