The National Tournament Semi-Finals
The National Tournament:
Semi-Finals
She made it as far as the hotel lobby, but when she confronted the glass doors, her damp, empty face an unfamiliar reflection, Abby couldn’t do it.
For one, she had nowhere to go. More importantly, she wasn’t ready to lose Kate completely.
She knew if she abandoned the game, there’d be no return.
It still bound them together, their start and now, maybe their end. She resolved to see it through.
She made Izzy Palamino switch rooms with her, then spent a restless night before the semi-finals replaying the words she wished she hadn’t said and the ones she wished Kate hadn’t said too.
She wished Kate didn’t consider her a burden, wished that she said she loved her unconditionally.
She wished she hadn’t called her a coward.
She even wished she didn’t blow up the game, didn’t self-destruct, didn’t feed into the curse.
In the morning, through team breakfast and the bus ride to the fields, they kept their distance, not daring to look at each other.
They didn’t need to. The rawness, the hurt, radiated between.
The rest of the Eagles entered the game on equally shaky ground.
Coach Whitley’s one-game suspension deflated everyone’s spirits, and despite Kate’s and Abby’s best attempts at hiding it, the team picked up on their despair.
“We can do this,” Kate assured in the huddle after morose pregame warm-ups.
Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, but she forced a smile.
Abby ached with regret and admiration at how she never gave up.
She never let anyone down, no matter how badly she hurt.
Abby couldn’t say the same. “I know we’re tired.
I know we’re hurting, and I know we wish Whit was here, but we can do this.
We’re so close. Just push a little longer. ”
When they jogged out to their positions, Abby extended an olive branch. “Hey, you okay?” she asked.
But Kate didn’t say a word.
Meanwhile, Southern Colorado strutted onto the diamond. They enjoyed a home-state advantage and a lineup twice as deep. When they scored first, their fans chanted and rang cowbells while the players’ shirtless boyfriends bumped chests in the stands.
The Eagles hardly put up a fight. No one could hit. When Abby got on base, no one cheered. Not that she deserved it. Mick grimaced each time she squatted behind the plate. The other team clobbered T.K.’s pitching. And then Kate, of all people, made the game’s biggest blunder.
A batter launched a shot to shortstop with one out and runners on first and second—a routine double play.
All Kate had to do was lob it to second base.
Abby had seen her do it a thousand times.
But not today. It happened in slow motion.
Kate fielding the ball, and then, out of nowhere, freezing.
Terror streaking across her face. Double clutching but not letting go.
“Throw it!” Abby shouted.
By then, it was too late. The runners neared their bases. Instead of killing the play and stopping the bleeding, Kate winged the ball to Jill at first. It flew high and wide, far off course, a complete miss. Jill reached to stop it, but it soared out of play. One runner scored. Then another. 3–0.
“Fuck,” Abby muttered under her breath as Southern Colorado’s fans erupted.
Kate covered her face. She never missed a throw and rarely made an error. This wasn’t just a mistake. This was no different from her hitting slump. A result of the heart. Abby sank at her part in it.
“It’s okay,” Abby said to her. She wanted to do more. To say more, but the stadium vibrated with noise. “Shake it off. You got the next one.”
Kate expelled a ragged sigh and settled into position.
“One out! Look ’em back, hit one!” Mick barked behind the plate. “Outfielders cut four!”
The next hitter fired a ball to Abby. She backhanded it, stared down the runner at third base, froze her in her spot, and threw to Jill for the out. Still 3–0.
“Two down!” Abby punched her glove and nodded at Kate. “Come on, we got this!”
“Two outs!” Kate shouted shakily.
The shaking revealed that she wasn’t ready, and on the diamond, ready didn’t matter.
The less you wanted the ball, the more often it found you.
Abby equated it to her experience hiding in the back of class when she hadn’t done the reading, and the professor went rogue with the Socratic method. Not me. Dear God, not me.
Kate stopped the next grounder clean when it reached her but hesitated to throw.
Abby wanted to close her eyes or turn away from the crash.
After the prolonged pause, worry passing across her features, Kate rushed the throw to first base, chucking it high once more.
Jill jumped to snag the ball and brought it down to the bag for a photo finish.
The runner collided with her. They tangled, tripped, and tumbled.
“Out!” the umpire called.
Jill clutched her ankle in the dirt. The Southern Colorado runner groaned and called for help.
“Fuck.” Abby cut across the field to Jill and kneeled to meet her. “You okay?”
“Son of a bitch.” Jill clenched her teeth. Red splotches stained her sock where the runner’s metal cleat took a bite of her.
“Can you stand?” Abby asked.
Jill nodded and accepted Abby’s hand to haul her up. She whimpered when she put weight on her ankle. “Shit.”
“I’m so sorry, Shupe.” Kate joined them, completely ashen.
“Don’t be.” Jill draped her other arm over Kate’s shoulder. “I’m fine.”
Abby and Kate exchanged glances as they helped Jill to the dugout. Kate’s lower lip trembled before she broke away from Abby’s eyes. “This is my fault.”
“It’s not,” Abby said. “Don’t do that now.”
In the dugout, the team trainer removed Jill’s cleat and sock, revealing a jagged imprint from the spikes. Her ankle was already swollen and purple. The other team’s runner still lay holding her knee at first base, pausing the action.
“How is it?” Coach Ackers asked the trainer.
“I can play,” Jill said, but the trainer shook his head.
“We can’t risk it, Shupe. I’m sorry.” Coach Ackers glanced down the bench. “Quong, take over at first.”
“Wait, Coach,” Mick said. “T.K. is done.”
T.K. shook her head, sweat running down her temple, the maroon bow in her bleached hair falling limp. “I can go another.”
“They’re crushing your curve, your rise is gone to piss, and you’re missing your spots because you’re tired,” Mick said.
“My rise isn’t piss.”
“All you have is off speed and the top half of their lineup is about to get a third look at you.” Mick pivoted to Coach Ackers. “She’s done.”
Coach Ackers gulped. While a decent pitching director, she wasn’t exactly up for leading the team in the World Series semi-finals. She wrung her hands together. “Okay, Quong, go warm up. Ogden to first.”
The freshman, Chloe Ogden, knocked over a row of bats at the news. “Me? Now?”
“Yes.” Coach Ackers clapped her hands half-heartedly. “Come on. Let’s rally.”
Coach Ackers departed for third base, leaving them in miserable quiet while a stretcher arrived for the injured base runner. Abby stared at their blank column on the scoreboard. If they continued down this path, their season would end in three innings.
“You heard her. Let’s go.” Abby turned to the dejected squad. “It just takes one. One pitch. One hit. One run.” She glanced around when no one responded. “Come on! Are you going to quit? We might as well pack it up and walk away.”
Abby cringed at her own charge, especially when she caught Mick’s raised brow. She stared down at the dusty dugout floor, littered with sunflower seeds and paper cups.
“I get it. I know we’re in the gutter. And I know it’s my fault.”
She wasn’t one to lead or give speeches, but something in her gnawed. Not just the end but the beginning. Her first tournament with Insley. The first time she felt the game again when she thought she never would. She owed them the same.
“I’m sorry for the fight. I’m sorry Coach Whit can’t be here because she had to defend me.
” She sighed. Some of her teammates uncrossed their arms. “I’m sorry I almost walked away.
But you know why I didn’t? Because of you idiots.
Because this team means everything to me.
You’ve never given up on each other or me.
In fact, two years ago, this team saved my life. ”
She assessed her friends. Jill’s bloody leg propped beneath a bag of ice. Mick beet red with eye black smeared down her cheeks. T.K. sagging into the bench. And Kate, their heart and soul, cast off, head buried in her hands. This wasn’t the send-off they deserved.
“This is it. Do it for yourself. Do it for each other.” Abby settled on Kate, gazing a million miles away. “And if you can’t do it for yourself or this team, then do it for Kate. How many times has she picked you up? How many times has she put us on her back? We wouldn’t be here without her.”
“For Hutch,” Jill said, raising a fist.
“For all of us.” Mick nodded, wincing to stand. T.K. helped her up from the bench. “Now or never, assholes.”
The team clapped, started a chorus of “Let’s go, right now, rally, rally, rally.”
“Let’s fucking do this,” Abby demanded in the huddle.
They stomped their feet, cried “Eagles!,” whooped, screeched, and spiraled into nonsense.
Southern Colorado glared as the gurney with their fallen teammate rolled away to apathetic clapping.
The Eagles didn’t care. The Eagles might be classless underdogs, might have already fucked themselves, but they would fight.
They shoved each other, slapped hands, hit helmets, stomped on the steps, yanked at the fence, and taunted the opposing pitcher.
A small riot. When Izzy Palamino, their first batter up, smacked a double, they roared.
Kate didn’t move. She stayed hunched over, supporting her head in her hands. A few players patted her shoulder, chatted her up, but she didn’t bounce back. Abby ambled over.
“Hey,” she whispered.
Kate’s misty blue eyes shifted, the clouds clearing when they landed on Abby.
She didn’t think Kate overdramatic. Anyone who cared about the game, who wanted it as much as Kate, would hate themselves for the error.
Not just an error, but a game-losing, season-ending, haunting fuckup.
The kind of error that was so horrendous, you weren’t mad, simply happy you weren’t the person to do it.
“Come on. We need you.” Abby squatted in front of her and rested a hand on her knee.
“I ruined everything.” She placed her trembling hand on top of Abby’s. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. There’s still time left.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can.” Abby helped her to stand. A year ago, Kate had helped her return to the field. Now it was Abby’s turn. “The team needs you. I need you.”
Another hit and a crescendo of cheers filled the ballpark, but Kate melted into her arms. Abby hugged her back.
“Cruz! You’re up!” Jill shouted.
Abby released Kate and put on her new helmet that didn’t quite fit, snagged the wrong bat, and forgot her batting gloves.
She didn’t bother with a practice swing.
She unloaded on the first pitch to knock in a run.
3–1. They were going to do it. They were going to win.
They were going to hang on to each other for one game longer.
The Eagles scrapped back 3–2. Madison Quong pitched her heart out. Chloe Ogden trembled but never missed a ball. When another grounder came to Kate, Abby held her breath. Kate charged it on a bounce, threw it to Chloe on the run for the out, and sighed in relief.
In a stroke of poetry that only offered itself on the wings of competition, Kate got her redemption. The entire field went still in the last inning as she approached the plate. Abby and so many others already knew what was coming. It’s like the entire stadium knew.
Jenna Crosby on third base. One out. Coach Ackers clapped and pointed through a flurry of signs, calling for the ultimate sacrifice.
A squeeze bunt. There was no one else more primed, more prepared, more destined for it.
It wasn’t the glory of the home runs that Abby muscled out of the park, but the finesse, the willingness to surrender that made it work.
The players clutched each other’s hands.
Abby, who never prayed, willed the softball gods to smile down on them.
The pitch came and Kate squared for the bunt, Crosby already at a dead sprint for the plate.
If Kate hit it wrong, it was over. It required a gentle touch. A focus through the cheering and heat.
Kate tapped the ball just right, slotting it between the pitcher and first baseman. They crashed on it, but the ball veered out of reach, enough for Crosby to slide beneath the rushed toss to the catcher. Her fingers brushed the plate as Kate sprinted to second base. 3–3.
Erica Hightower struck out. Two outs.
Mick limped up to bat next, the game-winner on the line.
She launched a shot to the fence, sending Kate on a sprint from second, arms pumping, legs propelling her to cut around third.
The throw came in to the catcher, but Kate had the jump.
They faced off as the ball flew in, and despite the tie, Abby knew it was over as Kate lowered her shoulder.
She plowed into the catcher and skimmed the plate.
Another lull over the field. Another pause that dragged on forever.
“Safe!” the umpire cried.
4–3.
The team rushed Kate, but Abby stayed behind.
Grinning, yet determined not to ruin it.
Plus, they still had to get through Southern Colorado’s final at bats.
She wouldn’t let herself feel it until Madison Quong struck out the last batter, until Mick collapsed in celebration and exhaustion, until Jill and T.K.
hobbled out of the dugout to join the victorious Eagles, and Kate launched herself into Abby’s arms.
She cried into her chest. “We did it.”
Abby squeezed her back and shut her eyes. “You did it.”
Kate pulled back, gazing at her through tears that Abby couldn’t discern as happy or sad, leftovers from their fight or a signal that all was forgiven. But at least they had this. This moment on the field when everything felt right again.
“Thank you,” Kate whispered.
Abby swallowed a pit of tears, reached for her, but the rest of the team piled around them in celebration.
She withdrew in the laughter, taking in Kate’s joy, one she broke from more than once to glance at Abby, as if making sure she was still there, in the precious breath before their final game, without the pressure of what came after.