Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
And now I needed to get my sore ass up and out the door to practice because today was all about trying to figure out how to beat the Rockets and move forward in the tournament. If we won this bracket, we’d progress to the next level, then the next, until we were either eliminated or won it all. That was how the following weeks would play out until the tournament was whittled down to the final two teams playing a best-of-three series to crown a champion.
If we won this round, we’d get a few days’ break, and many of us would return with our families in tow to cheer us on. This tournament was the biggest and most popular, as evidenced by the crowd as well as the fact that it was being televised live on the big sports stations, which was nerve-racking in itself.
Dad had also signed the team up for a couple of smaller summer events, not only to keep their skills sharp, but to try to bring home some shiny plaques for the college halls. We lived and breathed baseball, and imagining continuing this way with Brady for the foreseeable future was eating me up inside. It felt all wrong to hide him and my feelings when they felt so pure and true.
Noting the strain on his face was doing me in as well. But I had been the one to set the parameters—I was the holdout. This team was my dad’s, and if it wasn’t for that, things might’ve looked different by now. Not that the guys would necessarily accept a gay teammate with open arms, but Brady had support from the people he needed it from most.
My morning was spent with the assistant coach, studying stats and reading up on the opposing team. The Pirates rallied at their practice, and after Donovan pumped them up even more with a speech about the team having gotten further than ever before, the players seemed to relax into their roles. He was so good at making everyone feel comfortable and important.
He must’ve seen the pride in my eyes because when he looked at me, his cheeks flushed. Either at that, or at the idea that we’d spent the night wrapped up in each other.
In the afternoon, the team watched the other bracket games as a group, then went out to eat. They got livelier as the day went on, more hopeful, and by the time we all retired to bed, they were more cheerful in general.
Wish I could sleep next to you. Guess Kacey will have to keep me company.
I sighed as I slipped beneath my covers, the longing for Donovan reaching epic levels. But there was no way we could keep chancing it, and absolutely not the night before a big game that could knock us out of the tournament altogether.
Make sure he snuggles you good. Good luck tomorrow.
And then I made myself turn off the lights so I could get a good night’s sleep along with the rest of the team.
By the time we got to the field the following morning, the team was brimming with nervous energy. They also seemed to get some of their mojo back as they joked with one another. Only Maclain and Girard still seemed a bit off, and though Maclain hadn’t pitched terrible yesterday, the other teams still dominated. And today might be no different, though our clubs were fairly evenly matched in batting and fielding stats. The best we could hope for were some great RBIs as well as the infield not letting many balls get past them.
By the sixth inning we were losing by three runs, and hope was dwindling by the minute. Dad was thinking of putting in Lopez despite trailing the other team because Maclain had started off pretty rough. At first, he’d arrogantly begged off some of Girard’s signals before they got in a groove and were beginning to look more like themselves again—whatever the hell that meant where those two were concerned.
I was standing inside the dugout, watching the Rockets’ batters warm up, when I noticed something different with the lineup. I immediately approached my dad and motioned toward the other side. “They’ve got a switch hitter,” I pointed out, trying not to call too much attention to myself.
“What do you mean?” He was distracted, his focus on his clipboard.
“Harding usually bats right-handed, but right now he’s practicing a left-handed swing.”
“Maybe he’s just stretching extra muscles or something,” he suggested flippantly.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” I replied in a more insistent tone, causing my dad to finally look up from his chart. “He wasn’t doing that earlier in the game.”
“So what’s your take?” he asked, motioning for Coach Adams to join us, so we could catch him up to speed.
If I was wrong, I’d take it on the nose, but I didn’t think I was. I was pretty good with my hunches—most of the time, anyway. I took a deep breath, trying to muster some courage. “I think he might bat left-handed to trip Maclain up and seal their win.”