Page 38 of Beyond the Rainbow (Pride Camp 2025 #11)

Thwack ! The bat connected, sending the ball screaming past third base, bouncing fair down the line. A shout went up from the dugout as Alex tore down the base path, his cleats kicking up dust. He rounded first, but the third baseman had already recovered the ball.

Colin scooted forward, hands cupped around his mouth. “ Hold !” Alex skidded to a stop, planting himself on first.

Joshua released a slow breath.

Grayson stepped up. The Timber Ridge infield moved slightly to the left, ready for him.

First pitch—a ball.

Second pitch—Grayson swung and sent a sharp grounder up the middle. The Timber Ridge shortstop lunged, snagging it in one smooth motion. A quick pivot—a sharp throw to second. Alex barely had time to slide before the second baseman’s glove dropped onto him.

“OUT!” the ump called. And before the groans had settled, the second baseman fired to first—beating Grayson by half a step.

Three outs

Camp Pride’s dugout deflated . The early excitement of Alex’s hit faded, replaced with the frustration of being shut down so quickly.

Trent sighed from his place in the dugout, afraid Colin would be fuming.

Except … he wasn’t . He wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t swearing.

He wasn’t questioning the calls. Notebook in hand, he jotted something down, nodding slightly to himself as if the inning had gone exactly to plan.

Trent frowned. This was new. He’d seen Colin push through PT, fight for his recovery, refuse to let his pain or injury define him.

He’d seen him s tubborn, determined, relentless.

But this? This was different. Colin was calm.

Analytical. Completely in control. Trent, still watching him, murmured, “You good?”

Colin replied with a curt nod. He finished writing and tapped the notebook with his pen, then turned to his players. “Let’s hit the field. Remember what you learned in practice! Eyes on the ball. Back up as it’s hit, then charge forward and set your stance. Call out your catch!”

Trent exhaled, nodding to himself. OK. So this is Colin Campbell-Abrams: Coach.

Bottom of the first inning: Timber Ridge at bat.

The Timber Ridge leadoff hitter stepped up to the plate, settling into his stance.

From his perch on the knee scooter, Colin scrutinized every move.

Body language. Bat grip. Foot placement.

All of it told him one thing—this kid wasn’t looking for a walk.

He leaned toward Trent, his voice low. “Aggressive hitter.”

Trent nodded, arms crossed. “Yeah. You want Alex to shade toward second?”

“No. Let’s see where he tries to go first.”

On the mound, Ryan, their starting pitcher, exhaled slowly, gripping the ball. He and Bobby, the catcher, had already settled on the first pitch: fastball. Ryan wound up and fired it down the middle, and the Timber Ridge batter jumped on it.

CRACK !

The ball shot past third, a hard-hit grounder that skipped into left field. Colin didn’t react—just watched as Alex fielded the cutoff throw and got it in fast. A single. Not bad, but not the start they had hoped for.

Coach Tate clapped from the Timber Ridge dugout, shouting out encouragement to his runner, but Colin ignored him, eyes already fixed on the next batter.

This one was bigger—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself like a power hitter.

Colin jotted something in his notebook. “Trent, shift them back.”

Trent stepped out of the dugout and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Back it up, boys!”

Ryan adjusted his grip, took a breath, and threw again. Slider, low and inside. The batter swung over it, missing completely. A few of the Camp Pride kids cheered from the sidelines.

Colin, still watching, whispered to himself. “Good, but he’s gonna adjust.”

On the next pitch, Timber Ridge’s hitter connected, sending a deep fly ball into left center. Camp Pride’s outfielders sprinted back, but it was too late. The ball bounced against the fence, and the runner on first took off.

Colin didn’t flinch. “Cutoff! Cutoff!”

Alex fielded the throw cleanly, firing to second—just in time to hold the hitter to a double. But the runner was already rounding third.

Trent’s hands cupped around his mouth. “ Throw home! ”

Bobby caught it, spun for the tag—but … “SAFE!” The ump’s call was sharp, decisive.

Score :

Timber Ridge - 1

Thunder Bats - 0

A ripple of frustration passed through the Camp Pride spectators. Ryan pulled his glove off, running a hand through his hair. Colin, meanwhile, calmly flipped a page in his notebook.

Trent watched him for a moment then spoke. “You’re not rattled.”

Colin looked up. “Why would I be? That was a solid hit. Good read on the base paths. They earned that run.”

Trent exhaled, a slow smile forming.

The next Timber Ridge hitter stepped up, grinning with confidence—but this time, Ryan settled in. First pitch, curveball.

Strike one.

Second pitch. Another curve—this one, swing and a miss.

Strike two.

Third pitch. A nasty fastball that sailed over the plate with ease. “Strike three!”

One out.

The dugout erupted in cheers, and Colin nodded once, allowing himself a quick grin. “That’s better.”

From the mound, Ryan looked over, and Colin gave him a tight, approving nod.

The next Timber Ridge hitter hit a weak ground ball to second—an easy out.

Two out.

Their cleanup hitter smacked a line drive to right, but Ethan sprinted in and caught it, ending the inning.

Three out. First inning over.

The players jogged in, some still mumbling with frustration, but Colin rolled forward on his knee scooter, notebook open.

“All right,” he said. “Here’s what we know.”

The players looked up, eyes fixed on their coach.

“They’re disciplined. They take smart risks. And that shortstop?” Colin shook his head. “That kid’s got hands like a vacuum cleaner. You send it anywhere near him, and he’ll eat you alive. So, we don’t give him anything .”

A few players exchanged glances, nodding.

Lucas leaned toward Colin. “What DO we do, Coach?”

“Lift the ball,” Colin told them. “Look for pitches you can drive in the air.”

“Easier said than done.”

“True. Just, remember what we talked about in practice. Bottom half of the ball, smooth follow-through. Lift, don’t launch.

” He gestured toward Alex, their only solid hit so far.

“You got a nice line drive past third. That’s a hole we can use.

And, Grayson, you made good contact. You just need to get more lift on it. ”

From his place next to the dugout, Joshua smiled, nodding to himself.

There he is, he thought. The same Colin he’d watched strategize for years.

This was Colin in prosecutor mode. He wasn’t sulking or seething—he was coaching .

He leaned towards his husband with a smile.

“So, we’re playing ‘fuck the shortstop’ now? ”

Colin flipped a page in his notebook. “Exactly.”

Timber Ridge kept control through the second and third innings, their pitcher shutting down every attempt Camp Pride made to gain ground.

A few scattered hits, but nothing that changed the scoreboard.

But in the fourth inning, something changed.

Colin’s adjustments began to click. A well-placed bunt.

A perfectly timed steal. A deep shot to left that sent a runner flying home.

Score :

Thunder Bats - 1

Timber Ridge - 1

The top of the sixth started like any other inning. The game was tied, the Timber Ridge infield was tight, their pitcher looking confident. But then—everything unraveled.

It started with a walk . Then a sharp single to right field. Then, Alex—steady, focused, fearless—dropped a perfect bunt that sent the defense scrambling. By the time Timber Ridge secured the third out, the damage was done. Camp Pride had scored three runs in one inning.

Score :

Thunder Bats - 4

Timber Ridge - 1

The Thunder Bats’ celebration was still in full swing as they poured out of the dugout, shoulders bumping, grins wide, while the Timber Ridge players trudged from the field, gloves tight, jaws clenched.

But then, just as the teams began to mingle in passing, the Timber Ridge shortstop, Eric, muttered a comment: “What do you expect from a bunch of fags.”

His words weren’t shouted, but they were loud enough to resonate.

A few Camp Pride players paused in mid-step.

Jasper’s head snapped around, his mouth open in shocked surprise.

Alex’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists.

Lucas, still high off his single, froze in place.

Several Timber Ridge players wheeled towards Eric, murmuring in anger, their eyes shooting daggers.

From his place next to the dugout, Joshua leaped to his feet, his eyes alight with fury.

“ Hey !” he yelled. From the corner of his eye, he saw Trent surge from the dugout and stride toward Colin.

In an instant, the energy of the moment had moved from adrenaline-fueled success to dead silence.

Then, almost as one, the entire Thunder Bats team turned to face their coach.

Colin hadn’t moved. He stood quiet as a statue, his eyes fixed on Eric, his face bone-white.

“Say that again,” he demanded, his voice steady, careful and controlled.

Eric took a quick step back, but Colin moved with him.

“I said, say it again !” The boy stared at him, silent and wide-eyed as Colin leaned close, teeth clenching around his outrage. “We don’t use that word here. Ever!”

Trent skidded to a stop next to Colin, spotting Coach Tate as he burst from the dugout and dashed to Eric’s side. Tate’s hand came down on Eric’s shoulder, spinning him around. “That is not how we play this game. Apologize. Now !”

Uncomfortable, frightened, and embarrassed, Eric sputtered out an apology, and Coach Tate steered him toward the dugout.

“Sit your ass down! You’re done for the day.

” He then turned to Colin and Trent, who were standing stock still, waiting.

“Gentlemen, I apologize on behalf of the entire Timber Ridge team. That comment was despicable and totally uncalled for.” He took a step closer to the two men.

“If you wish, we will forfeit the game and leave at once.”

Colin drew in a long breath through his nose, staring out across the field.

The game— the entire day —had fractured.

He could end it now and walk away. But no.

That was not the lesson either of these teams needed to learn.

He exhaled, shaking his head. “No need to forfeit or to leave, Coach Tate.” He extended his hand.

“I consider the matter closed. Shall we continue?”

The players from both squads applauded as the coaches shook hands and moved to rejoin their teams.

The Thunder Bats moved slowly past Colin as they took the field, hands reaching to pat his back and murmur their thanks. They understood the message. Colin had their backs. No one pushed them around. Ever.

As Colin turned toward the dugout, he glanced up to where Joshua stood, and their eyes met.

Joshua’s hand lifted, silently offering the hand sign for ‘I love you’ before touching his lips in salute.

Colin’s lips curved in a soft smile as he returned the gesture.

I’ve got them, and I’ve got him. No matter what the final score turns out to be, I’m already the biggest winner here.