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BARRETT

September

Things had been much easier since the press conference. They weren’t perfect, but the amount of insults hurled my way had gradually decreased. My teammates were less hostile toward me as well. A couple of the more relaxed ones still picked at me, but it was all easy jealousy. They didn’t mean any of it.

With the drama out of the way, it was finally time to focus on the playoffs. Even though our few days’ break was filled with tension, it was still nice to get some rest before the Division round began.

The playoffs were divided into a bracket-type system. The Wildcard Round—the one we got to bypass—was a series of four games, and the two winners were pushed through to the Division Series. Those games were a best three out of five and lasted only a few days. The winners from the Division Series went to the Championship Round, which was best four out of seven, spanning over ten days. Those games dwindled it down to the best of the best: the two teams that would face off in the World Series.

It was best four out of seven, with the home field advantage going to the team with the best season record, regardless of the playoff games.

It had been a few years since the Hellbenders had even made it to the playoffs, much less a World Series. I’d played one myself, and the loss was soul-crushing.

Which is why this would be the last time I would ever do it.

I was more than ready to sit on the sidelines for a change, cheering on Stetson while he led his team to victory. Until then, I was going to give the game everything I had.

I was just as invested in Stetson’s progress as I was my own. Every time I stepped off the field, he was the first person on my mind. If he couldn’t give me an update himself, I’d call Levi. Since the Thrashers held the best season record, they had home field advantage. Levi offered to split his time between Atlanta and New York, but I talked him out of it every time. The plane tickets would add up and it would take too much time to fly back and forth. Besides, I would be meeting both of them in Georgia one way or another.

Between games, the clubhouse was eerily quiet. “Nervous” wasn’t the word I would use, but the air was definitely charged. Typically, the clubhouse was buzzing. Music could be heard or the sound of a TV, or the clacking of pool balls from a game going on in the corner.

However, once we got through the Division Series, all of it stopped. It was like the only thing we could stand to do was… sit. TVs went silent, no one played music out loud. The balls on the pool table lay dormant, waiting for someone to strike them.

It was the final game of the Championship Series. We were tied with the Rhode Island Harlequins and tonight, we’d either sink or swim. Everyone had their way of preparing, and mine was cooking. Even if no one ate anything, I filled the clubhouse kitchen with whatever I could. Our diets typically consisted of high protein and high carbs, but that didn’t stop me from plating up a tray of cupcakes. Sometimes you just need a little bit of comfort food.

As I suspected, few came forward to pick at the trays. Others eyed them longingly but if the hornets in their stomachs were anything like mine, they would admire from afar.

A somber undertone was the only thing to press through the evident nerves. My team was already well aware that this would be the last championship I would ever play. To be honest, I felt it too. I scanned the clubhouse. When I’d first started, it was nothing more than some couches surrounding a flat screen TV. Over the years, the league made more improvements. TVs got nicer, the house itself was expanded to include the full kitchen. More space was made for the pool table and instead of benches, we got luxurious leather chairs that was like something straight out of The Godfather . And the team? God, the team. We’d become as close as a group of men could be. Awkward silences turned into a steady hum of conversation that you missed when it was gone—like now. When you spent so much time in a place like this, you couldn’t help but think of it as your home away from home.

Though my true home called to my heart more than New York ever did. It was time for me to return to it.

As we walked to the field, I thought my heart would burst out of my chest. I’d made my decision, but it wasn’t until that moment that the weight of it all hit me. Tonight’s game was it. Either this would be the last time I would walk through that tunnel, or we would go on to play as one of the two best teams in the world .

I paused behind home plate, pretending to stretch my muscles when in reality, I was taking in the crowd. There wasn’t an empty seat in the place. Even if half of them were there to root against us, I had to admit that it was impressive. My mouth dried out. It wasn’t like me to be so nervous.

The visiting team always batted first, so I suited up in my catcher’s gear and took my position. The first batter approached, and his walkup music sounded muffled in my ears. I couldn’t have told you what the song was if you paid me. After a moment of thought, I made my call. Our pitcher readied himself, wound up, and pitched.

The crack of that bat against the ball would echo through my ears for all eternity.

Show time.

The Harlequins ate up the field. There was a reason why we were left to battle it out for that spot in the finals. Those few hours were the most stressful of my entire life. Tension simmered through the air. There were no playful jabs between the team. Every man out there knew how serious this game was. Hell, even the coaches were oddly quiet.

We’d already gone into extra innings, and you still couldn’t guess the outcome of the game if you tried. The score was five to five. The board hadn’t changed in what felt like days, and the two “out” lights taunted me. The guys were tired, every single one of them, and it was starting to show. Number thirty-eight stepped up to the plate and lifted his bat. The pitch…

Strike one.

My hands tightened around my water bottle. I’d emptied it ages ago, but I needed something to do. Tossing the crumpled plastic aside, I stood and went to the edge of the dugout.

Our batter cursed and set up for his next attempt.

Strike two.

One half of the crowd cheered, while the other groaned. Even from a distance, I could see the look of mutual disappointment and determination on my teammate’s face. When he raised his bat again, his eyes blazed.

I clenched onto the railing in front of me so fiercely that my knuckles turned white. The stadium was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Not even the opposing crowd heckled the batter. There were no phones out. I didn’t even think anyone was breathing.

And then there was the final pitch.

Strike three.

We were in sudden death.

None of us blamed the batter who’d struck out. We all knew what kind of an arm the Harlequin’s pitcher had. That didn’t stop him from kicking himself, but we didn’t have much time to think about it. Two sets of coaches huddled near the pitcher’s mound, and we knew what was happening.

In the event of sudden death, the home team picked either offense or defense. Offense being the ones to bat, and defense on the field. Offense would start with a runner on first base, and they had three outs to either get in a run, or the defense would walk away with the win.

I glanced around at my team. We couldn’t let the Harlequins get their pitcher on the mound again. If we did, we were screwed. I swallowed against a lump in my throat, hoping that my apprehension didn’t show on my face.

When the head coach turned around and locked eyes with me, I knew.

“Swindon, you’re up!”

“No,” was my first thought. “Hell to the no,” was my second. I didn’t want that pressure. Especially since he knew what this game meant for me. I didn’t want the weight of the World Series on my shoulders. If we didn’t make it, it would go down in history that I was the one to screw it up.

But I also knew my coach: you took what you were given and you didn’t argue.

If he wanted me up to bat, then he must have seen something in me that I didn’t see in myself. So I sucked it up, grabbed a drink to wet my dry mouth, and snatched up my batting helmet.

Despite my nerves, fatigue hit me like a freight train. Halfway to home plate, I paused in my tracks. Something trickled in through the sound of blood rushing in my ears, followed by… laughter . Music played, but it wasn’t my usual Guns N’ Roses. When the sound registered, I couldn’t help but smile ear to ear.

“Diva” by Beyoncé.

Well played, Rookie.

Tongue in cheek, I continued to home plate.

I swear two strikes happened before I could even blink. Despite the autumnal chill in the air, my blood boiled. Heat surged through my veins, sweat drenched my clothes. I pushed up my long sleeves, took a deep breath, and raised my bat. The pitcher had a gleam in his eye, and that was it.

I was determined now.

I squared my feet and dared that motherfucker to challenge me. I was not going to be the one to screw this up for my team. He rolled his neck, and I saw movement behind his glove that indicated he was rolling the ball around, more than likely trying to determine the perfect pitch to take me out. My eyes stayed laser-focused on that mitt. I wasn’t looking at the pitcher, I wasn’t looking at my coaches, and I definitely wasn’t looking at the crowd. The only things on that field were me and the ball.

Pitch.

Swing.