Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Admirals won game two, but game three was held at Altitude Stadium.
We lost again. The whole team has been doing everything Amy suggested, yet we still can't catch a break.
And I can't stop thinking about our bizarre loss of performance—or maybe it's deliberate.
Not by our team. But someone who wants to win the World Series badly enough to… I don't know what someone might do.
I glance over at Amy in the dugout, concentration etched on her face as she scribbles something in her notebook.
She's been analyzing every play, every swing, studying the Altitude like they're a complex math problem she's determined to solve.
Despite our losses, the team respects her for it. Hell, I respect her for it.
"Something's off with our batting," I complain, joining her on the bench. "Nothing helps. It's like we all just get…woozy."
She doesn't look up from her notebook. "You noticed too?"
"Hard not to. Their contact rate is through the roof compared to our regular season matchups."
Finally, she meets my gaze. "I've been tracking their slugging percentage. It's up almost fifteen percent since the playoffs started."
The stadium roars as another Altitude player rounds the bases. I clench my jaw, watching their dugout erupt in celebration.
"Maybe they're just hot right now," I suggest, but I don't believe it. Neither does Amy, judging by the skeptical look she gives me.
"Charlie, when was the last time you saw an entire team suddenly improve this dramatically?" She taps her pen on her notebook. "Something isn't adding up."
I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, watching their pitcher wind up. "What are you thinking?"
"Not sure yet." She closes her notebook and slides it into her bag. "But I want to check something. After the game, meet me by their equipment room."
I raise my eyebrows. "Are you suggesting we—"
"No sex. Just meet me there." She jumps up, clapping her hands as our next batter approaches the plate. "Let's go, Jackson! Eyes on the ball!"
Three hours later, we've lost 6-2, and the team trudges back to the locker room with slumped shoulders.
I shower quickly, then slip away before the post-game press conference.
The hallways underneath Altitude Stadium are a maze of concrete and fluorescent lighting, but I follow the signs toward the home team's area.
My heart pounds against my ribs—not from exertion but from the knowledge that we're crossing a line here.
If we get caught snooping around the Altitude's equipment room, it'll be more than just embarrassing.
This could end Amy's coaching career before it truly begins.
I find her waiting in a service corridor, her hair still damp from her own shower, dressed in Admirals warm-ups.
"This is crazy," I hiss, glancing over my shoulder. "What exactly are we looking for?"
"I don't know yet." Her voice is hushed yet determined. "But I've been watching baseball my whole life, Charlie. The way you guys have been connecting with the ball isn't natural. The entire team seems almost…drugged."
Oh, shit . I think she's right. It would explain how our entire team could turn into losers overnight. And it's exactly the kind of ploy Jared would concoct.
"Drugged?" I shake my head, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. "How would they even pull that off?"
"I don't know yet. That's what we're here to find out."
Amy peeks around the corner, then motions for me to follow. We move silently down the corridor until we reach a door marked "Equipment Storage—Authorized Personnel Only."
"It's probably locked," I whisper.
Amy pulls a keycard from her pocket. "Borrowed this from one of the janitorial staff. Told him I left my tablet in a conference room."
I gape at her. "You're full of surprises, Coach Keller."
"My dad taught me that winning sometimes means thinking outside the rulebook." She swipes the card, and the lock clicks open. "Not cheating—just strategic intelligence gathering."
"You're one sexy spy, Coach."
Her smug smile makes me want to kiss her senseless. But this isn't the right time.
We slip inside the storage room, closing the door behind us. The room is dark until Amy finds a switch, illuminating rows of shelves stacked with equipment. Bats, gloves, helmets, and boxes of balls line the walls.
"What should we be looking for?" I ask, scanning the room.
"Anything suspicious." Amy moves toward the bat rack. "Something that could explain why our team suddenly can't hit worth a damn."
I follow her lead, examining the equipment. The Altitude's prized torpedo bats are arranged neatly on a special rack. They look normal—polished wood, professionally maintained.
"These are our game bats." I run my fingers along one of them. Something feels off about the texture—a slight stickiness to the grip that doesn't seem right. I lift my fingers to my nose and catch a faint, familiar scent.
"Amy," I whisper urgently. "Smell this."
She moves closer, her shoulder brushing against mine as she leans in. Amy takes the bat, brings it up to her nose, and…her eyes widen. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Feels oily and smells like marijuana, so it must be THC oil." My mind races with uncomfortable questions, things I wish weren't true. "They might be coating the bats with THC. When our guys make contact, the residue transfers to their hands, gets absorbed through the skin."
Amy wipes a hand over her mouth, saying nothing for a moment. Then her shoulders sag. "Since you all touch your faces constantly during games…"
"We're getting a mild contact high without even knowing it." I clench my fists. "That's why we all feel woozy after a few innings. Our reflexes slow down, our focus gets shot…"
"Those bastards." Amy pulls out her phone, snapping several quick photos of the bats. "We need evidence. Lots of it."
I grab a torpedo bat, turning it over in my hands to examine it more closely. "Look at this. There's slight discoloration on the grip. It's subtle, but it's definitely been treated with something."
"We need to get a sample." Amy glances around the room, then unzips her bag and pulls out a small evidence collection kit. At my surprised look, she shrugs. "I came prepared."
"Of course you did, baby. You're the smartest person I've ever met."
Using a small scraper, she collects residue from the bat grip into a tiny vial. Her movements are quick and precise, as if she's done this before. Maybe Coach Keller has more secrets than I realized.
"We should check the batting gloves too," I suggest. "If they're coating those, the effects would be even more direct."
"Smart idea."
We move to a locker where batting gloves are stacked in neat piles. She carefully examines a pair, turning them inside out.
"Bingo," she whispers, holding the gloves up. "They've treated these too."
I inch closer to take a look. The interior palms have a faint sheen to them, barely perceptible unless you're looking for it.
The pieces are falling into place, and it makes me want to punch something—or someone, preferably the slimeball who did this to our team.
The Altitude's sudden improvement, our team's collective slump…
it wasn't in our minds. This was deliberate sabotage.
"Jared," I growl. "This has his fingerprints all over it."
Amy collects another sample, securing it in her kit. "We have what we need for now."
Just as she zips her bag closed, voices echo from the hallway. My heart slams against my chest. Amy's eyes widen in panic, and we both freeze, listening intently.
"—checking inventory before we head out." That male voice is unmistakably the smug tone of Jared Morris. "Coach wants the trophy bats packed special for tomorrow, so we'd better do this quick before anyone misses us."
Amy seizes my arm, her fingers digging into my bicep as she drags me toward a storage closet at the back of the room. We squeeze inside just as the door to the equipment room swings open. Through a narrow crack, I can see Jared and one of the equipment managers entering.
"These babies are our secret weapon," Jared laughs, picking up a torpedo bat we'd examined a minute ago. "The Admirals don't stand a chance."
Another male voice chuckles. "Braddock looked like he was swinging underwater today."
I can't figure out who the other voice belongs to. The guy isn't quite mumbling, but I have to listen hard to make out the words.
"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you mess with the best," Jared sneers, twirling the bat. "Plus, our little enhancement doesn't hurt."
I tense, ready to burst out of the closet and confront him, but Amy's grip on my arm tightens. Her eyes flash a warning in the darkness: Not yet.
"You sure this stuff is undetectable?" Jared's accomplice asks.
"Completely," Jared says with smug confidence. "The lab guys say it metabolizes so fast there's no trace after a few hours. By the time anyone might think to test, there's nothing to find. And the beauty is, those idiots don't even know why they're playing so badly."
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack.
Amy's breathing is shallow beside me, her body pressed against mine in the tight space.
I can feel her heartbeat racing as fast as mine.
I'm torn between rage and something else—a fierce admiration for the woman beside me, who figured this out when everyone else was looking in the wrong direction.
Morris's collaborator is packing the bats into a special case, handling them with exaggerated care. "You think they'll ever figure it out?"
"By the time they do, we'll be World Series champions," Jared says with a laugh that makes my blood boil. "Besides, it's not technically illegal. It's just a little…competitive advantage."
They continue gathering equipment, joking about our team's struggles. Every word fuels my anger, but I stay put, knowing we need to leave here with our evidence intact.
Finally, after what feels like hours, they finish their task and head toward the door.
"Let's grab a beer," Jared suggests. "I'm buying. We have a lot to celebrate tonight."
When the door finally clicks shut, I exhale, realizing I've been holding my breath. Amy and I remain frozen for several more seconds, listening for any sign of their return.
"Clear," I whisper, easing the closet door open. "We need to get out of here."
Amy nods, her expression a mix of triumph and fury. "We've got them, Charlie. We've actually got them."
"Not until we can catch Jared and his pal juicing our equipment in the dugout or our locker room."
We slip out of the equipment room, checking both directions before hurrying down the corridor. My mind races with the implications of what we've discovered. This isn't just cheating—it's criminal.
"What's our next move?" I ask once we're safely in a service stairwell. "We can't just accuse them without proof."
Amy holds up her bag. "We get these samples tested immediately. I know a lab that can rush the analysis."
"We've got until the next game to flush out the culprits—meaning Jared and his buddy." I hiss a breath out through my nostrils. "I want him caught red-handed where everyone can see."