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CREW

“Stratton, how’s Torres looking?” Dunlap, our pitching coach, stood off to the side, arms crossed.

I tossed the ball back to Torres as I replied, “Great, and hitting exactly where I want him to.”

Following each throw from our starting pitcher, the pop of the hardball hitting my leather glove echoed through the bullpen. I’d been playing with the Rockies for two seasons, after a stint in the minors. A couple of years wasn’t a long time, but it had been enough to prove I belonged in the majors. Being drafted fifth overall out of Florida State, where I’d played catcher and first base and earned the Golden Spikes Award, had fast-tracked my path to the big leagues. Now, I was living the dream.

Baseball was the game I’d worked my ass off for, the one I never took for granted. It was what I lived and breathed. Every time I crouched behind the plate, with the stadium lights blazing and tens of thousands watching, I thought about Harvest Ridge—spring nights on that pristine turf, packed stands full of hometown pride, and my mom in the front row hollering like I was in the World Series. Now I wore a Rockies jersey with my name on the back and called pitches in stadiums I used to dream about. This wasn’t just where I played. It was everything I’d fought for.

Harvest Ridge, Tennessee, was a small town where nothing ever changed. It was the kind of place where the one diner was the best breakfast spot within fifty miles, and folks knew everyone by name. My older brother, Finn, stayed close to home, became a cop, and married his high school girlfriend. I took the opposite route, chasing baseball as far as it would take me and staying single.

Dad was a retired truck driver. When I was a kid, he’d been gone more often than not. Mom had kept everything together, working long hours at the diner and still making sure we had food on the table—even if it came from her work. She took us to church every Sunday morning, no matter how late we’d been out the night before.

In Harvest Ridge, the focus was baseball in the summer, football in the fall, and ice hockey that overlapped both, not to mention basketball and volleyball. The town lived for sports, which explained why they loved reminding people that two locals had made it to the pros: me in baseball, and Levi Sexton in hockey. We were the same age and played different sports, but our names were always linked like we carried some kind of hometown legacy.

I hadn’t heard from Levi since we had both gone off to college, but in high school, we had competed over just about everything, especially girls. If I dated someone, chances were, Levi had been with her first or she’d move on to him after me. It was a constant back-and-forth, but somehow, we never let it get between us. We’d been friendly rivals, right down to the titles we’d won. I was homecoming king; he was prom king.

The whole town saw us as two all-American athletes, and I played the part just like I was supposed to. But no one knew that deep down, I’d had a crush on Levi. He was the preacher’s son, and I’d assumed he was straight. Even if I’d been wrong, it wouldn’t have mattered—not in Harvest Ridge. And not when I’d spent my whole life making sure no one suspected I was anything but the same as other guys.

In my twenty-five years, I’d never told anyone I was bi. People talked too much, and I knew exactly how they’d react. My brother—the one person I trusted most—didn’t even know. Maybe I should’ve told him, but back then, I didn’t see the point. Not in a place where no one in a small conservative town would’ve understood. And now it wasn’t that much different in the major leagues. A few guys were out, past and present players, but baseball wasn’t exactly a sport where it was common. Not yet.

Torres threw the next pitch. It was a fastball inside. He was on fire and if he kept throwing like that, I was hopeful we’d beat the Pirates.

The next pitch—a fastball again—moved toward the outside but stayed right in the zone. It was textbook.

Dunlap nodded in approval. “Looks good.”

Torres wound up and sent one more fastball in, hitting his target again before he removed his cap and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jersey. “I’m ready.”

“Let’s do this then,” I said, giving him a quick nod.

We started toward the outfield gate, our cleats crunching on the dirt with each step. The moment we stepped onto the grass, I took a deep breath. No matter what happened on the field, I’d give it my all. I always did, which was why my first season in the majors, I’d had a .305 batting average, fifteen home runs, and fifty-five runs batted in. I wasn’t just great behind the plate; I could keep up with the best hitters in the league too. It was how I’d ended up as last year’s Rookie of the Year.

We joined our team on the first base side, lining up along the foul line. I removed my hat and held it over my heart as the stadium fell silent before the guest singer performed “The Star-Spangled Banner.” As the anthem finished, the crowd cheered, and it was game time.

The first batter stepped up, tapped his bat against the plate, and got into his stance. I settled into my crouch, watching Torres on the mound. Using the PitchCom on my wrist, I gave Torres the call for a fastball. He nodded, locking in on my glove and where I wanted him to throw the ball. After a moment, the first pitch fired straight down the middle .

A perfect bullet and strike one.

The batter stepped back, adjusted his helmet and swung his bat a little.

I signaled for another fastball, and Torres didn’t hesitate. He went into his windup. The pitch was a little more to the outside, but it didn’t matter. The hitter swung through it without making contact.

Strike two.

I called for a changeup next, hoping to throw the batter off and get him out with only three pitches.

Torres nodded, wound up, and threw, the pitch slowing and dropping just enough to keep the Pirate off-balance.

Strike three.

The guy turned and walked back to the dugout, shaking his head. He’d never had a chance, not with the way Torres was throwing.

The next batter stepped up. He glanced at me, then adjusted his batting gloves before getting into the box. I gave Torres the sign for a curveball. He threw it with ease, the hardball breaking perfectly. The batter didn’t bite. He took it for a ball.

I tapped the PitchCom again, wanting another fastball.

Torres fired it off, this one a little higher than I’d wanted, but the batter still swung and missed.

Strike one.

Torres took a deep breath. I called for another fastball, the pitch I knew was working for him tonight. He nodded again and went into the windup. The pitch came in hard, but the batter adjusted, slapping the ball foul to the right side.

Strike two.

Wanting to test Torres’ slider, I gave him the sign. It was right on the money and the batter swung and missed completely.

Strike three.

As the next batter stepped up to the plate, the momentum was on our side, and I could feel it.

We were going to have a good game.

It was the bottom of the fifth, and I sat on the bench, catching my breath before I needed to head to the on-deck circle. Our first baseman, Long, was at bat, and I was scanning the field trying to determine any holes I could hit to as he worked the count.

He made contact with the pitch, sending the ball sharply into left field. A solid hit. My eyes tracked the ball, but my attention quickly shifted back to him as he sprinted down the first baseline. In an instant, he pulled up short. His face twisted in pain, and his hand grabbed the back of his leg, right above his knee.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, standing up as I watched him hobble toward first.

He barely made it to the bag before he came to a stop.

The stadium went quiet as Rios, our trainer, rushed out onto the field. Long dropped to a knee, grimacing.

“Hamstring,” Rios called out, shaking his head. “He’s done.”

Schmitt, the Rockies manager, quickly signaled to the dugout, giving the nod for a pinch runner. A hamstring injury wasn’t something that could be walked off. It wasn’t a couple of missed games—it could mean weeks, maybe months, on the IL if he’d torn it. And in baseball, a guy going down always meant someone else needed to step up.

I just didn’t know the guy getting the call was about to shake up more than just the lineup.