Page 4 of Run Home

Our opponents’ catcher shoves the mask back down over his face with obvious annoyance. Can’t say I blame him, considering we’re up by seven runs in the bottom of the eighth inning.

Drew taps home plate with flair before I lift him off his feet in celebration—make that eight runs.

“Way to seal the deal, Sheffield,” I tell Drew as we jog to the dugout. “Odds are good we can wrap up this game early now. There’s no way they’re gonna make eight runs in one inning.”

“Not with the way Cabrera has been pitching tonight,” Drew says. “I wouldn’t want to be the one batting those fastballs.”

“You might be the only one who could.” I flatter him before grinning and adding, “Other than me, of course.”

Drew Sheffield is the Kansas City Crowns’ first baseman and statistically strongest hitter. I’ve been closing in on his batting average the past two seasons, though. It feels good to know that in my seventh season with the team, I’m coming into my prime. It feels great to know if we continue playing the way we have been, this could be our year to win it all.

Drew and I reach the dugout as Carson Hendricks, our new shortstop this season, is coming out to warm up in the on-deck circle. I mime a one-two punch to his gut and jaw before slapping him on the back. “Go get ’em, Hendricks.”

“Let me focus, Ortiz,” he snaps, slumping away from my hand.

I frown as I trade the batting helmet for my ball cap in the dugout. “Bro needs to loosen up,” I observe to Drew.

He shrugs and removes his batting gloves. “Hendricks is just young. Wants to prove he’s got what it takes and puts too much pressure on himself.”

“Best way to alleviate the pressure is to actually have fun playing this game,” I counter.

Drew grins. “If anyone can remind him how fun baseball is, it’s you.”

Puffing my chest with exaggerated pride, I brush off my shoulder. “We all have our strengths. Mine just happen to include both enjoying and excelling at baseball.”

My vision goes black when Drew knocks the visor of my ball cap over my eyes. He’s chuckling when he says, “We’d better pay attention to the game.” The stadium roars as Crowns fans jump to their feet cheering for a double hit by our catcher, Carlos Diaz.

Carson walks up to the batter’s box, twirling the bat in his hands. The tension in his shoulders is obvious even from where I stand in the dugout.

“Come on, kid. Loosen up. We’re up by eight runs—enjoy yourself,” I mumble, too low to be heard above the noise of the stadium.

The pitcher checks over his shoulder, where Diaz is taking his lead off second, then throws a gnarly changeup. Carson swings hard but misses the timing.

He steps back and adjusts his batting gloves before settling back in. The next pitch is wide, an obvious ball. Carson swings at the third pitch but misses for strike two. I can see his grip on the bat tighten as the pitcher winds up, but this time Carson is left watching as a third strike ends the inning.

I grab his glove from the dugout and jog toward him. Carson has already handed off the bat and helmet to the bat boy, and I toss his glove to him. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got this in the bag. Let’s go have fun for one more inning.”

“Whatever,” Carson mutters as he slides the glove onto his left hand.

Sighing, I turn my attention to the stadium, pumping my arms in the air to encourage the crowd to make some noise. I spot a little girl wearing my jersey and holding a sign that says “It’s My Birthday!” I pause to clap and point in her direction.

As I take my place at third base, I breathe in deep—the smell of grass and dirt, sweat and leather, hot dogs and cotton candy. I smack the worn leather of my glove with my fist, kicking the dust of the infield until a tiny red cloud puffs up at my toes.

I love this game.

Grinning, I lean in and focus on winning.

After a rowdy celebration in the locker room, a hot shower, and several autographs on the way to my car, I finally sit down in the silence and pull out my phone.

I have several missed text messages—one from my dad, congratulating us on our win. There’s a similar text from Griffin, who I still miss every single time I step out onto that field.

My chest goes rigid when I see I have a message from Griffin’s younger sister. Sam and I have been close friends for six years, and for the first five, we were just that—friends.

But now . . .

I blow out a breath before tapping to open the text.

SAM