Outside the batter’s box, the college-recruit swings her bat like a storm gathering strength. Number Eleven is a double threat—fast and powerful. And, after three at-bats, facing her for a fourth time sets my fingers drumming on my thigh. 

“Come on,” I breathe as her gaze darts to my sweaty fingers. “Let’s play.”

She swings again, thumping her back with the bat. Cheers mixed with jeers spill onto the field. Dads enthusiastically ump from the side, feeding off each other as if the high school state championship is personally on the line for them. 

It’s not annoyance that keeps me from glancing over, but a stab of grief. If my dad were here, I know he’d be smack in the middle of them, so full of nervous energy he couldn’t sit, and memorizing each play. Instead, he’s missing and doesn’t even know we’re here.

Maddie appears, striding up on my right in that fearless way third basemen have. 

“We’ve got all day, River.” She pitches her voice to carry as she punches her glove. Her sly gaze slides from me to Eleven. “It’s not your fault you’re intimidating.” 

Eleven ignores her.

I should turn away, hold up two fingers for the outfield, smooth my braid, swipe the dirt with my hand—anything to stay loose. But I’ve done all of that already. Behind home plate, Jaiden frowns at Eleven, her catcher’s helmet dangling from her fingers. 

The umpire steps back. “Time.” He points to Eleven’s coach. 

I groan, ripping off my glove and smacking my leg. Eleven’s coach is calm as he pulls her close by the shoulder. Which is all… nice, but it isn’t how my dad taught me to play. And I didn’t practice my tail off over the last year for my looks. I need Eleven’s coach to march her to the batter’s box and shove her over the line so we can get this done.

A gritty country song blasts across the Oklahoma City stadium as my infielders join me in the pitching circle. Even here, where the Women’s College World Series is played, I duck my head to see their faces rather than the tops of their heads. The tallest barely reaches my chin, but at six-feet tall, I’m used to this view. 

Maddie leans close. “Eleven is officially a rain-delay human.” Her mischief is underlined by broken wings of eye-black across her cheeks. 

Shortstop Katelynn snorts.

Second baseman Meagan raises her hand. “Can I be one too?” 

“No.” Katelynn laughs, and Jaiden gives me a wry grin. But my attention wanders to Eleven nodding solemnly at her coach.

Jaiden turns to the first baseman. “Brooke, hurry and tag Eleven out, will ya? Let’s wrap this up and go eat.” 

“I’m in,” Maddie says and fist bumps Brooke, fire replacing her humor. “It’s sacrifice-your-body time. Make good throws. We're getting this out.”

Brooke smirks and nods to the stands. “That’ll show Coach O’Daniel what we think about him recruiting Eleven for her bat.”

Judging by the hush, that missed the mark. Maddie and Jaiden are college recruits, too. And earning a scholarship to keep playing? That’s all I’ve ever wanted, especially if it was a chance to play for someone like O’Daniel. It’s true that Eleven’s reputation for home runs paved the way for a great coach to believe in her. Still, she’s lucky. We all want to impress him.

One by one, they shift, peering at Eleven as the silence between us grows. I slide my glove on and tug the laces. College recruit. We can’t screw up. Eleven is too good. 

Jaiden re-tucks the back of her jersey. Meagan fixes her ponytail. No one makes eye contact. Our school has never brought home a state softball trophy. Although, the way they avoid my eyes is a sharp reminder of how close we were last year.

Katelynn clears her throat. “I don’t know where Coach is taking us for dinner.” She smirks. “But dessert is on me for whoever gets this out.”

Our attention shifts as fast as trout to a minnow.

“Are you serious?” Jaiden’s blue eyes narrow as she leans past my oversized shadow. 

“Yup.” Katelynn grins. “But who says I won’t be keeping it myself?” 

 Brooke snickers, and Meagan rolls her eyes, but Eleven nods. Maybe her coach is telling her to watch my curveball in case I leave it hanging like last year. Heat rises, prickling my cheeks. It’s okay, we’ll get them this year. 

That’s what my teammates say to my face. But they’re so agonizingly careful not to mention what happened that it seems to grow between us. 

I glance at Mom and Grandma in the stands. If only Dad were here. He’d know what to do about that hanging curveball. I scuff the dirt with my cleat. The thing that haunts my days and nights is not knowing where he is. If those holding him against his will knew how much I needed him... Well, let’s just say if he were here, everything would be different. But, as it is, not even my brothers have time for me.

Then Eleven’s coach taps her helmet, and Jaiden straightens. “Here we go.”   

“You've got this, Seven.” Maddie pins me with her gaze. 

“Let’s do it.” I force a wicked grin as the others bump gloves and leave the mound. 

Jaiden lingers, covering her mouth. “Keep it low, okay?” 

My grin disappears. “If she tries to bunt, I'll put it way out in the black. She’s super-fast.” 

“She won’t bunt with two outs,” Jaiden scoffs. “And she won’t surprise us. Work the count, Harte.” She holds my gaze as she slides her catcher’s helmet on and swaggers back to home plate, leaving me alone. 

“You’ve got this,” I tell myself. “You know what to do.” And I do, but…

I pick up the resin bag, bouncing it in my hand as my chest tightens. In a small, dark way, I wish there was someone else. Someone to finish this and not let my team down—again. Because, although there’s more to me than softball, it’s the shiny part. And people think they have the right to judge me by what my performance means to them, rather than to me. I fling the resin aside and swallow. 

Jaiden’s waiting, staring as if she can read my mind. And, best friend that she is, she deliberately uncurls her middle finger in the shade of her thigh. I choke back a grin as Eleven steps back in the box.

But after all that stalling, Eleven watches my change-up strike and swings at my rise ball. That fast, it’s a zero-two count—no balls and two strikes. I punch the air triumphantly—on the inside. She’s right where I want her. Let’s get this done… except… 

Her steely gaze meets mine and certainty settles like a plunging elevator. She hasn't struck out once today. She’s not worried… she’s ready.

And, as if testing me, Coach Rogers calls a curveball. 

My stomach tightens. I give Jaiden a slight shake of my head. Help me out here, Jaid. But she nods, as if it’s just a curve, and I can do it, no problem.

She’s wrong. As soon as it snaps, I know. Eleven drops her hands and swings. 

It’s an awkward arc, but the crack of her bat sends lightning skittering down my spine. The ball soars overhead, and I refuse to admire the power that hit took. Or the heat that sends it rocketing like a stupid home run. Again.

Eleven is almost to first base before her bat hits the ground. Brooke can only watch as she flies past. The ball nicks the top of the outfield fence and ricochets. Relief that it’s not a home run evaporates as Eleven cranks up her speed. 

Our right fielder and center fielder barrel toward each other, focused on the ball. Eleven rips through second.    

The center fielder scoops the ball and fires, but Eleven pounds third and heads home. It’s up to me to cut the throw and give us a last chance at an out. My body tenses as hours of practice take over—cut the throw, send it home, get the out. Cut the throw. Send it home… 

Without warning, Jaiden yells, “Four! Four!” 

I duck immediately, the ball crossing where I’d stood. But my breath catches. A long throw from center to home? If we miss, she has a sure in-the-park home run.

I turn as Eleven launches herself, hands-first, into a dive at home. Jaiden lunges for the ball, then swivels forward, glove slicing Eleven’s path like a sword and— 

They crash in a violent heap of color. 

I freeze, unable to look away. Even the breeze dies. A sheer cloud of dust drifts above their tangled limbs. Then Jaiden, smeared in dirt, her chest protector pushed off center, thrusts her glove high. At the sight of the ball, the ump ninja-punches the air. 

Eleven’s. Out. Game over.

In slow motion, my gaze shifts to Jaiden. There’s a roar that’s not all in my head as she surges to her feet beside a dazed Eleven and whips off her helmet, slinging it behind her with a grin. 

Fans spring from their seats. My teammates pour onto the field. Then Jaiden leaps on me at full speed, and I squeeze, chest protector and all, staggering under her weight. Someone yells, “We won! State Champs!” I'm not sure if it's her or me.

The tidal wave of girls swamps us, pulling us under, then pushing us up again. I lean on them, not sure if I can stand by myself. When we break apart, salty and wet, I'm ready for the pomp and circumstance of victory. I want it all. Since it has cost me so much to get here, I want it to be a freaking big deal. 

But the aftermath of winning is a blur—fast streaks of color and sound. No matter how much I try to hold on to the moments, they slip past, leaving a cocoon of happiness surrounding my heart that all the sweat and dirt and cold rivulets from the ice bag wrapped to my shoulder can’t dim. 

Finally, Mom appears and wraps me in a hug. Her ribs are solid under my arms. 

My smile falters. 

“He’d be proud, honey,” she whispers, warm against my ear as I lower my head to her shoulder. “When he comes back, you’ll tell him all about this.” 

I close my eyes at the familiar tightening around my chest. Here’s another thing I’ll add to the list to tell him, but it’ll be too late. Dad won’t see what he helped me accomplish. He won’t feel lung-jarring claps on the back. Or pose in pictures. He won’t taste victory or share triumph. 

My chin wobbles. Why did he have to go? Why didn’t we take him and run away while we could? Then we wouldn’t live in this agony of wishing he was back.

Grandma, being Grandma, taps my back. She isn’t having any of this watery-eyed stuff. She pulls me into a brisk hug, then pushes me to arm’s length to peer into my wet face. “You ready for the trip tonight? You’re not too tired for baseball tomorrow, are you?”

“Game seven?” I smile for her, wiping my cheek with my palm. “There’s no such thing as too tired for the World Series. Are you kidding?” 

Jaiden and Maddie thread through the crowd and head straight for us. I gesture to Grandma. “She asked if we’re ready to go.” 

“There’s more.” Grandma presses something into my hand. “Congratulations, girls.”

For a second, I stare at the tickets. Then I look into her smug eyes. “Behind the scenes tour of the stadium? How?” But Jaiden and Maddie bounce with excitement, and my jaw drops. “You knew?” 

“My dad’s letting me drive.” Jaiden’s practically vibrating. 

As I watch her, another terrible truth twists my heart. Jaiden and I have played our last game together after all of these years side-by-side, T-ball to varsity. Next August, she’ll leave for Oklahoma State, and I’ll stay at the junior college. We’ll never be the same. 

To keep from falling apart, I surge and catch Jaiden and Maddie in a desperate hug. They giggle as we nearly topple over, then tug me into a silly dance I can’t refuse. Grandma claps, laughing delightedly, and the sight brightens my heart. 

We’d have kept going, celebrating and simply living, except, out of nowhere, Coach Rogers appears. 

I stop mid-twirl at the sight of him, and my mind short-circuits, finally overwhelmed. I barely feel Maddie bounce off me with a grunt. Jaiden sputters to a stop, laughter dying in her throat as Coach gestures with an unusually formal air to the older man beside him. Parents and players pause to whisper on the landing. 

But I only have eyes for Coach O’Daniel. And he stares right back.