PAIGE COULDN’T STOP smiling at the sight of Trevor Stark in his baseball uniform stepping out of that elevator. His eyes were wild, as if he’d walked through a fire to get to them.
He rushed toward them, reaching the couch in a few short strides. Crouching between them, he hugged them both to his chest. “Are you okay? Any injuries?”
“Just another day at the gym,” Paige told him. “If by gym you mean lifting heavy furniture over and over again.” In fact, her body was throbbing from the exertion of manhandling that stupid couch. “That man went down the back stairway. I don’t know his name but he was definitely connected to the Wachowskis.”
Crush strode to the rear door and peered down the stairway. “I see footsteps in the dust. Christ, I’d forgotten all this was up here. Gotta send a note to the cleaning crew.”
An efficient looking man in a business suit squatted down next to Nina and took out a knife. He sliced through the zip tie as if it was butter.
“Who are we looking for?”
Paige gave him a description of the kidnapper, but she had a feeling it was a waste of time. “I think someone was going to pick him up.”
“We’ll take you to a sketch artist,” the agent said. “We’ll find a dummy key for these cuffs too. I’m going to need detailed statements from both of you.”
“Of course.” Paige leaned to give Nina enough slack so she could scratch her ankle. Trevor had his arms around his sister and one warm, reassuring hand firmly placed on Paige’s back. She hoped he never took it off.
“How long have you been cuffed together like this?” Trevor gently slid a finger under the steel circlet around Paige’s wrist.
“Paige did that,” Nina said proudly. “He was going to cuff her to the stair railing so she couldn’t make trouble, but she didn’t want to leave me alone with him. She got herself cuffed to me instead.”
Crush paused in the midst of striding back to their group. “You’re telling me Paige crashed your kidnapping?”
Nina giggled. “I guess so. It was a lot less scary that way. Sometimes it was even fun, like when we started trying to move the couch and kept falling over each other . . .” Paige didn’t hear the rest because Trevor fixed his crystal green eyes on her with a look so intense it nearly set the room on fire.
“You put yourself in danger for my sister.”
“Well . . .” She hadn’t really thought of it that way. “I didn’t want her to be alone. And he was going to stick me in the foyer where no one would ever hear me. I figured we’d have a better chance together.”
Turbulent expressions chased themselves across his face. Gratitude, fury, amazement . . . love. Had he ever looked icy? Impossible. “I love you,” he said in the softest voice imaginable, as if he felt too much emotion to speak more loudly. “You are the most incredible person I’ve ever known.”
“Hey,” interrupted Crush. “Family members present.”
But Paige and Trevor were already deep in the kind of soul-searing kiss no external words could penetrate. As she closed her eyes and let a sweet, strong river of happiness lift her up and away, she forgot they had an audience that included her father, Trevor’s sister, and an FBI agent. None of that mattered. This kiss was a public claiming, an announcement to the world, loud and clear. Paige and Trevor, Trevor and Paige. Just let someone try to pry them apart. It would take much more than a handcuff key to accomplish that.
The Wachowskis and the Wades turned on each other right away. The nervous man who had so briefly kidnapped Paige and Nina was pulled over by the Texas State Troopers just outside Kilby city limits. Special Agent Manning got plenty of opportunity to question him. Manning learned that Dean Wade had contacted the Wachowskis and offered a deal. He told the syndicate where to find Trevor Leonov. In exchange, they sent a bottom-rung operative to Kilby with instructions to use Nina as leverage against Trevor. When the entire team walked off the field, the Wachowskis pulled the plug.
Both the Wades and the Wachowskis offered to testify against each other, but the Wachowskis were a much bigger catch, so the Wades got the deal. Crush was disappointed, but not Trevor. He looked forward to telling the FBI every single thing the Wachowskis had done to him and his family.
But amazingly, it turned out that he and Nina were already safe from the Wachowskis. Nina’s confession had changed everything. Once Dinar Wachowski discovered that the person who had injured him was also the kind girl who’d been sending him gifts and cards and drawings over the years, he put his foot down. No more retaliation against either of them. Not Trevor, not Nina, not anyone. It was over. Once and for all.
Trevor was free. Free to love Paige, free to play ball.
Since the Catfish had forfeited Game Four, the series was now tied. Whichever team won the next game would earn the right to compete in the Triple A National Championship. With all the off-field drama, the game garnered national attention. How often was a team owner’s daughter kidnapped and a stadium put under lockdown? How often did an entire team spontaneously walk off the field and forfeit a game? A thousand baseball analysts couldn’t find any previous instances of such shenanigans.
Paige made Trevor tell her the story over and over again. How he’d watched their empty seats. Abandoned his at-bat. How Dwight and the other Catfish had followed right behind once they knew what was up.
“It was because of you,” he told her. “You’ve helped just about every one of those guys and they care about you. That’s fine, as long as they know that you belong to me.”
“I think they know,” said Paige wryly. “You’ve barely even let go of my hand since it happened.”
“Not until I have to.” He lifted their clasped hands to his lips. “For, like, baseball stuff.”
Crush, of course, ate up the publicity. Even though the Wades were going to escape charges by testifying against the Wachowskis, there was no way they’d be permitted to buy the team. But Crush wasn’t taking any chances. He still wanted to keep his vow and win the championship.
“If you win, it will be thanks to Trevor,” Paige told Crush, cornering him on the field before an interview with ESPN. She’d insisted on dragging Trevor along for this confrontation. In every corner of the field, players were stretching, working out, tossing the ball around. The buzz of the upcoming game generated a low simmer of excitement. “He’s done so much already. How about helping him out now?”
“I’m already paying his damn salary,” Crush grumbled. “What else does he want from me?”
Trevor stiffened. “I don’t need your charity, Crush. I can make my way just fine.”
Paige gave him a “shush” sign. “Dad, you said if Trevor played well, the Friars might call him up. He’s played more than well.”
“Yes, well, they probably will, then.” The camera operator approached with a body mic, which he attached to Crush’s Catfish shirt.
“Make them,” Paige insisted. “They’ll listen to you.”
“There’s only one person who can make them pay attention.” Crush jerked his head toward Trevor. “Him. And the Friars are burnt out on Trevor Stark. He’s got to do something spectacular. Something they can’t ignore.”
“Like what?”
“He’s a slugger. He’ll figure it out.” At a gesture from the cameraman, he tapped the mic with a murmured “Testing, testing.” Paige bit her lip, frustration rolling off her in waves. “Tell you what,” Crush said when the audio check was done. “Trevor, if you accept my challenge, I promise to do my part with the Friars.”
Challenge? Trevor wasn’t sure exactly what he was talking about, but he wasn’t going to back down from a challenge. He tilted his head in agreement. “I’m in, whatever it is. And whatever it is, you’re going to lose.”
“I might. I just might. But—are you sure it’ll be a loss?” With a cryptic wink, Crush turned to the waiting camera crew. As they began their countdown, Paige tugged Trevor out of camera range.
“What challenge?” she asked, looking perplexed. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”
“Nope.” He guided her away from the crew. “But I intend to win it.”
“Game Five. Give me something spectacular,” Crush called after them.
Game Five took place on a muggy, leaden evening under a sky filled with sullen clouds. The flags hung limp on the flagpoles, moisture heavy in the air. Low scoring weather, the commentators agreed. Look for ground balls, as the batters will try to tire out the fielders. And don’t expect home runs. With that amount of humidity, the balls just wouldn’t get enough lift.
Trevor had never felt so ready for a game. It all came down to this moment. For the first time in his adult life he was able to fully focus on a game without a whisper of worry about the Wachowskis.
Paige was right where she ought to be, in that seat in the owner’s box, her brilliant smile scattering sunshine wherever she looked. Crush sat next to her. He realized, as the stirring tones of the National Anthem rolled through the stadium, that he actually wanted to win for Crush. He cared about the man. The revelation that Crush was largely responsible for his baseball career had really thrown him for a loop. All this time he’d thought the owner despised him. But really, Crush just wanted him to be the best he could be.
Which was exactly what Trevor wanted.
The need to prove himself, to show everyone some spectacular play, consumed him. At batting practice, the power flowing through his body had actually unnerved him. He’d held back, focusing on control and precision. During his pregame visualization routine, his usual crystal clear imagery had taken on a different appearance. Intense, rimmed with fire, as if formed from flame instead of ice.
As he walked onto the field for his first at-bat, it seemed surprising that the grass under his feet didn’t burst into flames. He nodded to the umpire and the catcher, whose eyes widened at Trevor’s intensity. Settling into his stance, he used the dirt of the batter’s box to ground himself. Plant his feet. Become aware of his thighs, his body, his connection with the ground. Focus.
Too much adrenaline. To work some of it off, he purposely overswung on the first pitch, a fastball. The pitcher’s shoulders relaxed as he received the ball back from the catcher. Good, let him get overconfident. Trevor made a show of getting down on himself, stepping out of the batter’s box, muttering to himself. He didn’t look over at Paige, but he felt her presence filling him with light and warmth. Something spectacular. He needed something spectacular.
When he stepped back into the box, one word described how he felt. Invincible. The next pitch came to him like a message from destiny, a fat, juicy ball drawn inevitably to the middle of plate, where it met a perfect lethal blur of a swing. He crushed that pitch. Obliterated it. Every head whipped around to watch the ball fly. An awed roar lifted him and sent him cruising around the bases. Kids scrambled all the way to the top seat of the bleachers to find the ball. Had anyone ever seen a home run hit that far in Catfish Stadium? He doubted it.
In the dugout, the electrified Catfish surged to their feet, exchanging high fives.
As he rounded third, Trevor stole a glance at Paige. One look into her eyes and he got fired up all over again.
Sure, an extra-long home run was spectacular, but he was just getting started.
In his next at-bat, he hit another home run. Another in his third. Three home runs in four innings. In his fourth at-bat, with a man on second, the Storm Chasers walked him. Despite the pregame predictions, it was a high-scoring game, with several pitchers brought in on both sides. The Omaha team beat up on poor Dan Farrio, who gave up seven runs in one inning. But Trevor kept the Catfish in the game. By the sixth inning he was personally responsible for five runs batted in. And he felt stronger than ever.
In his fifth at-bat, he reached for a curveball that dipped low and outside and muscled it into a long drive that slipped over the right field fence, just over the wildly gyrating Storm Chaser trying to stop it. Home run number four. Number five should have been a foul, but even the winds were blowing in his favor today. At the last second the ball wafted two inches to the right of the left field foul pole.
Then, in the eighth inning, he made minor league history. He hit his sixth home run of the game, a floating butterfly of a ball that landed at Brian the peanut vendor’s feet. With a huge grin, the kid brandished the ball high in the air, then handed out all the peanuts on his tray for free. The crowd and the radio commentators went absolutely wild. “No one has hit six home runs in a game since 1902, when Jay Clarke hit eight home runs in one game. But that game was played on a temporary field with a right field wall only 210 yards from home plate. That puts an asterisk next to that record, if you will. It’s considered unbreakable. No one’s come closer than five until today. You’re witnessing history, folks. Absolutely phenomenal. Can Trevor Stark keep this going and become the only guy to hit seven?”
In the owner’s box, Paige was jumping up and down, shrieking, but Crush sat back, arms folded, a slight smirk on his arrogant face.
Instead of celebrating with the rest of the Catfish, Trevor set his jaw and kept his focus on the field. The game wasn’t over. If Crush wasn’t impressed, the Friars wouldn’t be.
And now that the brakes were off, Trevor wanted to be on the Friars postseason roster the way he wanted air in his lungs.
In the ninth inning, with the Catfish down two runs, the bottom of the batting order came up to bat. Shizuko, Backman, and T.J. Gates combined for a beautiful rally that tied the game.
In the top of the tenth inning, “Killer” Garrett, the new reliever just called up from the Double A team, put a lid on the Storm Chasers except for one slip, a wild pitch that allowed in one run.
The Catfish went to the bottom of the tenth inning down one, with Trevor scheduled to bat second. Leiberman struck out. Trevor strode to the plate, glared at Crush Taylor, and slammed the first pitch so hard it knocked a light out of the scoreboard, sending a spray of sparks into the velvety night air.
Home run number seven. Tie game.
The crowd sat in awed silence for a long moment, suspended in disbelief at what they were witnessing. Trevor jogged around the bases, not cracking a smile. Even the Storm Chasers offered tips of the cap as he passed. At third base, he held up, just for a moment, to look at Paige. Tears streamed down her face.
Crush had finally come to his feet, clapping slowly while the rest of the crowd exploded into an ovation.
Trevor put his hand to his heart, held Paige’s misty blue gaze, then dove into the dugout.
“The display of power and consistency we’ve seen tonight is unlike anything I’ve seen in this game,” the play-by-play guy raved from a radio within Trevor’s hearing. “We always knew Trevor Stark possessed the sheer strength and ability to hit homers. But what we have here isn’t about strength. It’s about focus and will and consistency. If the Friars don’t call him up to San Diego, stat, they’ll have a fan rebellion on their hands.” Someone’s radio was turned to maximum volume. In baseball, when something historic happened, everyone gathered around their radios or TVs or streaming feeds, whatever they had available. It was a shared experience, and it humbled Trevor to have inspired this moment.
He put his elbows on his knees, leaned forward and stared at the dugout floor, which was littered with sunflower seeds and infield dirt from people’s cleats. The weight of what he’d done pressed onto him. He’d just grabbed a piece of history. Forevermore, he’d be in the baseball annals. Never again would he be able to hide.
He looked right and caught the eye of Benny, the equipment assistant who traveled with the team. He’d gotten to know Benny at the Boys and Girls Club, and got him the job with the team. Even though Benny had slow speech from being abused as a kid, he was the most dedicated equipment assistant the Catfish ever had. Right now, he was staring in awe at Trevor, blinking back tears, as if he was witnessing an angel.
Trevor tried to smile back but his face felt frozen. It was too much. That wasn’t him, that guy Benny looked up to. He turned his head away and caught Dwight’s eye. Dwight winked and made a “shaka” sign—hang loose, dude. It’s all good.
When the Catfish took the field for the top of the eleventh, Trevor had found his calm again. With a strong inning, the Storm Chasers could put things out of reach. Trevor might get more at-bats, or he might not. That was baseball. You took what it gave you and gave it everything you had.
A two-run homer put the Storm Chasers in the lead, but “Killer” Garrett shut them down for the rest of the inning; 13-11, Storm Chasers.
The home team Catfish came to bat in the bottom half of the eleventh, which turned into a grind-it-out battle for every out, every base. Trevor watched with his heart in his mouth, just like everyone else in the stands. With every particle of his being, he rooted for his teammates, every swing and miss feeling like it was his. He screamed encouragement until his throat was raw. Three times the Catfish were one strike from losing, but each time they fended off defeat. They got one run back when Ramirez hit a home run. T.J. hit a pop fly for out number two. Leiberman beat out a dribbler to first. Dwight walked, sending Leiberman to second. The Catfish now had two men on base with one out left.
And then it was Trevor’s turn. If he made an out, Omaha would win. If he hit a single, Leiberman would score, tying the game. Anything more than a single would score both Leiberman and Dwight and win the series for the Catfish.
Trevor’s hands shook as he stepped into the batter’s box. He looked over his shoulder at Paige. She deserved to be with the best. She deserved a major leaguer. She deserved whatever he could lay at her feet. She’d put herself on the line for him, and then again for his sister. Paige was all heart and light and she deserved something spectacular.
Barely aware of what the pitch was, he put his entire heart into his swing. The ball rose off his bat and traced an arc as graceful as a rainbow, a towering parabola. Was it too high? Would it come down short of the outfield wall? The whole stadium went quiet as the ball reached the height of its rainbow arch and headed toward its pot of gold. Amid a breathless hush, it touched down just past the right center wall.
Home run number eight.
As Trevor rounded the bases, he heard people crying in the stands—and not just Paige, who was sobbing openly.
Record-tying number eight—a walk-off homer—wasn’t a home run so much as a love letter.
His yelling, exuberant teammates poured onto the field. As they gathered him in a mass embrace, he felt tears soaking his face. Where had so much unleashed power and drive come from? It felt almost mystical, as if it came from someplace beyond him. From love, perhaps. Who knew? All he knew was that whoever said there was no crying in baseball would have to eat their words.