People streamed down the stairs and found their place in the red plastic seats. Dustin wanted to call them fans and not spectators, but he couldn’t deny the number of Oakland shirts. Harper Wolfe had a dream—a dream she broadcast to the whole Redrocks organization. One day, Redrocks fans would fill the seats, and fans would pay money to see them in other cities. It was a great dream, one Dustin found himself longing to be a part of. His batting had been average during this series. A couple base hits and grounders too short. Santacruiz had hinted at moving him up in the batting order. That wouldn’t happen unless he picked up his game.

He shook off thoughts of contracts and batting averages and pressure. He had a philosophy: Practice like your stats were on the line and play the game like you love it. Because that was the key. He’d seen too many guys burn out in the majors because they played a game like they had to increase their on-base percentage. Dustin preferred to play like he wanted to win. Because when you forced baseball, you got trippy. Your swing came up short. You threw wild. And you began to resent the players, the field, and the game.

Needing to win was poison.

Especially because the guys he watched fade out needed to win for themselves. They began thinking things like, “If I hit it out tonight, then that means I’ll stay in the game.”

Baseball didn’t work like that. There weren’t baseball gods on the baselines waiting to bestow the worthy with extra bases or faster pitch speed. Baseball was complex—like an amazing woman—once you thought you had it figured out, it threw you a curveball, and you struck out looking.

Grabbing a handful of dirt, he rubbed it between his palms. He poured the stats and commentators’ thoughts and projections about the show into the grains scraping his palms and let them dribble into the dirt as the sand fell like water to the ground.

Tipping his head up, he checked the two seats behind the dugout. He must have looked there a hundred times during batting practice. The smell of popcorn wafted down from the top of the bleachers—a signal that game time was close.

The cold-cut sandwich he’d had an hour ago sat heavy in his stomach as the reality of the empty seat sank in.

“You got somewhere else you’d rather be, Colt?” called Coach Wolfe.

The implied threat was a hollow one. Coach Wolfe was a good guy. He’d handled tough situations, like Jackson Kimber’s major league temper tantrum, with calm intensity. They were past the trade deadline, so Dustin was on the Redrocks for the rest of the season. A month ago he would have groaned at the prospect of ending the season on the second-worst team in the division. Funny how a little time and a little Clover had changed his outlook. “No, sir.”

Coach signaled to Rex Barnes, the catcher. At forty, he was ready to retire. Dustin couldn’t blame him. He had to be in constant pain—a man’s knees weren’t meant to squat for twenty-plus years. Rex spent more time than the rest of them with the PTs. He sat in ice tubs and applied salve and had a family worth saving some of his health and energy for. Then again, for some guys, baseball was like breathing, and Barns might suffocate without the opportunity to rub infield dirt into his palms.

“Hey.” Coach Wolfe jerked his chin in greeting as he meandered Dustin’s way.

Dustin responded in kind. “What’s up, Coach?”

“You seem distracted.”

Dustin’s eyes flicked to the seats and he bit back a smile. Clover and Jane were settling into their seats. Jane carried a foil-wrapped hot dog, and Clover had an iced lemonade. He brought his attention right back to Coach Wolfe. “I’m good, Coach.” He dropped a cocky grin.

Coach glanced over his shoulder. There was enough movement in the stands that he couldn’t possibly zero in on Clover as the reason for Dustin’s stray attention. His eyes lingered on the section behind the dugout, taking in each face, before he turned back. “I need your head on the field.” He pointed out to the grass. “Not in the stands.”

Now that Clover was here, the tightness around Dustin’s chest released. He could focus. He smacked Coach on the shoulder. “Let’s play some ball.”

Coach smacked him back before heading into the dugout. Dustin smiled all through the local high school a cappella group singing the national anthem and the Vietnam veteran throwing the first pitch. He put his hat back on his head and touched the brim while looking at Clover. She didn’t wave back. Maybe she wasn’t looking right at him; it was hard to tell from where he stood. He jogged into the dugout to grab his mitt and then made his way out to his position.

Time to play ball.

The first inning went quickly. Three up, three down for both sides. The second took a little longer with Oakland scoring one run and the Redrocks getting a big old goose egg. Dustin finally had a chance at bat. The series was only three games, so Dustin faced a different pitcher each game. Tonight they had a lefty on the mound. He had a changeup that could make Dustin’s mama swear.

Dustin strode to the plate. He scooped up some dirt and rubbed it between his gloves, beginning his pre-batting routine. He gripped the top of his bat, gathering pine tar on his gloves for grip, and then dug his right cleat into the dirt, at the top, right of the plate. He brought his left foot into position and loaded his swing.

“Whooo, Dustin.” Clover’s voice floated over the backstop and splashed around him. She was cheering for him. He gripped the bat tighter, wanting so hard to make contact.

The ball hit the catcher’s mitt, and the umpire called, “Strike.”

Dustin stepped out of the box and shook it off. The only pitch that mattered was the next one. He repositioned his feet and stared down the pitcher. The next pitch was low and inside, nearly shaving the hair off Dustin’s shins.

“Come on!” Clover yelled at the pitcher.

Dustin tugged on his batting helmet while a smile tugged at his lips. Normally, he didn’t hear anyone during at bat. He focused in on what he had to do, and he followed through with his swing. Clover giving the pitcher a hard time on his behalf was pretty great, though.

He lifted an eyebrow at the pitcher, daring him to put the ball over the plate. The pitcher started his windup, and Dustin saw the flick of his ring finger. Curveball. Outside corner. He made a minuscule adjustment, and the bat caught the edge of the ball—he pulled in trying to avoid a foul ball. The ball dribbled to the third baseman while Dustin sprinted for first, trying to outrun a throw. He didn’t make it and was called out.

He hated being thrown out at first. Hated handing the ball to the third baseman like that. If he’d gotten a little more loft, it would have gone behind the plate and into no-man’s-land in the corner pocket. He glanced up before jogging down the stairs to see Clover give him a sympathetic frown.

He tossed his helmet against the wall.