Page 129 of Third Strike Smitten

“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.