Chapter Thirty-One
Game seven of the World Series will begin this afternoon.
The Admirals will trounce the Altitude. I'm certain of that.
Since Jared's team will be using torpedo bats, the Admirals have decided to do the same.
Only a select group of our hitters will employ them, and they know they're allowed to use them whenever they want.
The playing field will be level this time, though Jared has no idea why. He thinks our guys are high on dope thanks to his marijuana oil trick.
Prepare to be annihilated, Morris, you evil son of a bitch .
But for now, I'll spend some time with my fiancée to relax and prepare for the game this afternoon. Amy is a phenomenal coach, and she gets me in shape for our face-off with the Assitudes. I feel more ready for this game than for any other in my entire career.
This isn't Altitude vs. Admirals. No, it's good vs. evil.
My guys are the warriors for good. I almost wish I had a sword, like a medieval knight. Maybe a horse too.
A few hours later, it's showtime.
The stadium is packed. Fans from both sides fill every seat, their excitement generating palpable energy.
I can spot our fans right away. They wear the standard navy blue and gold of the Admirals, hoisting banners and foam fingers featuring our team.
The Altitude fans show their forest green and silver throughout the stands too.
Signs for both teams chant and raise foam fingers.
I perform my warmup routine in the dugout, watching Jared do the same out on the field. Our eyes meet, and we both smirk. Morris twirls his torpedo bat with an arrogance that he'll soon regret.
"Don't let him get in your head," Amy reminds me, having sidled up beside me. Her hand rests briefly on my shoulder, firm and reassuring. "Morris is counting on that."
"That reptile can't slither inside my head anymore. I feel good—fantastic, actually."
She studies my face, then her lips curl in a slight smile. "You're ready, Braddock."
The announcer's voice booms through the stadium, and the crowd roars as a familiar name is announced. The batter jogs onto the field, his torpedo bat seeming more like a weapon than sporting equipment.
"And now, batting for the Aspen Altitude, Jared Morris!"
His teammates clap and whistle while Jared acknowledges the crowd with a raised bat.
In the bullpen, Amy gives me a subtle nod that confirms what I know I must do. She mouths, "Destroy Morris."
Okay, maybe she didn't actually say that. I was adlibbing in my head.
The first few innings are a deadlock. Neither team scores, though we come close in the third when Rodriguez nearly clears the wall. The Assitudes' pitcher is on fire, but so is ours. The tension builds with every pitch, every catch, every close call.
In the fifth inning, Jared gets his turn at the plate while I'm on the mound. He taps his torpedo bat against home plate and winks at me.
"Let's see what you've got, Chucky," Morris shouts, loud enough for everyone in the first few rows to hear. "Or are you too busy thinking about your wedding? Maybe you should've picked a different career. Baseball was never really your thing."
I grip the ball tighter, feeling the seams dig into my fingers. Focus . I wind up, delivering a fastball that screams toward the plate, but Jared connects. The crack echoes through the stadium as the ball soars toward left field.
But Rodriguez is there, leaping at the wall, his glove extending just enough to snag it before it clears. The crowd erupts, and I pump my fist as Jared throws his bat in disgust.
"Hey Morris, better luck next time!" I couldn't resist razzing the asshole.
By the seventh inning, we're up by two runs, but the Altitude are threatening with runners on first and third. I wipe sweat from my brow, feeling the stadium's collective breath being held as I face down their cleanup hitter. The torpedo bat in his hands gleams under the lights.
I throw a sinker that dives at the last second. He swings and connects, but it's a weak grounder to short. Martinez scoops it and fires to first for the third out. The crowd explodes as we jog back to the dugout.
"Nice pitch," Amy says, handing me a towel. Her eyes dart to the Altitude dugout where Jared is having an animated conversation with their coach. "They're getting desperate. Morris keeps looking at his watch."
"Probably wondering why we're not falling apart." I gulp down a long drink of water. "His little drug scheme isn't working like he planned. Soon, it'll be time to show him just how fast I can pitch."
"Don't get too cocky."
"I won't, promise."
In the ninth inning, with the score still 2-0 in our favor, Jared steps up to the plate again. Two outs, bases loaded. The perfect dramatic showdown for the World Series finale.
The crowd noise swells to a deafening roar. I swear I can almost feel the vibrations through my cleats as I take the mound. Jared's face is twisted into an expression that seems to mix determination with something else—frustration, maybe even fear. His plan is unraveling, and he knows it.
"This is it, Morris," I mutter under my breath as I receive the ball from the umpire.
Jared points his torpedo bat at me. "You got lucky before, Braddock. Not this time."
I feel the weight of everything on my shoulders—the team, Amy's faith in me, my own redemption. The catcher signals for a fastball. I shake my head. No, I've been setting Morris up all game. It's time for the changeup.
I nod, wind up, and deliver. The ball floats toward the plate, looking like my fastball until the last second when it drops just below Jared's swing.
He commits too early, his powerful torso rotating ahead of the ball.
Time slows. I see the confusion in his eyes as he realizes he's been fooled.
His arms try to adjust mid-swing, the torpedo bat wobbling in his grip.
Too late.
The sound of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt is like thunder in my ears. The umpire's arm shoots up.
"Strike two!"
The catcher hurls the ball back with knife-like precision, and I snag it with a snap of my glove, the sound cracking through the air like a whip.
Jared's eyes burn with fury, and his knuckles are clenched tightly around the wooden handle of his torpedo bat.
I can almost hear his teeth grinding as he unleashes a menacing growl amid the din of the stadium.
"Problem, Morris?" I goad him, my voice cutting through the tension just enough for him to hear.
He grinds his cleats into the dirt with a force that might almost shake the ground beneath us.
The crowd's roar crescendos into a deafening whirlwind, an unstoppable force battering us from all sides.
I shut it out, laser-focused on Jared's eyes, the catcher's mitt, and the ball's grip against my fingers as sweat dribbles down the back of my neck.
This pitch has to be flawless, a blazing testament to my determination—and Amy's.
I wouldn't be here today, playing the World Series, without her guidance and love.
For her, for myself, I will obliterate the fastball records of two legends—Aroldis Chapman and Nolan Ryan—my idols, my benchmarks.
I shattered Chapman's record earlier this season. Now, Ryan's hovers in my crosshairs.
I scan the runners, then coil into my windup, a tightly wound spring of potential energy.
Time seems to bend as I unleash the ball, a four-seam fastball that screams toward home plate with unrelenting velocity.
My arm is a conduit of raw power, a live wire surging with untapped reserves.
The ball becomes a blinding comet, a white-hot streak slicing through the air.
Jared swings with everything he has, the torpedo bat whistling. For one unbelievable moment, I think he's going to connect.
But he doesn't.
The ball detonates into the catcher's mitt with such ferocity that he staggers backward a step and almost trips over his own cleats. The stadium plunges into a stunned silence, a collective gasp echoing in the void before the umpire's decisive gesture shatters it.
"Strike three! You're out!"
The stadium explodes into a frenzy with screams and cheers echoing through the stadium with deafening volume.
My teammates flood out of the dugout, a tidal wave of navy and gold crashing toward me with unstoppable force.
I'm hoisted onto their shoulders, arms thrust skyward in a victorious roar as the announcer's voice thunders through the chaos.
"The Jacksonville Admirals have seized the World Series!"
Through the chaos, I spot Jared. He stands frozen at home plate, the torpedo bat hanging limply at his side.
His face is a mask of disbelief and rage, like a man watching his empire of deception crumble before his eyes.
I lock onto his gaze for a matter of seconds, and there's a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps, that he's been outplayed.
Then the victory pile engulfs me, bodies pressing in from all sides as my teammates release their unbridled joy with deafening effect. I catch glimpses of the scoreboard flashing our triumph, of fans leaping and embracing, of Amy pushing through the crowd toward me. Her joy shines from every pore.
"You did it!" she virtually shrieks above the pandemonium. She reaches for my hand as I'm lowered back to the ground. "Charlie, that was—"
"I know." Can't believe it myself, but the reality will sink in soon enough. We did it. The Admirals are World Series champions. Still reeling from the news, I drag Amy into my arms and spin her round and round. Once I finally set her down, I have to ask. "Did I smash the fastball record?"
Just then, Phil and Ray come racing out of the dugout toward us. They must have news. Right? But before they can reach us, the announcer tells me what I've been waiting to hear.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Quiet please!"
An eerie hush fills the whole stadium, as if everyone is holding their breath.
"It's just been confirmed!" the announcer declares. He pauses to take a big breath that's audible through his mic. "Charlie Braddock's fastball clocked in at 101.3 miles per hours! It's a new world record!"
Holy shit.
The announcer comes on again. "Sorry, folks, I got so worked up about Charlie's accomplishment that I almost forgot to tell you…the Admirals have won the World Series!"