Page 130 of Third Strike Smitten

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.