27. Killian #2
Bishop crouches back down, giving me a knowing look that says everything his mouth doesn’t need to.
I nod once, gripping the ball tighter. The weight of it in my palm feels different now, lighter, more purposeful.
Every pitch from this moment forward isn’t just for the team or the playoffs. It’s for her.
For Isla.
The batter steps back in, looking annoyed by the interruption. The distraction has thrown him off his game too.
Good.
I wind up and fire a fastball that catches the outside corner.
“Strike two!”
The crowd erupts, and I feel the energy shift. Something has changed in the air, in me. The doubt that’s been clouding my mind for days evaporates with each note of that ridiculous song still echoing through the stadium.
I throw a curveball next, breaking low and away. The batter swings and misses.
“Strike three!”
Two outs. One more and we’re out of this inning with a chance to take back the lead.
The next batter approaches the plate with caution, clearly rattled by the energy shift in the stadium.
Bishop calls for a slider, but I shake him off.
He signals again, and I shake him off once more.
This time, he gives me what I want, a fastball, high and inside.
I nod, gripping the ball with renewed purpose.
When I let it fly, to my surprise, the asshole connects with the ball and it flies toward right field.
Catch it Carter!
Fucking catch it!
Carter and Jude are both sprinting toward the ball and Carter raises his arm signaling he’s got the catch. In one easy stride, he jumps up, kicking off the back wall of the stadium and wraps his glove around the ball.
YES!
“Let’s fucking go!” I shout, waiting for him as he runs with the rest of the team to the dugout.
The stadium erupts as I jog off the mound, my heart pounding with adrenaline and something else.
Hope.
Real, tangible hope that maybe, just maybe, I haven’t lost everything after all.
The bottom of the eighth starts strong. Brock Adams steps up to the plate, his stance wide, his eyes focused.
The first pitch comes in high, but he doesn’t bite.
The second is low and away, but he reaches for it, connecting with a solid crack that sends the ball sailing into the gap between center and right field.
“Go, go, go!” Bishop shouts from the dugout as Brock sprints around first base, sliding into second just ahead of the throw.
The umpire signals safe, and the crowd goes wild.
I’m on my feet in the dugout, glancing over to where Isla stands near first base.
She’s cheering, her red hair catching the stadium lights, and I can’t look away.
“Let’s go, boys!” I shout, my voice raw with emotion.
Alaric steps up next, working the count full before sending a line drive into left field. Alaric slams first as Brock rounds third, sliding home just as the throw comes in.
Tie game. Five to five.
The stadium vibrates with energy as Bishop approaches the plate. He takes a deep breath and looks back at me. I nod once, and he returns it, that unspoken communication we’ve shared since we were kids playing catch in our backyard.
You’ve got this, Hop.
I’m right there with you.
First pitch—fouled off. Second pitch—called strike. Bishop steps out, adjusts his grip, and steps back in.
“Let’s go Hopper!”
I turn my head toward the voice and find Mack standing with Isla, Sutton, Tara, and my brothers. All of them cheering on Bishop. My heart swells at their unwavering support, my pride forming a knot in my throat.
We’re going to fucking win this.
The playoffs are within reach.
Come on Hop!
The third pitch comes in high and inside, and Bishop connects with everything he’s got. The ball sails high into left field, clearing the wall by a good ten feet.
“Home run!” The announcer’s voice booms through the stadium. “Haynes sends it deep!”
Bishop trots around the bases, his face breaking into the widest grin I think I’ve ever seen as the crowd roars around him.
He rounds third base, pointing at me as he approaches home plate, and I can’t help the laugh that bursts from my chest. Bishop slides into home just for the hell of it, his body skidding across the plate in a cloud of dust as his teammates swarm him.
The stadium is electric, the energy pulsing through every seat, every blade of grass. I’m on my feet in the dugout, cheering with the rest of the team, but my eyes keep drifting back to Isla. She’s standing with her arms in the air, that beautiful smile lighting up her entire face.
We’re up by two now, seven to five, and the game isn’t over yet. But something has shifted. The team is fired up, feeding off the crowd’s energy, feeding off the moment Bishop just created.
Feeding off Isla.
“Let’s go, boys!” I shout, my voice hoarse but steady. “One more inning!”
The top of the ninth begins, and Coach Daniels sends me back to the mound.
Adrenaline has my arm feeling fresh, my mind clear for the first time in days.
The stadium is still buzzing with residual energy from the Backstreet Boys sing-along, and I can hear snippets of the song still being hummed and sung throughout the crowd.
I take a deep breath, staring down the first batter when I hear,
“If you strike him out, Haynesy, you get dessert first!”
I shake my head hearing the mischief in her voice. The entire area erupts in laughter, and even the batter smirks, shaking his head.
“You heard her, Haynes!” someone shouts from the dugout. “Strike him out!”
Heat floods my face, but I can’t help the smile that spreads across my lips. Bishop gives me the signal for a fastball, and I nod, gripping the ball with renewed determination. I wind up and fire, painting the outside corner with precision that’s been missing all night.
“Strike one!”
The crowd roars, and I feel the energy surge through me. Isla’s here. She’s really here, cheering me on, teasing me in front of thousands of people. The weight that’s been crushing my chest for days lifts, replaced by something lighter, something hopeful.
I throw a curveball next, breaking low and inside. The batter swings and misses.
“Strike two!”
“Come on, baby!” Isla calls out, her voice carrying across the diamond. “One more!”
I wind up for the third pitch, a slider that drops off the table at the last second. The batter swings through empty air.
“Strike three!”
That’s right.
Fuck yes!
I glance at Isla, and she’s beaming, her hands pressed to her heart. The sight of her there, cheering for me is like a shot of pure adrenaline straight to my heart.
Two more batters to go. Two more outs and we’re in the playoffs. The next batter steps up, looking nervous. I can see it in the way he adjusts his grip, the slight tremor in his hands. Bishop signals for a fastball and I nod. I throw the ball high and the batter fouls.
“Strike one!”
The crowd is on its feet now, the energy in the stadium building to a crescendo. I can feel it pulsing through me, feeding my arm, my focus. Bishop calls for a slider, and I deliver, the ball breaking sharply away from the batter’s swing.
“Strike two!”
The stadium is electric, every single person on their feet, screaming, cheering, chanting my name. I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders. One more strike. One more out. That’s all I need.
This is it. This is the moment everything changes.
I can do this.
I wind up, my body moving with muscle memory, with purpose. The ball leaves my hand, spinning through the air, breaking sharply downward at the last second. The batter swings, his bat cutting through empty space where the ball used to be.
“Strike three!”
The stadium erupts in a deafening roar, but I try not to react. I can’t jinx the game now. I can’t get cocky. Two outs down, one more to go. The playoffs are all but ours and I’m not about to let the chance slip away.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.
Bishop gives me a subtle nod from behind his catcher’s mask, his expression laser-focused.
I nod, rolling my shoulders as the next batter approaches the plate.
This guy’s a power hitter, leads their team in home runs.
Bishop signals and I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle into my body.
Three pitches.
That’s all I need.
Three perfect pitches and this game is over.
I throw the next pitch and it’s a surprise strike one.
Holy shit, he missed it.
This asshole never misses.
His expression hardens as he steps out of the box, rolls his head and adjusts his stance. He swings his bat lightly over the plate, showing me right where he wants it.
Fat chance cock sucker.
Bishop signals a back-foot slider and I trust his call. I roll the ball in my hand and put myself in position and the moment I pitch the ball I know it’s a winner.
“Strike two!”
A hush falls over the crowd like they all think I need the silence to concentrate. I chuckle because what they don’t realize is the only voice running through my head right now is Isla’s.
“You’ve got a bad case of sticky balls, Haynesy!
“That curve’s got a kink.”
“Bring her back once she’s been a good girl.”
“Relax your shoulders.”
Her words helped me through this entire season so of course it’s her I hear as I’m about to make, hopefully, my last pitch of the season.
The batter steps into the box, his eyes locked on mine with a look that says he’s ready for whatever I throw. Bishop gives me the sign for a changeup, low and away. I nod, gripping the ball with sweaty fingers. This is it. The moment that decides everything.
“HEY HAYNESY,” I hear her voice one more time from the crowd. “I FUCKING LOVE YOU, DO YOU HEAR ME? I LOVE YOU!” Her words have me smiling under my cap and all I can do is lift the bill and pull it back down so she knows I heard her loud and clear.
I love you too, Isla Fallon.
“Hey, I love you too, Haynesy!” Some rando shouts.
A voice from the third base line shouts as well. “Me too, Haynesy! I love you!”