Dustin stared down the pitcher, watching his right hand, checking the grip on the ball before he put it in his glove. Somewhere inside, instinct kicked in, and Dustin read high fastball in C-Dawg’s posture.

He loaded his bat and tightened his core muscles, ready to turn on that ball and send it flying.

Somewhere, in the back of his head, came the thought that a major league fastball moved faster than the eye could see. That’s why so many guys struck out looking—they couldn’t see the ball change directions as it came toward them. He’d studied pitching with a passion his whole life. He’d lived for YouTube videos that explained the physics behind ball movement. He’d watched interviews with pitching coaches and lapped up every drop of knowledge—anything that would give him an edge as a pitcher in high school. When he got to college, it was evident that he couldn’t throw like the other guys, so he switched to shortstop—his lightning-fast reflexes quickly earning the attention of major league scouts.

But at this moment, he saw the ball leave C-Dawg’s fingers, saw him prostrate his ring finger and put a little spin on the ball. He pulled his arms across his body, and at the last second, he pushed his wrists forward, sending the barrel over the edge of the plate.

POP!

Dustin’s hands vibrated the most beautiful music a batter can hear: the song sung by a home run ball as it came off the end of a Louisville Slugger. He stared after the ball, watching it go, go, go right over the stands, landing somewhere in a field of cactus and sagebrush.

With his arms over his head in victory, Dustin hopped and skipped to first base before breaking into a jog to tap second and third. The dugout emptied as he ran, his teammates clapping and waving him home.

When he stomped on home plate, they tackled him, laughing, whooping, and yanking on his shirt.

He couldn’t quit smiling.

He rode the team wave back into the dugout and then was forced out to wave his hat to the crowd. “Go on! It’s your first home run,” said Brayden with a shove.

Dustin knew no one expected him to hit a home run—he was batting ninth, for goodness’ sakes. He’d make all the major sports shows tonight. They’d joke about him batting ninth and pulling that one out of his back pocket, projecting it as a lucky hit. He didn’t care. He waved his hat and grinned like a fool.

Later that night, after the hordes of reporters finally left him alone and he had a chance to sit down, Coach Santacruiz straddled the bench. His scruffy cheek poked out with a wad of sunflower seeds. He used to chew tobacco—old-school-like—but he lost two teeth and decided to quit. He said his face didn’t know what to do when it didn’t have a chunk of something in there. Made him think better.

“You’re dialed in.” Coach tapped his temple.

“I am.”

“Is it the girl?” He tipped his head forward.

A grin stole across Dustin’s face as he thought about how easily he’d gotten under Clover’s skin. Their back-and-forth, the name-calling. And how she’d flushed at his touch. He’d liked that part most. “It’s not like you’re thinking.” Or like I’m thinking. Clover didn’t want to have anything to do with him and his pheromones. He bit back a chuckle. He’d have to tease her about that one.

“Whatever it is, don’t change a thing.”

Dustin nodded. “Don’t plan to.”

“All righty, then.” Coach groaned at his feet. He spit the shells in a garbage can as he walked by and was already reaching into his back pocket for the bag, ready to refill his cheek.

Dustin stared at the doors where the coach had disappeared. Today was his last day volunteering at The Pantry. He needed a new excuse to see Clover. He was finally playing ball like he was meant to play, and he wasn’t about to give that up. If arguing with a feisty woman in an apron made that happen, then he’d have to argue with her again.