Chapter 35

Mackenzie

That did not just happen.

I grope for Sarah's hand in the darkness. "Tell me the lights didn't go out the minute Brooks stepped up to the plate. Tell me I went spontaneously blind, and everything in the game is completely and totally fine."

"It's probably a prank." She squeezes my hand back, but she's moving strangely, and a second later, the flashlight lights up on her phone.

The ambient light from the rest of the city makes the whole field gray, not black, and I can make out Brooks's outline at the plate, stepping back while the umpires all rush to home to discuss the situation.

Santiago's heading out too, and so is San Francisco's manager.

Phone flashlights pop on all over the stadium, but the lights don't come back on.

"Is Beck up in the owners' suite?"

"Yes, but I doubt they have any more of a clue what's going on than we do," she replies.

The video screen is black. There's no announcer coming over the speakers to ask everyone to stay calm, so ushers are making their way down the stairs asking people to hold tight for a minute, please.

"Mackenzie."

I look at Sarah.

I don't have to see her to know what she's thinking.

Do not let this go to your head.

My phone buzzes with a text message from Papa.

Mackenzie Renee Montana, DO NOT LET THIS GO TO YOUR HEAD.

It's like he and Sarah are sharing a single mind.

She grips my hand harder. "You know this field needs lots of work still. A mouse probably chewed through the wrong wire. Or the plumbing leaked into the main circuit breaker."

"Sarah."

"Coincidence. Do not make me beat you with this Fiery Forever T-shirt that we both know that man out there at the plate arranged to have given away today for you. Do you know how many people in this entire world would do something like that?"

"Six?"

The lights flicker back on at half-strength as Sarah's glaring at me like she's considering strangling me with the shirt, which is probably fair, since there's actually only one person in the world who would order forty thousand Fiery Forever T-shirts so everyone in attendance at Duggan Field today could get one.

I whip my head around to look at the field to check on him, and there he is, whipping his head around to look straight at me.

Like Brooks, too, knows what I'm thinking.

Of course he does.

He knows me. So he knows what I'm thinking.

So I will myself to think something different.

Don't be crazy, Mackenzie. Don't be crazy. Don't be crazy.

I give him a little finger wave, then lift the shirt and mouth thank you.

Even from halfway across the baseball field, I can see the worry fade from his eyes. His shoulders relax, and he grins before turning back to talking to the guys who've come out of the dugout with him.

He's fine.

He's happy.

He's in his element.

So the lights went out? So what? They came back on, and they're getting brighter by the minute.

Sarah's phone buzzes, and we both look down at the message from Beck.

Backup generators running. Game'll be back in a few. You two okay?

She texts him back that we're fine while the umpires talk to the managers on the field, and people flip their phone lights off.

And three minutes later, Brooks steps back to the plate.

I cover my eyes.

My heart's about to pound out of my chest.

He has to hit the ball.

He has to.

"Mackenzie. He's going to hit the ball." Sarah squeezes me. "Do you want me to stay here, or do you want me to go to the bathroom?"

"Bathroom! Go to the bathroom!"

The crack of a bat rings out, and I wrench my hands away from my eyes in time to see a long line drive drop into foul territory not thirty feet from my seat.

"Go." I flap my hands at Sarah. "Go!"

She's sitting on the aisle for just such an emergency—you know, the superstitious kind of emergency—so she leaps up and dashes up the stairs.

Meaty and Glow poke their heads up over the visitors' dugout while Brooks squats in his batting position again.

Meaty.

Meaty's back.

The pitcher winds up.

I hold my breath.

Brooks tips the pitch. Another foul ball. Two strikes.

Now I'm crossing my fingers. And holding my breath. And going a little light-headed.

"You'd think he'd hit better with what they're paying him," someone grouses behind me.

I turn and glare at him and the popcorn dribbled all over his lap.

The umpire makes that noise that sounds like he took a fist to the gut, which means Brooks isn't out yet—that pitch was ball one, so he still has a chance.

Thank Babe Ruth.

All is not lost.

Seven pitches later, I really am on the verge of hyperventilating. He's hit nine foul balls.

Nine.

I mean, good on him for wearing the pitcher down this early in the game, but why can't he hit the ball straight?

I broke him.

I did.

"Sweetie, you okay?" a very kind gentleman to my right asks.

"None of us are okay with what we're paying for this dingbat who can't hit," the jerk behind me mutters.

I spin around. "Do. Not. Talk. Shit. About. My. Boyfriend."

Holy crap.

My boyfriend.

Brooks is my boyfriend.

The fair-weather asshole behind me smirks. "Right. Your boyfriend. At least pick someone who can hit a ball if you're going to play pretend."

I see red.

But it's worse than seeing red.

It's seeing red accompanied by the loud, "EE-RIGHT!" from down the third base line that means the ump called a strike, which means Brooks is out.

He stands at the plate and gives the ump the are you shitting me? look that I've seen on a thousand Fireballs players before, and I don't have to look at the video screen to know what's being replayed.

Fastball. Barely inside the strike zone.

He didn't swing, but he's still out.

Shit.

My phone dings sixteen times in rapid succession, and I don't have to look at those either.

It'll be everyone who loves me, plus all the people who love them, texting me to remind me that one strike-out after he hit the ball nine times does not mean he's in a slump.

Sarah comes jogging back down the steps. "That was such a bullshit call. It was below his knees and not over the plate at all."

The guy next to me is still studying me. "You're the Fiery Forever lady."

"Yeah."

"You really dating Elliott?"

"Yes, she is," Sarah answers for me before I can fumble it myself.

"Tell him I said that was a bullshit call too. Still watching that dive he made to snag that screamer against Atlanta on Sunday on replay all week. Really liking what the new management's doing for the team this year. Nice to see some hope back in the ballpark."

I fist-bump him.

He's right. The bigger point is that the whole team has hope.

Not that Brooks struck out once.

Baseball players strike out all the time. It's part of the game.

This doesn't mean anything at all.

I hope.