Chapter Forty-Four
Taylor
I’m sitting in the locker room, trying to pull my focus together before the game, when Coach walks in with that look—the one that says he’s about to get motivational. I take a deep breath, running my thumb over the stitches of my lucky baseball, the one Chase gave me when I was six.
Everything’s come down to this—one game. We won the first against Carolina, so if we win this one, we sweep them and win the College World Series. My stomach knots, not from the game—that feeling’s as familiar as my own heartbeat—but from catching Todd’s eye when we walked into the stadium earlier.
“Listen up,” Coach Scott says, his voice cutting through the pregame chatter. He’s never been one for long speeches—prefers instead the kind of tough love that makes you want to run through walls for him. “You’ve all worked your asses off to get here. Not just this season, but your entire lives.”
He scans the room, making eye contact with each of us, and when his gaze lands on me I straighten instinctively.
“The only thing standing between you and that trophy is nine innings of the same baseball you’ve been playing all year.
Nothing more, nothing less.” He clasps his hands together.
“They’re going to try to get in your heads.
Don’t let them. They’re going to try to rattle you.
Don’t let them. Play your game—our game—and bring that trophy home. ”
Beside me, Adam bounces his knee. I reach over and squeeze his shoulder, steadying him—because that’s what captains do.
“Coleman.” Coach nods at me. “Anything to add?”
I stand, looking around at my teammates—at all the faces I’ve spent four years sweating with, crying with, winning with.
“We’ve got this,” I say simply. “We’ve beaten tougher teams. We’ve come back from worse spots. Nothing they throw at us today is something we haven’t handled before.” I pause, finding my rhythm. “Play like we know how, and we walk out of here champions.”
The team nods, a few claps and whoops punctuating the moment. Coach gives me an approving smile, and we break into our pregame routines.
I toss Adam a ball. “How’s the arm feeling today?”
“Like I could throw a no-hitter,” he replies, catching it easily.
I punch his shoulder lightly. “Good. Because that’s exactly what we need from you.”
We head out to the bullpen, falling into the familiar rhythm we’ve perfected over this season. I squat, set up my glove, and Adam fires pitch after pitch into it. Fastball. Slider. Curve. Changeup. We work through his arsenal methodically, each throw a little sharper than the last.
“Inside corner’s looking good today,” I say after he paints it perfectly three times in a row.
He nods, smirking. “Been working on it.”
I know he has. I’ve been there for every session, catching until my hand bruises through the mitt. There’s something comforting about this ritual—the snap of leather, the focus on mechanics, the wordless communication between pitcher and catcher.
I scan the stands as we head back toward the dugout. The crowd is a sea of scarlet and gray, and I feel a swell of pride that almost drowns out my nerves.
Almost.
Then I spot them—Chase and Todd, tall and easy to pick out, with Emma beside them. My chest aches, and I rub it in an attempt to soothe it.
Chase sees me looking and waves. Emma holds up a homemade sign with my number on it. Todd just nods, his face serious, eyes locked on mine even from this distance. I lift my hand in a small wave before turning away.
Things have been weird between us lately.
Not bad—we’re still friends, still sleeping together, still practicing, but there’s a clock ticking down on whatever this is, and we both know it.
In two weeks, I’ll be in Arlington starting my job with the Rangers, and he’ll be heading off to wherever the NBA draft sends him.
Neither of us has brought up what happens then, like we’ve made some unspoken pact to ignore the expiration date on our relationship.
If you can even call it a relationship. I’m still not sure what we are.
Friends with benefits feels too casual for the way his eyes follow me across a room, but boyfriend and girlfriend feels too formal for something we’ve never actually defined.
We exist in this strange in-between space—more than friends, less than a commitment.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. This isn’t the time to untangle the mess that is Todd and me. This is about baseball, about finishing what we started, and proving that every sacrifice was worth it.
Coach calls us over for final instructions, so I adjust my chest protector and take a deep breath. Despite whatever’s happening with Todd, whatever uncertainty waits for me in Arlington, I know exactly who I am behind the plate. Here, at least, everything makes sense.
“Stay on Schneider,” Coach says, referring to Carolina’s power hitter. “He’s been crushing outside pitches all series.”
I nod. “We’ll keep it inside on him—make him uncomfortable.”
“Good. And Coleman?” He pauses, his expression softening just slightly. “Lead them out there today—this is your team.”
Adam bumps my shoulder as we line up to take the field. “Let’s give ‘em hell.”
I grin, bumping him back. “That’s the plan.”
From the first pitch, it’s obvious this game’s going to be a pitcher’s duel.
Adam’s fastball is hitting ninety-two on the gun, his slider breaking sharp enough to make Carolina’s leadoff batter look like he’s swinging underwater.
Their pitcher is matching him inning for inning, his fastball painting the strike zone just above our bats.
By the fourth inning, neither team has managed more than a single hit, and the crowd has settled into that tense, collective breath-holding that comes with a scoreless game where every pitch might be the difference.
“Stay patient,” Coach Scott says in the dugout, his eyes tracking the Carolina pitcher’s warm-up throws. “He’ll make a mistake eventually.”
But six innings later, we’re still waiting for that mistake.
Still, I’ve never caught a more perfect game from Adam.
Every pitch has purpose, every location is exactly where we need it.
My fingers are throbbing inside my mitt, but it’s the good kind of pain—the kind that means we’re doing something right.
The scoreboard mocks us with its twin zeros as we enter the ninth.
Top of the inning—three outs to get through before we can try to break the deadlock.
Adam rolls his shoulder, a small tell I’ve learned to recognize when his arm is starting to fatigue.
Not obvious enough for anyone else to spot, but I know every twitch of his body on the mound after so many years of catching for him.
Carolina’s leadoff batter, Martinez, digs in. Adam’s first pitch is a fastball that doesn’t quite have the zip of his earlier ones. Martinez’s bat cracks sharply, sending a line drive up the middle that drops just beyond our shortstop’s reach. Clean hit.
My gut clenches. We’ve been here before, but never with stakes this high. Never with the championship on the line.
Coach Scott signals time, and I jog to the mound. Adam’s breathing is controlled but shallow, sweat trickling down his temples despite the moderate temperature.
“How’s the arm?” I ask, keeping my voice low as Coach joins us.
“Good enough,” he says, but his jaw is clenched tight, eyes narrowed with the kind of focus that’s hovering right on the edge of overtrying.
“Your slider’s still breaking sharp. Let’s keep everything inside on their next batter. Make him uncomfortable.” I glance at the runner taking his lead from first. “And keep an eye on Martinez. He likes to run when they’re desperate.”
Coach Scott nods, resting a hand briefly on Adam’s shoulder. “You’ve got this, Lowe. Just like you’ve practiced.”
The umpire starts walking toward us, signaling the end of our huddle.
“This is where all that extra work pays off.” I slap his shoulder before heading back behind the plate. Everyone’s eyes are on us—thousands of them, including my family—but they’re just background noise now. Nothing exists except this inning, this batter, this pitch.
Carolina’s two-hole hitter steps in, a power lefty who’s been making solid contact all day even though Adam’s kept him off the bases. I flash the sign—breaking ball, inside—and Adam nods almost imperceptibly.
The pitch comes in hot, right where we want it. Strike one.
I call for the slider next, another inside corner. Adam executes perfectly, and the batter swings through it, off-balance.
“That’s it.” This is the sequence we’ve been grinding to perfect all season—the one we worked on during those late nights at the practice field, the one that gave me the bruise on my hip when he was first learning it.
For the final pitch, I signal another slider, even further inside. The batter tenses, ready for it. Adam winds up, delivers, and the ball breaks late, kissing the inside corner as the batter checks his swing.
“Strike three!” the umpire calls, and I allow myself a small fist pump before tossing the ball back.
One down.
The next batter steps in, and I can see the desperation in his eyes. He swings at Adam’s first pitch, a fastball high in the zone, and sends a ground ball toward short. Our shortstop fields it cleanly, flips to second for one out, and the relay to first beats the runner by half a step.
Double play. Inning over.
The crowd erupts as we jog back to the dugout. Still scoreless, but now we’ve got our chance. Bottom of the ninth. Top of our lineup.
Evan steps to the plate. He works the count full but ultimately hits a slow chopper to short and is thrown out by a step. Simon doesn’t do much better, striking out after five pitches.
Eric, our second baseman, battles through an eight-pitch at-bat, fouling off two with two strikes before finally drawing a walk. The crowd cheers as I grab my bat and helmet. Coach Scott gives my shoulder a quick squeeze as I head toward the plate.
“Just get on base,” he says. “Move the runner.”
I nod, but my mind is already racing ahead, running through the pitcher’s tendencies, the holes in their defense, the possibilities that stretch out before me in this moment.
As I step into the box, I see Carolina’s coach calling time.
Their infield gathers around the mound, heads huddled together, but I don’t need to hear their conversation to know what they’re debating.
I’m hitting .402 on the season with runners in scoring position.
Eric isn’t particularly fast, but he’s smart on the basepaths.
They’re weighing their options—pitch to me and risk the hit, or walk me and hope for a double play.
The infield breaks, and their catcher gives me a look that tells me everything I need to know. The pitcher nods, and I grit my teeth as I settle into my stance. They’re going to intentionally walk me and not even give me a chance to swing.
The first pitch sails wide—well off the plate. The crowd boos as I stand motionless. Second pitch—same story, even wider. Third pitch comes in, closer but still well outside.
My fingers tighten around the bat. One more pitch and they’ll have me on first, and the next batter will have all the pressure. Something sparks inside me—frustration, maybe, or just pure competitive fire. Their pitcher looks almost bored as he prepares to throw the fourth ball.
But his release is a little off. The ball is still outside, but not as far as the others. Not wide enough.
My eyes lock on it. Everything else disappears—the crowd, the pressure, the championship hanging in the balance. It’s just me and the ball, a connection so pure and instinctive it feels like the bat is moving before I even decide to swing.
CRACK.
The sound echoes across the field—clean, solid, unmistakable. The ball jumps off my bat with a trajectory I know immediately. The entire stadium goes silent for a half-second, like it’s holding its breath. Then the ball sails over the right field fence.
Gone.
I hesitate for a beat, stunned that I actually did it—hit a home run off an intentional walk. Then my legs kick in, and I round the bases, teammates already spilling out of the dugout. The scoreboard flashes: Mustangs 2, Blue Jays 0.
“She can’t do that!” Carolina’s coach yells, storming toward the home plate umpire. “That was an intentional walk!”
I’m barely off the plate when I spin to face them. “There’s no rule that says I can’t swing if I want.”
The ump shrugs. “I’ll admit it’s rare—but not against the rules. Mustangs win, 2–0.”
The announcer repeats it over the loudspeaker, and the celebration explodes all over again. Before I can even catch my breath, I’m surrounded by my teammates. They hoist me onto their shoulders, ignoring my squeals of protest.
I laugh, kicking at the air. “Put me down!”
They don’t. Not until the trophy is presented and the announcer calls my name: “Championship MVP—Taylor Coleman!”
Through the crowd, I catch glimpses of familiar faces—Chase pumping his fist in the air, Emma jumping up and down screaming, and Todd standing slightly apart, a mix of pride and something else I can’t quite name on his face.
And for the first time all season, I let myself believe: we really did it. We won.
As my teammates surround me again, I find Adam in the crowd. He pulls me into a crushing hug, lifting me off my feet.
“That inside slider worked pretty well, huh?” I say into his ear.
He laughs, setting me down. “I owe it all to you.”
The celebration swirls around us—confetti, cameras, shouting reporters—but for a moment, it’s just us and the game we love, the one we’ve given everything to for as long as we can remember.
Whatever comes next—Arlington, the Rangers, adulthood with all its complications—I know I’ll always have this moment, this perfect ending to a chapter I didn’t want to close.