Page 2 of The Fall Classic

HE CATCHES IT!

One out.

I swallow my gum—never chewing this junk again. My legs feel like wet spaghetti, and sensation is spreading through me as the blood rushes back into my limbs.

I look at Fletch in the dugout. He’s got his arms crossed and his jaw set and his eyes on me with an expression I wish I could read.

Does my manager actually trust me to figure this out?

Or is he more worried about keeping another pitcher healthy than he’s worried about me?

I give him a nod I don’t entirely feel.

Figure it out, genius! Focus on … not focusing!

The next batter steps in. My catcher, Rojas, drops into his crouch and puts down two fingers.

He wants my knuckle curve, which isn’t a knuckleball at all but more of a standard curveball with a weird grip that gives it greater movement but makes it easier to control. My knuckle curve is deadly.

But I shake Rojas off.

He puts down two fingers again, slower, like maybe I misread him.

I shake him off again.

One finger. The fastball. Does he actually think I want to throw my fastball right now? Of course I don’t want to throw my fastball. I want to throw my stupid knuckleball and have it work. Who cares that knuckleballs are hardly the pitch of closers?

I shake him off, again.

Rojas goes still. Then four fingers—the waggle, our sign for the real thing—and he settles into his crouch with the body language of a man who is resigned to his fate.

I breathe in. Hold. Out. Hold. And I will not palm the knuckleball at the last second for the love of all that is holy.

The fan noise roars, but not enough to drown out my pulse fluttering in my ears.

What’s that vergence thing Dr. Chang had me try last week? Focus on something close for a few seconds—I bring my glove up, stare at the lacing, count to three—then let my eyes drift out to something far away. Something neutral. Something that isn’t the batter or the ump or the runners I’m trying to forget are on base.

I look off in the distance, into the stands. The third row past the ump. Let everything turn fuzzy into a warm, honeyed glow⁠—

My vision snaps back, and every thought leaves my brain.

Every thought but one.

Because in the stands, third row behind the ump, I spot a curtain of waist-length honey-blonde hair.

The sound in the stadium turns off completely.

The heat, too.

No humidity so thick I could drink it.

No reporters, no fears about what the Firebirds’ GM will think.

I barely even feel my own hands.

My entire nervous system has shut down.

Because it’s her.