Page 22 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Fourteen

D ylan crouched behind the plate, knees aching beneath him, sweat dripping beneath his mask as he flashed two fingers, then tapped the inside of his right thigh—sharp, clear, a signal Cody Patterson had seen a thousand times in bullpen sessions. Cody shook his head, jaw tight.

Dylan exhaled slowly and repeated the sign, more insistently this time. Another shake. Harder. More defiant.

Goddamn it.

So much for progress. He’d thought the cookout had shifted something between them—softened the edges, at least. But here they were, game time, pressure mounting, and they were back to square one. Maybe worse.

Grinding his teeth, Dylan rose to his feet with a controlled fury. “Time,” he barked, not even glancing at the umpire. He stalked toward the mound, shoulders set like steel cables, waving off the infielders and ignoring the dugout, which was already coming to life with motion.

This was his job—his pitcher, his mound, his responsibility—and he’d be damned if a coach interfered before he had his say.

He planted his feet in front of Cody, close enough to taste the tension rolling off the kid in waves. “What the fuck is your problem this time?”

Cody grabbed the rosin bag and fiddled with it, eyes everywhere but Dylan’s. “I don’t have the slider today. Let’s go with something else.”

Dylan stared at him, trying not to explode. “It’s the first inning. You’ve thrown five pitches. You don’t know what the hell you have yet. Throw the fucking slider.”

Cody shook his head again, this time more subtly. “This guy’s been sitting slider.”

And Dylan felt his patience snap, a frayed wire finally cut. They’d spent hours on the scouting report, walked through matchups, studied tendencies. They’d agreed.

“According to our report, he’s been swinging through breaking stuff since coming off the DL. Your fastball is electric tonight, and the slider will throw off his timing. You just have to trust the setup. Throw it.”

He turned, ready to return behind the plate, willing to let the pitch speak for itself.

“No.”

The word stopped him cold.

Dylan pivoted slowly, blood thudding in his ears. “No?” he repeated, low and dangerous.

“I want to throw the cutter.”

Silence fell between them like a dropped bat. For a moment, Dylan didn’t even breathe.

The umpire took a cautious step toward them. “Everything okay?”

Dylan didn’t break eye contact with Cody. “Yeah, we’re fine.” The words tasted like ash.

He stepped back with an iron smile. “You got it. Throw what you want.”

Yanking his mask back down, Dylan stalked to the plate, rage and frustration bubbling under his skin. He crouched behind the dish just in time to meet the smug eyes of Sam Russell.

Russell smirked, tapping his bat on his cleats. “Trouble in paradise, Professor? I always said you weren’t starter material. Should’ve stayed on the bench.”

Dylan didn’t answer. Just gave the signal for the cutter and waited for the inevitable.

The pitch came in flat, no bite, no deception. Russell didn’t even grunt. Just turned on it, smooth and effortless, and sent it soaring over the right field fence.

Dylan didn’t watch it land.

He didn’t need to.

Cody cursed loud enough to echo off the stadium walls. He kicked at the mound, pacing in a tight circle, avoiding every pair of eyes on the field.

Dylan stared down at his cleats and then slowly lifted his gaze toward the dugout. The pitching coach raised his hands in a silent question. Dylan shrugged and held out his glove for a new ball, then headed for the mound again.

Cody met him halfway, eyes blazing. “I don’t need your shit.”

Dylan slammed the ball into his glove, hard enough to sting. “You’re not ready to throw the cutter. You’ve barely thrown it all season. Is something going on?”

“I said I’m fine.” Cody punched his glove, shoulders tense.

“You’re rattled, and it’s showing,” Dylan said, stepping in front of him. “We had a game plan. You agreed to it. If you want to adjust, we do it together. But out here, in front of everyone? You undermine the entire team.”

Cody scoffed, turning his head. “Whatever you say, dad .”

Dylan froze for half a beat at the bite of sarcasm. He could have flung it right back, torn the kid apart on the mound—but what good would it do? They were down, the game slipping away with every pitch.

Instead, he walked away, jaw tight, fingers flexing inside his glove.

The next few innings were more of the same.

Missed locations. Poor pitch selection. And Minnesota feasted on it like wolves.

Cody refused to stick to the plan, his defiance growing with every batter that reached base.

The dugout was tense. The fans were restless. Dylan’s head pounded behind his mask.

By the fourth, they were down six. Bases loaded. One out.

Dylan crouched low, signaled for the slider again—desperate now to get Cody back on track.

Cody shook him off.

Again.

Then came the cutter.

Dylan swore softly behind his mask. He had no choice but to call for it, hoping maybe—somehow—it would break right this time.

The pitch came in weak. Minnesota’s nine-hole hitter got under it, sending a towering fly to deep right-center.

Dylan tracked it immediately. It wasn’t gone, but it was trouble.

The outfielder caught it near the warning track. Everyone on base tagged. The runner at third—Sam Russell, because of course it was—barreled down the line, eyes locked on home.

Dylan dropped into position, planting his cleats in the dirt and preparing for the throw. It came fast, low, off the line. Dylan shifted, reaching across his body, straining for it.

Russell didn’t slow down.

He didn’t veer.

Instead of sliding right, like he should have, he cut left—straight into Dylan’s blind spot.

Dylan caught the ball—barely—and turned, just as the full weight of Sam Russell slammed into him.

Time shattered.

Pain exploded through Dylan’s ribs, his chest, his head. His mask flew off. His legs went out from under him. He felt himself hit the dirt, sharp and unforgiving, and then nothing.

No thoughts. No sound.

Just the crack of a collision, echoing like thunder through his skull. And darkness swallowing him whole.

“ D ylan? You with us, man?”

The voice floated toward him like sound rising through water, muffled and distant. Something about it tugged at the edge of his consciousness. Familiar. Urgent.

Dylan groaned, a dull ache blooming in his skull, and tried to lift his eyelids, though they felt glued shut with lead. He blinked into a blur of bright lights and looming shadows, the faces above him swimming like ghosts in a too-white sky.

“What… happened?” His own voice sounded alien, slurred and raw.

He tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed him back down. “Don’t move, son,” came a voice—calm, low, steady. The trainer. “Where do you hurt?”

Everywhere. But also… nowhere specific. His limbs were weightless, disconnected. His ribs throbbed like a drum line and his head rang with the aftermath of a thunderclap. He opened his mouth to answer, but it was as if his brain couldn’t connect the question to his body.

Too many voices. Too many questions firing at him all at once.

“Does your neck hurt?”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Can you feel your legs?”

He tried to focus, but the world spun sideways, nausea rising in a sickening wave.

“Everyone, shut up!” the trainer barked, then leaned in closer, blotting out the worst of the light. “Dylan, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Dylan squinted, his eyes fighting to make sense of the blurry shapes. Three fingers, maybe four. He took a shaky breath. “Three. I think.”

A beat. Then, hoarse: “What the hell happened?”

Cody’s voice cut through the murk like a blade. “Fucking Russell took you out, man. Launched himself right into you. Total bullshit. I swear to God, I’m gonna nail him next time he comes to bat.”

The haze thinned enough for warning bells to go off in Dylan’s head. His hand shot out, grabbing someone’s jersey—he wasn’t even sure whose. “Shit. No, Patterson. Don’t—don’t be stupid.”

A ghost of a smile curled on the trainer’s lips. “Relax. He tried. I thought I was gonna have two injuries to deal with—him and you—but the guys held him back. No broken fists, just bruised pride.”

Dylan groaned and dropped his head back down onto the packed dirt. “Fucking fantastic.”

Cody leaned into view, all cocky grin and twitchy shoulders. “Hey, I could’ve taken him, Prosser. I’ve got your back, man. I gotta look after my catcher.”

Something in Dylan’s chest twisted at that. Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe disbelief. Probably both.

Now the kid gives a damn.

The trainer hovered, crouched low. “Let’s get you off the field.”

“I’m walking,” Dylan muttered. His voice came out scratchy, but at least it was his own again. “I got him.”

“You sure?” Cody asked, already crouching beside him, slipping an arm under Dylan’s shoulder.

“No stretcher,” Dylan ground out. “No help. Just let me stand.”

The trainer nodded and slipped to his other side.

They hoisted him gently. Dylan’s legs buckled at first—useless as wet noodles—and the world lurched dangerously to one side.

He clenched his jaw and waited for the worst of the vertigo to pass.

His stomach twisted, sour bile climbing high, but he shoved it back with sheer will. Not here. Not now.

Once the wave passed, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

Every step felt like he was walking through molasses. The roar of the crowd—silent a moment ago—rose around him, a deafening ocean of cheers and applause. It should have felt good. Uplifting, even. But it just made the pounding in his skull worse.

He lifted one hand from Cody’s shoulder and waved, a small, shaky gesture that cost him more energy than he wanted to admit. The fans wouldn’t know the difference, but he did. Every damn step was a war.

Down the dugout steps. Out of the camera’s line of sight. Finally.

A wheelchair waited at the tunnel’s mouth. Dylan sank into it with a mix of relief and resentment. He hated looking weak, hated being weak, but this wasn’t a choice. His limbs weren’t obeying him the way they should.

As the chair started rolling toward the locker room, a thought sliced through the fog.

“Savannah.”

He reached out and snagged Cody’s sleeve.

“Call Savannah. Tell her I’m okay.”

Cody blinked at him, confused, then grinned. “Got it. I’ll tell her. Never hard calling a hot lady like Savannah.”

Dylan let out a low growl that was half warning, half reflex. “Watch it.”

Cody’s laughter echoed in the tunnel as he turned away, headed for the locker room.

Dylan let his head fall back against the seat and closed his eyes, wincing at the pressure behind them. The fluorescent lights overhead felt like knives, even through his eyelids. Someone prodded his shoulder. “Stay with us, Dylan. Gotta keep you awake.”

He groaned. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Not yet. Not while his brain replayed every second of the game. Not while his body remembered the impact—Russell’s weight, the sickening twist midair, the way his head had snapped back against the dirt. And not while Savannah was still waiting to hear from him.

He let his eyes drift closed again, just for a second, the roar of the stadium still echoing in his head like a phantom heartbeat.

Please let Cody not screw up the message , he thought bitterly.

Dylan climbed onto the training table and closed his eyes, shutting out the painful light and reducing the pounding pain for a short while, even as the staff kept prodding him awake.