Chapter 12
TWELVE
JAYDEN
Coach should have put me on the mound.
No, he shouldn’t have.
Maybe, though, if I were on the mound right now, we wouldn’t be looking at bases loaded with only one out and the winning run on second. In the bottom of the ninth. In the state fucking championship.
We’d probably be losing if I were on the mound.
I chuckle to myself, recalling my last attempt at pitching at the beginning of the season. The first four batters went yard off of my fastball, and Coach pulled me and said, “Never again.”
I guess eighty-two isn’t that fast at this level. I can throw harder, I just can’t guarantee a strike when I really chuck it. That’s why I’m out here. That, and because I’m fast. Our last guard. I want this win so badly.
My brother never got an open state championship win.
It’s the one thing I can have that will be simply my own.
A bragging right. Adriel has all the other accolades sewn up, getting drafted right out of high school and being one of the youngest players to start with Texas for a full season.
Of course, he also owns some of the less appealing titles, like being the only underage player in the Texas system to ever get arrested for driving under the influence.
Fucking idiot.
Adriel and my father never got along, probably because they were so damn similar. And Adriel was the firstborn, so he carried the burden of having to right all of my dad’s wrongs. Not in life, though. Just on the ballfield.
Our dad was a great player, but he never got his shot to really prove what he could do.
He bounced around a few teams, spending most of his days in Triple-A ball, and then Mom got pregnant with my brother.
Duty made him come home and play dad. It’s probably the only reason my parents married.
I’ve done the math. I know my brother was present for their wedding, likely in a bassinet.
But obligation runs strong on my father’s side of the family.
So does alcoholism, apparently. My grandfather died of liver disease before I was born.
And sometimes, when my dad was being a nice drunk, he got weepy about how hard he tried to make his father proud by making it as a ballplayer.
It’s probably why Adriel and I try so hard.
We wanted my dad to be proud of us, too. He was harder on my brother, though.
Adriel plays like our dad—physical and fearless. Oftentimes, however, careless. I aim to be disciplined. I’m hard on myself. My father isn’t here to be hard on me, so perhaps that’s why.
So it comes to this moment, right now. We need two outs, and Allen Hills Prep holds all the cards, their slugger at the plate and our closer, Cade, on the mound with an arm deader than a noodle.
If this ball stays in the park, I have to catch it.
And then, I have to get it to Zach, our catcher, before that runner on third reaches the plate.
No problem.
I pull a handful of seeds from my back pocket and stuff them in my mouth, crunching the salty shells with my molars while I set my feet and pray this ball comes to me.
Cade’s first pitch hits the dirt, but he gets a swing.
This guy is ready to hit. Maybe Cade will strike him out by throwing nothing but junk.
No sooner do I have that thought than my fellow senior teammate pitches an absolute meatball right down the center of the plate and the Allen Hills Prep hitter nails it so hard I hear the crack of the ball reverberate off the windscreen behind me.
I take off in a dead sprint. If I have any shot at this at all, it’s going to be off the fence.
I shade my eyes with my glove as I continue running back, my free arm feeling for the wall, my feet reading the change in the outfield from grass to warning track gravel.
The crunch of my metal cleats breaking up the dirt is only broken up by my steady breath.
“Come on, you motherfucker,” I mutter to myself, planting my right foot against the wood base of the outfield wall and leaping as high as I can to snatch this ball from the sky before it ricochets off the fence.
The ball slams into the pocket of my glove a fraction of a second before my body caroms off the centerfield marker on the wall. This guy may have hit four-twenty-five, but that wasn’t far enough. Not today.
I fly off the wall and into a natural crow-hop, slinging the ball to Zach, my eyes narrowed on his glove as he waits at the plate. The runner was off the base, so he had to go back, check, which bought me an extra half-second. All that’s left for me to do now is will the ball there in time.
“Come on! Come on!” I grit out.
Hands on my knees, I pant as the runner races toward home, his body collapsing for a slide just as my throw reaches Zach.
Our catcher swoops his glove downward, and in the cloud of dust, it’s too hard to tell from here whether or not I got him.
It feels like forever before the umpire balls his hand into a fist.
“You fucking did it!”
“Hell yeah!”
“Let’s go!”
My teammates join me as we rush the mound with our arms up, shouting every word that comes in our minds, not giving two fucks how foul it might be.
Let our school administrators admonish us.
Classy, my ass. This damn Allen Hills Prep team has played dirty all damn day.
They can hear us celebrate and call them out for playing like losers.
Zach lifts me from under my arms when I reach him, and I plant my hands on the big guy’s shoulders as we scream into each other’s faces, eye black smeared down our cheeks.
My back is slapped about a hundred times, the sting a sweet reminder of our victory as well as the fucking miracle I pulled off to get it for us.
I will never say it out loud because teamwork is important too, but screw that—I won us that game.
One home run, three RBIs, four fly balls caught, and a double-play to end the game.
If I don’t win player of the year, I’m protesting.
My brother couldn’t make the game, but I can’t wait to video call him later tonight. And Coach Kessler . . . where is he?
I spin as I stand on top of the mound, scanning the crowd that’s poured onto the field as I search for the man who taught me how to make that catch and throw.
I spot the slight bald spot on the center of his head, and the tears collecting in his eyes while he tries to laugh them away hit my chest with a dose of pride.
“Coach!” I holler, swimming through bodies until I get to him. His embrace is everything. His heavy hand on my back as he says, “I’m so proud of you, son,” over and over again into my ear.
Son.
Proud.
This moment. It’s everything. It doesn’t get better.
And then I see her.
I leave Coach’s embrace, leaving him to congratulate my teammates while I celebrate with the only person I put on a higher pedestal than him. His daughter. My best friend. The person I try to be like in every way. The woman I swear I’m going to marry one day, even if she doesn’t know that yet.
“Jayden, that was amazing!” Colby squeals. I swoop her into my arms, swinging her around as I hug her, laughter pouring out of us.
“Look,” she says, motioning toward the opponent’s dugout as I set her feet back on the ground. I glance in that direction as the Allen Hills team starts pouring their ice on the field, tossing their trash our direction as they let middle fingers fly.
“Real classy, guys!” Colby shouts, cupping her hands to make sure her voice carries.
“Why is it always the preppy kids who can’t stand losing?” I say when I turn back to her.
“Because they don’t get why daddy couldn’t buy the win for them,” she teases.
Colby led the softball team to an undefeated season, and she hit the game-winning home run that knocked the Allen Hills softball team out of the playoffs a few weeks back.
She and I have always had a grudge against their teams, and for no good reason, really.
We decided somewhere along the way that the rich kids would be the bad guys.
It’s probably something we picked up from a teen movie in our youth.
Regardless, the good guys won again today.
I won.
“I gotta go for pictures and shit, but wait for me. I want to tell you something.” I jog backward, a nervous grin tucked between my teeth as Colby eyes me suspiciously.
“As long as we get dinner after. Go on!” She waves me off and takes a seat in the front of the stands.
This is the day I’m going to kiss this girl.
I’m going to kiss her and tell her I’ve been wanting to kiss her for years, and then .
. . well, fuck, I don’t know. I guess I hope she kisses me back.
But if I don’t put it all out there now, I might not ever get the courage. Time to ride this winning streak.
I dive into my team as they cluster, still celebrating. The state director is protecting the championship trophy off to the side, which is probably for the best. I don’t think this group of guys should be allowed around nice things.
We push and shove, name call and laugh and pose for photos for about half an hour.
Coach makes one hell of a speech too, and then he hands me the game ball—which I promptly hand to Zach in an act of grace.
I’m buzzing with the strangest feeling. It’s a cocktail of confidence and pure joy, and for the time being, I feel invincible.
I linger on the field, talking with the local reporters who showed up as well as the recruiting rep who came out to watch our game.
I’m already locked in for LSU in the fall.
I think he just came for the show. Once the only stragglers left hanging around are basically strangers, I make my way back to the seats behind our dugout—to the girl.
And my heart starts pounding outside my body.