Chapter One
Dylan
Dylan Dennings wiped sweat from his forehead, listening to the chain link fence at the back of the ball field bang in a stiff westerly wind. Dust kicked up from the infield as he considered his opponent. He’d need to compensate for the wind, just a little. Calculate where he wanted the ball to go.
“Dude, for God’s sake, throw it already!” Tristan Murrell called, waving his bat in annoyance. “I want to wrap this up before I’m too old to kiss my girl!”
His girl. Alyssa was Tristan’s, no denying that. Dylan was happy for them, but it still stung to be riding the bench when it came to a girl he’d had a major crush on. On the other hand, he probably dodged a bullet. If he wanted to make it to the minors in twelve months, he couldn’t waste energy on anything else.
He had to stick to The Plan.
Dylan eyed Tristan. His hitting had improved a ton, thanks to his girlfriend’s coaching, and he’d become nearly impossible to strike out. Worse, since they’d been playing together for years, Tristan knew all of Dylan’s pitches.
Except one.
He’d been working on splitters with his coach, and he wanted to try it on someone. Tristan would do. Dylan wound up, letting the ball settle in his left hand, then with one fluid motion, flung the ball hard with the tiniest downward flick. Hopefully the ball would drop, just a bit, right as it crossed the plate.
And drop it did. Tristan swung with all his might, and why not? He thought he was seeing a nice, fat fastball. But Tristan’s bat whooshed over the ball, sending him stumbling off-balance. Awesome.
“When the hell did you learn to throw a splitter?” Tristan flashed him an astonished smile. “That’s big league crap.”
“I spent a few weeks with Coach Myers.” Dylan shrugged. “The more I can do, the better I look to scouts.”
“You’re the only guy I know who’d spend the first month of summer vacation, after winning the state championship, working out a new pitch.” Tristan shook his head. “You ever think you might be a little too intense for your own good? Seriously, you need some time off.”
No such thing as too intense, not when your future was on the line. “I’ll take time off once the Rangers or the ‘Stros take a good hard look at me for their farm system. I want to be triple-A by the time I’m twenty. If I can do that, I should be called up before I’m twenty-three.”
Tristan walked out to the mound, carrying his bat with him. “I get it, and making it as a pitcher is even harder, but you’re missing out on the fun stuff. Come to the lake with Alyssa and me tonight.”
Dylan’s heart sank, just a bit. Yeah, because being a third wheel is so great. Not. “Camp starts day after tomorrow.” He waved a hand at the Suttonville High baseball field. “I told Coach I’d make sure everything was set.”
Tristan sighed. “It is set. We’ve been working on this for days. It’s two weeks with a bunch of fourth and fifth graders…there’s not much else to do here. Come with us. Live a little.”
“I’d be a third wheel, and you know it.” Dylan gave his friend a tight smile. “Besides, my mom wants us to go out to dinner tonight ‘as a family’ so I can’t bail.”
“Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Tristan turned to go, but stopped. “I really wish you’d come with.”
“I’m fine, seriously. Go on.” Dylan waved him off. “I’ll see you at eight tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
“Yes, boss.”
Tristan disappeared through the locker room door, and Dylan let himself relax. Going out with Tristan and Alyssa wasn’t bad, but Alyssa always wanted to fix him up with someone, maybe as a consolation.
“With that blond hair and blue eyes, you look like a surf board commercial,” she would say. “There are two dozen girls who’d hit that. Let me introduce you. Please. There’s this one girl who was in Algebra II with me last year who—”
And Dylan would always tell her no. He’d felt so out of control during the playoffs, and he couldn’t afford that again. No distractions, no drama, no girls. Nothing but focus, avoiding blisters, and hard, hard work. That was what his senior year would have to look like: clean living and discipline.
He could have fun after he made the majors. Hell, by then girls would be falling into his lap at every turn. A star pitcher for the majors would have his pick.
Dylan finished tidying up the dugout, checked the foul lines for any smudged chalk, and made sure the water coolers were clean. By the time he was done, Coach had walked into the locker room, eyebrow raised. “Dennings, you should be long gone by now. Is there a problem?”
“No, sir. I’m just double checking everything and making sure it’s perfect. We want these kids to stick with the sport and win you another championship, right?”
Coach grunted, but Dylan could tell he was pleased. “I appreciate it. Now go home and get some rest. Three hours a day with those kids will wear you out quicker than sprint drills.”
“I hear you, sir. See you Monday.”
Dylan went to the parking lot, feet dragging. It’s not that he didn’t want to go home—home was fine. He just felt like there was more to do here. There was always more to do. Still, protecting his arm had to be a priority, and pulling his shoulder dragging equipment around would suck. So much was riding on this clinic, though. Being able to teach and coach would prove he had what it took. So what if his fastball was ninety miles per hour?
He needed confidence.
Most pitchers had a diva complex—he’d heard that from everyone, including Tristan—but did they have soul-crushing doubt before games? Probably not. He liked to win, and he didn’t like quitting, but it was so hard to power through sometimes. Teaching the little guys, showing them how to throw, seemed like a great way to prove to himself that he knew what he was doing and to stop freaking out over every minute detail.
Hopefully it worked.
And if it didn’t? If it didn’t…he couldn’t think about that. Not yet. He couldn’t think about his parents, knowing they secretly hoped he’d go on to college. He wouldn’t think about blowing it in front of scouts next season.
His breath hitched and his pulse sped up. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. Dylan started his car—a Porsche crossover handed down from his mom—and turned on the A/C. Calm down, asshole. You’re fine.
But the little voice in his head kept telling him he wasn’t good enough…and he had no idea how to shut it off.