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STETSON

One Week Later

I thought I knew what exhaustion meant.

I thought I knew what it felt like to feel so tired that you’d fall over at any given second.

I was horrifically wrong.

Heading into the final game of the World Series, we all felt it. The silence in the clubhouse wasn’t charged. There was no lingering tension. It was understood. We didn’t need to talk. Each of us knew what the other was thinking.

When we entered the final seven games, we’d beaten the Hellbenders a couple of times already. I held out hope for Barrett’s sake, but I think the rest of the team got one hell of a wakeup call.

We were tied. This last game would decide everything. Either we would be world champions, or we would fall second to the Hellbenders.

The thought of Barrett losing had my gut in knots. The outcome of tonight’s game didn’t matter: it would be his last. This was his final shot at getting that championship ring.

We agreed not to see each other once we were at the field, Levi included. We had a private moment before we left the house that morning, and then we separated to get into our individual mindsets. The last thing we needed was to distract each other.

Suddenly, I felt the need to move. Not that it came as a surprise to anyone. When I shot to my feet, not a single person said a word. They’d grown accustomed to my high energy level by now, even without the added stress of boyfriends and Daddies and…

Ugh!

I found myself in a long hallway, pacing back and forth. On the wall were four picture frames: one for each World Series win the Thrashers had, even from before they moved to Atlanta. The photos dated all the way back to 1914, the most recent being just a few years old. Standing there, something switched inside me. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it made me feel uneasy. I studied the frames hanging there in front of me. Four titles compared to the Hellbenders’s two.

Did we really need a fifth?

I instantly shook off the thought. What the hell was I thinking?

The door to the locker room opened and the team filed out to the field. I’d run out of time to think about anything . It was exactly what I needed. I could barely hear myself think over the crowd and the thundering sound of “We Will Rock You.” The noise worked as a distraction while I settled on the pitcher’s mound and shook away the unexpected nerves. I’d been so sure of myself. I couldn’t waver now.

I struck out the first batter easily. Barrett stepped up to the plate and flashed me that heart-stopping grin, and that’s when I started to falter. That smile had my stomach doing somersaults. I swore my arm moved before I could even think, sending the ball right into Barrett’s path.

It wasn’t until he made contact that I realized what I’d done: I’d given him an easy pitch. Even if my brain hadn’t caught up, my heart had made its decision. I was only in my first season. There would be so many more chances for me to get this. It was Barrett’s last shot.

Whether I did it consciously or not, I began to play my worst game ever. It was like playing while my body was trapped in cement. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t seem to remember how to make my legs move, or make my arm toss. My coaches and so many of my teammates yelled at me to get my head in the game, but no matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t work.

Even the players on the Hellbenders started to give me dirty looks. The Thrashers held their own without me though and by the fifth inning, the game was tied. My feet seemed to drag in the dirt as I shuffled to home plate. Barrett attempted to meet my eyes, but I refused to look at him. I raised my bat, and it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I was only half paying attention to the pitcher as he threw the ball?—

And I swung too early.

“Stetson, what’s going on with you?” Barrett muttered, lobbing the ball back to center field.

I ignored him, readying myself for a second attempt.

“Strike two!”

Barrett spat a curse from behind me and after returning the ball, yanked off his mask and called for a time out. I dropped my bat and moved to walk away, just to have his hand stop me in my tracks. “You’re not going anywhere, Holloway.”

Both sets of coaches met us at home plate, along with the umpire. It was the Hellbenders’s head coach that spoke first. “What’s going on?”

Barrett was already dragging me toward one of the tunnels, away from the coaches and the cameras. “We need a minute!” he called over his shoulder, not giving anyone a chance to protest. The announcers cut to commercial, and the teams filtered into their respective dugouts for a much-needed break.

Barrett shoved me against the wall, and a surprised grunt forced its way out of my chest. “What the hell is going on with you?”

I squared my shoulders and held my chin high. It was pointless. I didn’t stand a chance when he went dominant. When he crooked a brow and crossed his arms over his chest, I shrunk back. The sleeves of his undershirt slid up, revealing his tattoos. He was forgoing anything professional and going full Sir on me, and it was working. When I spoke, my voice cracked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re playing like shit, Stetson.”

“Every player has bad days.”

Barrett’s eyes hardened. “You’re throwing the game, aren’t you?”

I squirmed. “I wanted to give you your win.”

Finally, the tough facade cracked. The ghost of a smile tugged at Barrett’s mouth, but he stifled it by biting his lip. “Stetson, that’s not how I want to get it.”

“But it’s your last cha?—”

Barrett took another step, closing the minimal distance between us. My breathing picked up, the rapid movements of my chest causing us to brush against each other. The heat of his body seeped through my clothes, seeming to course through my veins and warm me from the inside out. “You want me to have this?” Barrett asked, lips so close to mine that his hot breath washed over my skin. “You want me to win?”

It was all I could do to nod.

“Then the least you can do is give me a fair shot. I don’t want handouts, not even from my boyfriend.” His hand came up between us, his thumb and forefinger finding my chin and holding my attention on him. “Get back out on that field, and give me your worst. Let me earn that ring fair and square. Do not throw this game on purpose. If I find out you did, there are going to be serious consequences. Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal,” I croaked.

Barrett tightened his grip, the look in his eyes daring me to challenge him.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s better.” I wanted a kiss, desperately, but Barrett let go of me and took a step back before I could lean in. “Get out there and give me something to work for. Then you’ll get what you want.”

Without another word, Barrett left the tunnel. I shook off the feeling and followed behind him on wobbly legs. One of my own coaches met me at the entrance to the tunnel. “You good, kid?”

Barrett peered over his shoulder, crooking that brow at me. A spark of electricity flickered in my gut. “All good here, Coach.”

The team returned to the field. I collected my bat from where it had hit the dirt and took my position. Barrett’s commanding presence behind me served as a reminder of what I was playing for. He had a point: I wouldn’t want him throwing the game for me either. I’d worked my ass off my entire life to get where I was. The next time I locked eyes with that pitcher, it was with fierce determination. The concrete surrounding my limbs had been blasted away, and I found my energy again.

The crack that echoed through the stadium when my bat connected with the ball seemed to kickstart my heart, and the game was on.

My horrible playing would be chalked up to a fluke. Some Hellbenders fans would call it a trick. Whatever the reason, Stetson Holloway was back.

The end grew nearer, and my nerves heightened once more. It all came down to one run. Bottom of the ninth, we were tied. The Thrashers were at bat, and we had two outs. Harrison was on third. All I had to do was hit enough of a run to send him home, and the Thrashers would be world champions for the fifth time in history. The only thing I could hear as I stepped up to the plate was my heartbeat thudding in my ears. My hands tightened on the bat, and I locked eyes with the pitcher. My gaze zeroed in on that ball as if I had X-ray vision and could see straight through the guy’s mitt.

Then, the thing was flying at my face. Time slowed.

Swing.

Crack.

I didn’t care where that stupid ball went.

It didn’t matter.

Harrison crossed home plate, and the counter moved. “We Are The Champions” played before being drowned out by the fans.

Tears blurred my vision, and while my team converged at the pitcher’s mound to celebrate, I faced the catcher. Barrett straightened to his full height, and I snatched his mask off before he had the chance. He caught me with an arm around my waist. “I’m sorry,” I told him, barely audible over all the noise.

I grabbed him, not caring what anyone had to say in return. He promised me a kiss and damn it, I wanted it. Even if the whole world was watching. Our lips met, and his arm tightened around me. I clenched onto him for support as my feet left the ground. The world around me faded away. Barrett was the only thing of interest to me in that moment.

My lungs ached and reluctantly, I came up for air. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shook his head, and what he said next lit me up like a bottle rocket. “Make it up to me next year.”