Page 127 of Third Strike Smitten

The crowd erupts, and for the first time tonight, I feel something other than the crushing weight of Isla’s absence. I find my rhythm, painting the corners of the strike zone with precision that’s been missing all game. Three pitches later, the batter swings through a slider that drops off the table, and I’ve got my first strikeout of the night.

“Atta boy, Kill!” Bishop shouts as he throws the ball back to me.

I nod, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline that comes with a good pitch. Maybe Bishop’s right. Maybe I can salvage this game. Maybe I can salvage this season.

Maybe Isla will still be waiting when it’s all over.

I work through the next batter with renewed focus, mixing my pitches effectively. A fastball inside, a curveball that hangs just long enough to entice a swing, and a changeup that disappears at the last second. Three pitches, three strikes. The batter walks back to the dugout shaking his head, and for the first time tonight, I feel like myself again.

“That’s my brother!” Bishop calls out, his voice carrying across the diamond.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension ease from my neck. Two outs. Just one more and I’m out of this inning with minimal damage.

The next batter steps into the box, a lefty with a tendency to chase high fastballs. Bishop sets up outside, but something tells me to go inside. I shake him off once, then again, until he finally gives me the target I want. I wind up and fire, painting the inside corner with a fastball that catches the batter looking.

“Strike one!”

The crowd roars, and I feel the energy shift. This is what I’ve been missing, that connection with the game, with my team, and with myself. Not thinking about Isla, not worrying about what she’s doing or where she is. Just pitching.

I throw another fastball, this time high and tight, and the batter swings through it. Two strikes. One pitch away from ending this inning.

“Strike three!” the umpire bellows, and I pump my fist as the batter tosses his bat in frustration.

I jog off the mound, my cleats crunching on the dirt, feeling a flicker of the old confidence returning. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can pitch my way through this game without completely falling apart.

The dugout greets me with backslaps and fist bumps. Carter shoves a water bottle into my hand, and I take a long swig, letting the cool liquid wash away some of the bitterness that’s been coating my throat.

“Nice recovery,” he mutters, keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Keep it up.”

I nod, settling onto the bench and draping a towel around my neck. The game continues around me, but my mind drifts back to Isla. To the way she used to sit in the stands, her red hair standing out among the crowd, her smile bright enough to light up the entire field. I’d always find her between pitches, a quick glance that centered me, reminded me of what I was playing for.

I lift my gaze to look for her where she usually sits but there’s an empty space next to Shepherd where she should be.

She didn’t come.

I was right.

She doesn’t care.

She’s gone for good.

We get through the seventh inning stretch and into the top of the eighth where I slip up and allow one double and one single hit.

Daniels tells me I can be done if I want to. That there’s no shame in getting pulled in the eighth, but I’ve gotten this far, and I want to win this thing with my team.

“Alright, Haynes. But another big mistake and I’m pulling you. We’re too close to let our pride get in the way tonight.”

“I hear you, Coach.”

Coach.

I close my eyes for just a second, long enough to see her. Not the version of her that left. The version that used to watch me from the stands with her chin in her hand, completely unbothered by the noise around her, like she was watching something only she could see. The version that called me an idiot when I deserved it and laughed at my terrible jokes when I didn’t deserve that either. The version that smiled every single time I called her Coach.

“Help me finish this,” I breathe. “Please.”

I strike out the next batter but then there’s a double hit that gets one of the opposing players sliding into home and now they lead, five-four.

“Come on, Haynes,” I hear Adams call out behind me. “Stay on it.”