2. Kyle

A loud whoosh of air escaped Mason Dumpty as the center fielder spit a sunflower seed across the dugout.

No one commented.

Normally, the mood on the bench was lighter, teasing. Normally, we were a bunch of smiling assholes.

But today was too important. And we were all feeling it.

“ Striii ,” echoed from the plate.

“Fuck,” Mason muttered into the silence.

“We got this.” Emerson Knight, our third baseman, assured him, sounding far too unaffected by the tension in the air. I loved the guy, but despite the couple of years I’d known him, I still couldn’t understand the source of his constant state of positive chill. “Angel Boy’s bat has been on fire the whole series.”

Emerson wasn’t wrong. Our catcher, Asher Price, had led the team’s bats this season. He’d been a one dot for the last month. During the playoffs, that was nothing short of a miracle. With that on-base percentage and his slugging, it was likely he’d score. But it was the bottom of the eighth, and we were only ahead by one.

“We need a bigger lead, since I won’t be controlling the ball.” Christian Damiano kept his expression neutral, even though we all knew he’d prefer to be outright glaring at our head coach. Not that long ago, he’d have lost his shit the second Coach Wilson pulled him. But that was before Christian’s fiancée, Coach Wilson’s daughter, wrapped our pitcher around her finger.

Not that he was alone.

At the start of the season, Eddie Martinez had been the only guy on the team in a relationship. Then the owners brought in family-man Asher Price, and slowly, a few of the guys coupled up.

Not long after Christian and Avery got together, Mason had fallen hard for the Revs’ trainer and had swiftly moved her into his place. Earlier this week, Emerson had proposed to Christian’s sister. That potential clusterfuck turned out way better than I thought it would when I first discovered our third baseman was hooking up with Gianna behind his best friend’s back.

I shook my head. It had better not be something in the water cooler here. I had no intention of settling down ever, let alone this year. My role as a professional baseball player was all the responsibility I could manage.

“You’ve thrown too many pitches already this week, Dragon,” Mason, our team captain, reminded him. “You’re lucky he left you in through eight.”

Christian crossed his arms and glared at the field. If Tom Wilson let him, the guy would pitch every game in its entirety.

The sound of wood shattering startled me, and I jumped to my feet. It was the opposite of the good type of crack. This was the sound of a bat that had met its end. The shattered pieces of wood flew farther than the ball, which hardly rolled into the infield, making it easy for the catcher to scoop it up and toss it to first long before Asher Price made it to the bag.

Out number three.

I tamped down on the nerves skittering through me.

“We’ve got this, guys.” Emerson, always the peppy cheerleader, clapped his hands. I had a mind to punch him, but he was too damn happy, and if I did that, I’d feel like an ass. If he could find it within himself to grumble a little, maybe I’d be able to smack him when he was being annoying. That’d never happen, though. He was too supportive and positive to ever get outwardly angry or even frustrated. “Leading by one into the ninth is a great place to be.”

“Leading by five would be great,” I muttered.

With a shake of his head and a smirk, he grabbed his mitt and headed to third. Annoying as it was, I envied his ability to smile. There was no way I could force my lips up. Not with so much on the line.

I climbed the stairs and stood in the grass with my team as the crowd cheered around us. The deafening sound sent a chill down my spine. Five years ago, when I joined this team, I couldn’t have guessed that we’d ever be this close to the big game so soon, and yet here we were. As I trotted out to right field, I took in the moment. The fans, the guys. The score board. The night. We were just three outs from the dream I’d been chasing for most of my life.

Three outs, and the Boston Revs would secure a spot in the World Series.

From center field, Mason tossed the ball to me. I settled into my position in right field, then threw it back. After four more warm-up throws, Mason turned the crowd, searching for a fan to toss the ball to. His head moved from side to side as he scanned the bleachers of deep right field, where fans waved and screamed, hoping to be chosen.

So much excitement. Unlike some guys, I never promised a fan that I’d get them next time. When the inning started, my mind was focused on the game only, and a lot could happen between then and the next time I took the field. The last thing I’d want to do was forget someone. It was a simple thing, a baseball, but in a setting like this, one given to a person directly from a member of the Revs was a big deal.

Even when I’d just joined the team and we’d lost almost 70 percent of the games we played, fans still shouted to us from the stands, always clapping and cheering. Now, five years later, we were finally about to prove that we’d been worthy of their support all this time.

A teenager jumped up to swipe the ball Mason gently tossed to him, cheering as he did.

It was hard not to smile at the glee in his expression. But I reined in the emotion and spun back to the plate as the fans settled into their seats. Shutting my eyes, I took a deep breath, and when I opened them and recentered, I focused on Tugerot, who was digging his foot into the sand of the mound. We really could have used Dragon for our final inning. No one threw fire better than the first guy in our rotation. But he’d spent the playoffs killing his shoulder, and with the possibility of going to the World Series so close, he’d have to rest that arm. I couldn’t disagree with Wilson’s decision to pull him after the eighth inning.

I scanned the stadium, zeroing in on the box where the men who controlled our team stood watching. Beckett Langfield and Cortney Miller. They were by far the best leaders in major league baseball. We were lucky to play for them, and we all knew it. They wanted this win almost as much as we did. Or close to it. I wasn’t sure anyone could want it as much as I did. My desire to step onto the field at the World Series was so strong I could taste it.

When the first batter went down swinging, I let myself start to believe this could be real. A pop fly made it more possible. Even the base hit didn’t get me down. We only had one more out, after all. We could do this. Just one more. The guys tossed the ball from base to base before it ended back in Tugerot’s glove.

Heart pounding, I beat my fist into the leather of my own mitt. We had this.

The first pitch was followed by the ump’s strike call. Two more.

The batter swung at the second pitch and made contact. The wooden bat cracked against the leather, sending the ball flying. The sound was the kind we all paid attention to. A solid hit. And in a blink, it was headed my way, and I was running. As it flew over Emerson’s head, I sped up. Before I could worry about the bounce, it turned foul and hurtled toward the stands. If I made this catch, that’ d be it. Game over.

My heart pounded as I pumped my arms and legs faster. The win was in my hands.

My quads burned as I passed the white line in the dirt, heading for the stands. With my gloved hand in the air, I tracked the ball over my shoulder. I was right there. I had this. Quickly, I risked a look at the people in the stands above the padded blue wall.

I wasn’t at all prepared for what I saw just two feet away. Red pigtails, blue headphones. The little girl was maybe six. The mom was…not six. I couldn’t help but take in the smooth column of the woman’s throat or her amber eyes. The breath rushed out of my lungs.

Lonely eyes.

It was a term people tossed around often. But I’d only seen an expression this sincerely lonely on one face in my entire life. Staring into the deep amber-brown eyes shorted out my thoughts.

It was only a blink, hardly a hesitation. But it was just long enough that the woman moved. Her hand came up to block the ball headed for her kids. And before I could get my mitt up to make the final move to catch it, she’d swiped it out of the air.

A collective gasp echoed around us.

She grimaced and shook her hand, causing the ball to teeter and then slip out. In slow motion, the ball bounced. And a small boy bent to pick it up.

The stadium grew eerily silent, the crowd shocked. This woman in front of me had caused the ball to be foul. The ball that would have been the third out. The ball that would have sent the Revs to the World Series.

The young girl with pigtails and sporting Revs pinstripes called out. Though her lips were moving in a way that looked like she was saying my name, I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t respond. Headphones. Sad eyes.

No.

Violently, I shook off thoughts of them. Two seconds of distraction had already ruined what should have been an out. I spun from them, searching out the third base umpire behind me.

“Fan inference,” I demanded.

He shook his head.

My hands trembled, and my knees shook. “What the fuck, man? That was catchable.”

“Was,” he agreed. “But you didn’t catch it.”

Chest puffed, I took a step toward the guy, but before I could do more than that, Emerson was in my face.

“Step back,” he demanded.

“Move,” I sneered, lit by a burning need to blame someone for the play. And the man in white and black was an easy target.

Emerson pushed my shoulders, sending me stumbling back a step. “I’ll let you hit me before I let you get ejected from this game.” Shrugging, he pasted on a smile that was all wrong after the play hadn’t gone our way. But the fucker was always happy.

“Field,” Tom Wilson barked at me as he stepped into my fight. “This is my job. Get the fuck out in the grass. If we need the bottom of the ninth, you need to be at bat.” With a quick shove to my arm, he turned to the umpire.

I glanced back over my shoulder. To the family of three. The little girl’s arms flew, and her face was red. She was yelling, and if I wasn’t mistaken, she landed a hard kick to her mother’s shin. Rather than getting upset, her mother kept her expression neutral, though she was entirely focused on her daughter. The little boy beside her was just blinking at the white ball in his hands.

My temper spiked. That ball should be in my glove. I should have caught it, and then, with a smile, I should have fucking tossed it to the little man. Because I would have caught it if not for the woman who didn’t trust that I could. If she hadn’t ruined my chance…

Clenching my right hand, I stormed back to right field, anger brewing in my gut. That quickly turned to rage when the umpire waved a hand, ordering Tom Wilson out of the game for finishing the fight I’d started. The emotion only compounded when the next pitch was a two-run homer. Then when the Vegas Heat scored one more run. It didn’t cool when we only got a single run in the bottom of the ninth. Or when I barreled into the locker room. It sure as shit burned hot when the microphones were shoved in my face.

The fuckers had the audacity to ask how I felt about the foul ball call.

What did they expect me to say? Wonderful ? No. They wanted a sound bite they could run with. And I was primed to give it. Primed to blame anyone but myself. Ready to let the Boston fans take care of the issue.

“Want to know the truth?” I glared into the camera. “We lost this game because of one person, and it isn’t the umpire who clearly needs glasses. No.” I shook my head and let a dark chuckle pass through my lips. “Want a villain, Boston?” I smirked. “You’ve got one. A redheaded villain dressed in a white button-down.” I tipped my chin up. “Hopefully she knows better than to show her face in our city again.”

I was too mad to feel even the smallest bit of guilt when the Boston media ran with my statement.