Chapter Thirty-Two
The stadium erupts yet again in a new frenzy that seems to vibrate through the air, and my teammates pile on me for a second time.
This moment—this perfect, crystal-clear moment—is everything I've worked for since the day I first picked up a bat in Little League.
Years of training, of pushing my body to its limits—of weathering slumps, injuries, doubts, and Jared's mind games—everything has led to this, the pinnacle of my career.
"You did it, Charlie!" Amy's voice cuts through the noise, and her eyes shimmer with tears of joy. "You beat them all—Chapman, Ryan, and most importantly, that bastard Morris."
I pull her close, breathing in her familiar scent. " We did it, baby. Couldn't have done it without you."
Over her shoulder, I spot Jared being ushered toward the locker rooms, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Our eyes meet for one final time, and I can't help the surge of satisfaction that courses through me.
For years, he's been the thorn in my side that kept pricking me, trying to make me doubt myself.
It never worked until the day Jared wrecked my shoulder.
But tonight, all the keeps running through my mind is that epic pitch and the roar of victory in my ears. I'm finally free of his shadow.
Jared pauses at the tunnel entrance, his expression unreadable from this distance. Then he's gone, swallowed by the darkness.
"Charlie! Charlie!" The fans are chanting my name in a rhythmic pulse. I raise my hands high, waving as I acknowledge them, letting their energy crash over me.
Coach Rivera claps me on the shoulder. "That was some of the finest hitting I've ever seen, son."
I can't move or speak, still processing what just happened. "The ball…it felt so right."
"It's not the ball," Amy whispers, her fingers twining with mine. "The power was inside you all along."
The team hoists me onto their shoulders, and somebody hands me a torpedo bat that I clutch in my hand like a trophy, raising it high.
"Speech! Speech!" someone shouts, and soon the entire stadium takes up the chant.
I shake my head, laughing. "Put me down, you animals. You know I suck at making speeches."
But they insist, and soon I'm standing on the dugout steps as twilight begins to paint the sky with vivid colors.
The floodlights come on, making me squint as I face the sea of blue and white—Admirals colors worn proudly by thousands.
Somebody shoves a mic in front of me, ensuring my awkward speech will be heard by everyone.
"I, uh—" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "Baseball's always been my language. Not sermons from the mound."
The crowd laughs, patiently waiting.
Amy comes up beside me, handing me a ball, and suddenly, I find the right words.
"Eight months ago, I couldn't even grip a ball or a bat without pain shooting up my arm.
Some people—including me—thought I was done for.
" I pause, glancing at the torpedo bat in my left hand and the ball in my right palm.
"But this team, this city, and especially this woman right here, they refused to let me believe that. "
The crowd shouts their approval as I squeeze Amy's hand. She beams up at me, pride etched across her features.
"Tonight wasn't just about beating Jared Morris." I speak his name clearly, without flinching. "It was about proving that setbacks don't define us. The comeback does."
I survey the faces of my teammates, all grinning like idiots.
"So thank you, Jacksonville. Thank you for believing in me despite what anybody else thinks. And thank you for your unwavering support. Admirals rock!" I raise my ball and holler, "Now, does anybody want to celebrate at Atlantic Beach? I'll buy the pina coladas!"
That garners a laugh, and I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. I raise the bat high one more time, and the crowd goes wild.
As we make our way down the tunnel toward the locker room, I can't stop smiling. The energy in the room is electric, with guys whooping and hollering, spraying champagne like we just won the World Series.
Well, yeah, we did just that. What lucky jerks we are.
"Braddock!" Sanchez calls out, tossing me a bottle. "You magnificent bastard!"
I catch the bottle one-handed, pop the cork with my thumb, and take a swig. The bubbles fizz in my throat, but it's the sweetness of victory that I'm really tasting.
In the corner, Phil is on his phone, his expression shifting from elation to something far less pleasant. He catches my eye and motions me over.
"What's up, boss?" I ask. Phil's never been one to dampen celebrations. That means something must be wrong.
"Just got a call from the league office." Phil keeps his voice hushed. "They need you and Amy in the conference room. Now."
"What? Why?" I glance at Amy, who's laughing with some of the guys near the lockers. "We're celebrating."
Phil rubs his jaw. "It's about Morris and Rivera. And our tainted equipment."
"You mean the marijuana oil scheme."
"Yeah." Phil's gaze darts around as if he's making sure no one else will overhear. "Turns out Morris wasn't just trying to knock you off balance with all that trash talk and secretly drugging you guys. The league's got evidence he was trying to sabotage the team in other ways too."
I feel like I've been hit with a fastball to the gut. "Sabotage? How?"
Phil glances toward the door. "I can't say much here. But remember how our equipment manager found those drilled-out spots in some of our old bats? Turns out it wasn't just wear and tear."
"Son of a—" I cut myself off, my thoughts racing. "Morris did that?"
"The league has video evidence. The pea-size cameras we set up caught him in our equipment room three weeks ago, but nobody looked at the whole footage until now.
But now we've alerted the league to Jared's marijuana scheme.
" Phil's voice drops even lower. "There's more, but we need to keep this quiet until the official announcement. The commissioner wants your statement."
Amy approaches, her victory smile fading as she senses the tension. "What's going on?"
I fill her in quickly, watching her expression shift from confusion to anger. Her hands ball into fists at her sides.
"That cheating bastard," she hisses. "I knew he was desperate, but this? It goes way beyond any team rivalry."
I hold her close as I struggle to process everything we now know.
My victory high is still going, but now it's tinged with something else—anger, yes, but also a strange sense of validation.
After my injury, I'd wondered if my struggles against Jared were partly in my head, if I was making excuses for not measuring up.
But no, he'd actually been sabotaging me, us, the whole team.
I clasp Amy's hand. "Let's go. The sooner we deal with this, the sooner we can get back to celebrating."
We follow Phil down the corridor, away from the noise of the locker room. The concrete hallway feels cold after the warmth of victory, our footsteps echoing against the walls.
"You know," I say, breaking the tense silence, "part of me always suspected something wasn't right. The way our performance would tank against Aspen when we'd been unstoppable the week before against a different team."
"Jared's always been obsessed with beating you," Amy points out.
"Yeah, but drugging us? Sabotaging equipment? That's criminal."
"And it ends tonight," Phil asserts firmly as we approach the conference room. "The league's taking this very seriously."
The door swings open to reveal Commissioner Davis as well as two league officials who are seated at a long table.
Their faces are grim. Folders and tablets lay spread out before them.
On a screen behind the duo, a video is paused, showing a figure that's unmistakably Jared.
He's hunched over what looks like our equipment bags.
The video is from the tiny camera Amy and I had installed.
"Mr. Braddock, Ms. Keller," Commissioner Davis says, standing to shake our hands. "Thank you for joining us on such short notice. Please, have a seat."
I slide onto a chair, my body still humming with adrenaline from the game and our incredible win. The leather feels cool against my sweaty back. Amy takes the seat beside me, her posture rigid.
"First, congratulations on your performance tonight," Davis tells us. His tone is professional, but I detect genuine touch of admiration. "That was some impressive pitching."
"Thank you, sir," I respond, my eyes drifting to the frozen image on the screen. "But I'm guessing we're not here to discuss my batting average."
Davis releases a long sigh, then presses a button that brings the video to life.
The recording plays, and there he is—Jared Morris in our equipment room at two a.m., methodically working on our bats.
He has a bottle of marijuana oil in his hand.
Well, I assume that's what it is. The jerk methodically applies the oil to every bat, every ball, every glove—as if to ensure not one player would be unaffected by his tampering.
But Jared isn't alone. He has a friend with him, though it's not who I expected.
I lean forward, my body tense as I strain to make out the other figure in the shadows. The grainy security footage plays on, and I feel my stomach drop as the individual steps into the light. Then a name tumbles from my lips. "Coach Rivera?"
Amy gasps beside me, her hand finding mine under the table and squeezing hard. My heart pounds like a bass drum in a marching band.
"I'm afraid it's true," Commissioner Davis confirms, his expression grim.
"Shawn Rivera has been working with Morris for the past season and a half.
Morris had blackmail material that he'd been holding over Rivera, something to do with him unknowingly hiring underage prostitutes.
That's no excuse for what he helped Morris do.
But only during the playoffs did they come up with a workable plan to foul up the Admirals chances at reaching the World Series. "
The video continues playing. Rivera is carefully applying the marijuana oil to the gloves while Jared applies the substance to the bats. They work with practiced efficiency, as if they've done this many times before.
"Son of a bitch," I mutter, anger rising inside me, as hot as molten metal.
"He was in the dugout with us, celebrating tonight.
Patting me on the back, telling me how proud he was.
" I shake my head, disgust and betrayal warring within me.
"But the whole time, he must've been laughing on the inside. "
"Both Morris and Rivera have been taken into custody," Davis explains. "The evidence is overwhelming. Not just this video, but text messages, bank transfers showing payments from Morris to Rivera, and testimony from an equipment manager who became suspicious."
Amy leans forward, her coach's instincts kicking in. "What about the game tonight? Does this invalidate our win?"
"No," Davis confirms. "Your victory stands. In fact, it makes what you accomplished even more impressive. You were playing against a stacked deck and still came out on top."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "And the marijuana oil? That's why half of our guys were acting so strangely during practices?"
"Precisely. Slow reflexes, decreased coordination, impaired judgment—all symptoms your team was experiencing," Davis pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a few seconds.
Then he looks at us. "The oil was absorbed through the skin.
They were essentially drugging you without your knowledge. "
I push a hand through my hair, which is still damp with sweat from the game. "Damn, I can't believe it. Coach Rivera was always so helpful and…nice."
Amy rests her cheek on my shoulder. "He fooled us all, Charlie. It isn't your fault."
I scratch my neck, still trying to process this information. "No wonder I couldn't connect properly in our last series against the Altitude." I shake my head. "All the missed opportunities, the frustration, the self-doubt that plagued me. I thought I was just in a slump."
But no, my game wasn't off. Jared Morris and Adrian Rivera conspired against me and the whole Admirals team.
Shit. At least it's over now.