Page 63

Xavier

Starting the most important game of my life with a scare wasn't ideal. But I'm playing in the World Series, something I've dreamed of since I was old enough to swing a bat. Little did I know I'd be eight innings in and stealing glances at a girl.

No--at my girl.

She's sitting in the stands, right where she's supposed to be, wearing the jacket I got her. Holland is on her lap, her tiny hands clutching a foam finger twice her size. Tenley leans in, saying something that makes her aunt laugh, and swear I can almost hear the sweet sound like it's meant for me.

Two more innings and I can have her in my arms. We're up four to three and the energy of the crowd is pushing us hard to hold the Comet's off and widen our lead. I pound my fist in my glove, giving our closer, Tyson, the symbol for a fastball with a two-one count. He nods his head once, winding up to throw, and a second later the ball cracks off the bat.

By the sound alone, I know it's not going far. My eyes track it up and over my head. I rip my mask off, but it's already out of play, sliding down the net and landing in the dirt. I pick it up and hand it the ump. Taking the new ball from his outstretched hand, I throw it back to Tyson, giving him a nod.

He's tense. He wants this inning over as badly as the rest of us. The pressure on the mound is over-the-top during a regular game, but I know the game--these players, better than most. Squatting low behind the mound, I watch as the Comet's first baseman grips his bat like he's trying to kill it. The nerves are getting to him. He's antsy and tense. It's a dangerous combo.

A signal for a slider. He's already on edge; let's see if we can make him chase.

It works. A second later, the ball smacks against my glove making my second favorite sound. I glance over my shoulder to see Vivienne on her feet screaming and pointing at me as the batter walks off the field, his head hanging and his shoulders slumped.

I jump to my feet and run to my dugout, flying high on adrenaline. There's only so much you can control in baseball and batting is one of those things. I zero in, more committed than ever to helping the team close out the season with a history-making win tonight. Because when I step off this field, it's going to be with more than just a new championship. It's going to be with the woman I love.

Trading out my catcher's gear for my batting gloves and helmet, I wait on the edge of the dugout taking the open spot between Hendrix and Dean.

"That's the smile of a man that knows he's about to win," Hendrix says, looking around me to Dean.

I don't pull my eyes from where Cruz is at home plate, stepping into the box. "I'm winning either way tonight."

The ump signals a ball and Cruz smirks.

"Yeah, but we're taking this," Dean says, his focus on the field.

"Hell, yeah we are," I echo as the pitcher throws another ball to give my teammate an oh-and-two count.

"The jacket was a nice touch," Hendrix comments offhandedly.

"Shhh . . ." Dean hisses, nodding to where Dom is warming up out in the on-deck circle. "He's got superhuman hearing and you know he'll never shut up about it if you tell him he was right."

Dom was the mastermind behind the jackets. He brought the idea to the team a few weeks ago and there was never a question if Vivienne was getting one. Even with the distance the end of the season and her trip home put between us physically, I knew I wanted her to be a part of this night as much as any of the other women.

We hold a collective breath as the pitcher finally throws a fastball worth swinging at. Cruz sees it too, planting his foot in the dirt and swinging. He connects with a power that vibrates through the stadium, sending the crowd and the dugout into a frenzy as the ball sails over the wall and into the outfield stands.

We pile out onto the field in a rush to get to him as he rounds the bases giving him high fives and pats on the back. The two point lead isn't a bow on the game, but in a situation like this, every run is celebrated because one is all it takes to change everything and shift the power balance. Being up two this late in the game is sure to mess with the Comets.

Their pitcher shakes his head on the mound, and the catcher runs out to talk him down.

Dean presses his helmet down tight and jogs up the stairs, bat in hand, to take his place in the on-deck circle.

It's not enough. Dom doesn't have the same patience as Cruz, especially knowing the man on the mound is shaken. He's got a knack for being able to chase down pitches that aren't quite perfect and he does just that, taking a chance on an outside curve ball, extending his hands and widening his zone to send it right center. It's not his best hit, but it's enough to get him on base.

I pat Hendrix's shoulder. "See you on the other side."

"Give 'em hell!" he yells at me as I run out onto the field in front of our dugout.

I nod, but the brunette waiting in the stands for me snags my attention. She's got her hands clutched in front of her face as she stands frozen in place.

"Breathe," I mouth.

Her shoulders rise and fall and she mouths back, "Thanks."

Ducking my head, I focus on finishing this inning.

Dean is usually one of our more conservative batters, but with the electricity coursing through the stadium, it's hard to hold back, even for the most disciplined player. He lets the first one go, and the ump makes a questionable call, shouting strike. Dean glares, his gaze intense as he resets his stance and stares down the pitcher.

Of all the guys in the league, Dean might be the most intimidating when he's at the plate. His hands twist loosely on the bat, combating the vibes he throws off. The guy is as calm and collected as they come, all the while mean mugging the pitcher.

Like he hoped it would, it throws off the pitcher and Dean swings at the sloppy slider, pulling it down the third base line. It lands shallow in the outfield, allowing Dom to take third and cover the corners.

Putting the fastest guy on the team right where we want him--in scoring position.

Now it's up to me and I've got options. As long as Dom comes in, that's all that matters--scoring a run myself would be a happy bonus. And not to be greedy, but I want it all today. The win, the girl, the run.

This is their pitcher's last chance. If he doesn't get me out here, his skipper is guaranteed to pull him and no one wants that, especially in the World Series. But I can't find it in myself to feel sorry for him today.

Before stepping into the batter's box, I grant myself one last chance to find Vivienne in the stands. Looking right at those deep greens I cover my heart with my hand and then take my stance.

This one is for her and I'm going to make it count.

The first pitch is trash, so I leave it, hoping for something I like soon. The pressure's on him, not me, and he's going to crack. It's clear in the tick of his jaw as he checks the bases.

Smart man. Give Dom an inch and he'll steal.

His attention refocuses on me, and he shakes off the first sign. He's playing a psychological game I know all too well, but it won't throw me off. Not with the motivation of winning the whole damn thing for the woman in the stands.

The corner of my lips tilts up in a smile just before he throws. It's a passed ball low in the dirt, sneaking past the catcher, exactly what we need. Immediately recognizing his mistake, the pitcher charges forward to cover and I step back allowing Dom to slide head-first, sneaking under the tag.

"Fuck!" the opposing pitcher bellows.

"Hell yeah!" Dom lets out a triumphant roar as I help him up and I dust him off, patting him off the back. "Finish this, Xav," he says as he charges towards the dugout, hands fisted, still shouting, getting everyone riled up with him.

"Our time." I say under my breath, shaking out my arms and getting back into place. Dean waits on second, giving me a quick sharp nod, a silent show of faith.

I fucking love this game. This is the most fun I think I've ever had playing ball, and it's all because I get to play with my brothers--the family that always chooses me. So, when the next pitch comes, and it's right down the middle, I give it everything I've got for her, for them, for me.

It's a solid hit over the infielder, dropping in front of the right fielder. It's enough to get Dean home, but the throw to first is clean and they pick me off, sending me back to the dugout to celebrate another run from the team.

There's no shame in a sacrifice.

Skipping down the steps, I gear back up to take the field and wrap this thing up. I'm still catching my breath when Cruz stoops down next to me, handing me my shin guard as I strap the other on one.

"That was a smart play. Not everyone can keep their head, but you did. Nice work."

The praise means everything coming from my captain because I know he's not only talking about the game happening on the field. "Thanks, Cap," I huff, still checking my breath.

"Watch Tyson. Keep him calm," he says, squeezing my shoulder as he stands to grab his glove. The bottom of the order is not faring as well against the Comet's pitcher.

The final Bandits' batter gets out, and Wilson's whistle grabs our collective attention before we take the field. "Men, baseball is a fickle sport. As easily as we took the lead, they can take it back. In a game this important, there's no giving up, no taking it easy. You get here by having grit. Don't for a second forget that they have just as much grit as you do. But I think you have more heart, and that's what's going to win you this game. Now get the hell out there and end our season the right way!"

A rumble of agreement rings through the dugout before we all take the field with the same determination. There's no false sense of security starting the ninth inning up three points, but there is a united sense of how we got here and what our goal is.

The ump sets a clean ball in my outstretched hand and I jog out to the mound, holding it out for Tyson. "You've got this. Everyone knows that. Give us three outs and we dog pile on the mound. Let's make it quick."

"What's the rush?" He laughs, as calm as a mountain breeze.

"There's a girl waiting for me in the stands and I need to tell her I love her." I nod to where Vivienne watches. She's not going to stop me tonight.

He follows my gaze, a smirk tilting his lips. "By all means, I'll win the fucking World Series so you can lock her down."

"I knew I could count on you." I press the ball into his hand and jog back to the mound.

This is it.

Tyson doesn't mess around, throwing gas and getting the first two batters out, throwing a total of eight pitches. The leadoff batter takes the plate with one out left and I don't envy him. This is do or die and he might be one of the best batters the Comets have, but it would take a miracle for him to change the direction of the game.

I keep a level head, calling on everything I know about Diego Rivera and pick my call carefully, Wilson's words ringing in my head. With a closed fist, I angle my arm away from my body. Tyson nods and puts it right in my glove. At the same time, the breeze of the bat washes over me.

"Strike." The bellow comes from behind me and I stand, throwing the ball back to Tyson and hold up two fingers for the stadium to see.

"Two more," I say to myself as the next batter takes his spot. He's a contact hitter, not a power hitter. We can take more risks with him, so I signal a fastball outside. The contact is weak and pops high, easily caught by Hendrix.

"One more to go!" I shout at Tyson, the sound getting lost in the deafening crowd noise. Taking another ball from the ump, I throw it to him and he nods, understanding even though there was no way he heard me.

I don't dare look at the stands where I know security is already waiting to get the girls on to the field. My focus stays on Tyson, knowing that I need to finish this so I can get to Vivienne and Holland.

The real test steps up to the plate. Anton Jones is consistent and powerful, but Tyson is the best closer in the league and one of the reasons we've made it this far. He shakes off my first call so I give him what he wants, a fastball.

Bending low at the waist, he checks the bases, glancing over his shoulder before rising and throwing a fastball outside for Jones to chase. And he does.

"Shit," he grits out.

I try to hold my smile because I'm not a total asshole. Two fingers pointing down and Tyson gives me what I want this time: a curveball that fools Anton into making the same mistake twice. One more pitch is all we need and I know what my pitcher is going to want: a fastball. Like the pro he is, he throws it high, tricking the batter into thinking it's another curve and checking his swing.

The split second it takes for the ump to say what I know is coming seems to drag on for minutes before I hear the five letters that set the whole stadium on fire.

"S-T-R-I-K-E!"