Everyone’s giving me shit during pre-game warm-ups, but I let it roll off my back. I said sorry and they accepted. We’re family, and family means it’s never too soon to bust each other’s balls. So Carlos pretended to cry and imitate my press conference, and Doug slow claps every time I walk past him, but it’s fine. Really.

What’s really stressing me out is my knee. I tweaked it earlier this week at practice, but right now it feels like someone is jabbing a hot rod under my kneecap. I don’t have time for injuries, but a fucked up knee is not good. I can’t afford to sit out any games, either.

First off, Gregerson is not as good as me. He likes to think he’s a good infielder, but that dude has no business in the dirt. He’s an outfielder for life, no matter what Coach tries to pump him full of. Giving up my spot to him isn’t good for the team. We have a championship to defend.

Second, I don’t need to be on all the cable sports outlets with a heartfelt apology and then be benched for the next few weeks, injury or no. I need to play. I need to prove myself.

So, I have a little conversation with my knee while stretching, telling it to mind its fucking business and work properly. Mind over matter, right? It’s not severe enough to report, yet, but I have to hold in a few winces when I pivot. No one needs to know.

I’m probably still just tired from my stint last night. Maybe I pulled something while running around the lake butt-ass naked. Maybe it’s even psychological, making myself hurt for all the bad things I’ve done. I don’t want to delve into that right now, I want to have a batting practice.

I grab my lucky bat and hit a few easy balls, trying to work on a stance that won’t put too much pressure on my knee. It’s so hard to change my go-to, but I can adapt. I don’t need to make this worse. I stretch with the bat behind my back and squint my eyes, surveying the field, channeling my inner badass.

I’m Kemper Fucking Fife. I can do this. I can do this.

“Ice cream?” A girlish voice asks. There’s a hint of a laugh behind her words that makes me feel transparent. Like she knows what I’m trying to do and doesn’t even care that my entire career is just one ACL injury away from over.

I shouldn’t turn around. I shouldn’t stop focusing on fixing this. I don’t even want ice cream. But taking this girl up on her offer is a good excuse to give my leg a rest.

And, maybe if I’m being totally honest, I want to see the face that goes with that knowing voice. Look, my body and soul may be owned by Coach’s hard-line ultimatum, but I’m a sucker for a pretty face. I can look if I don’t touch, right? And she sounds so sweet.

She’s even prettier, and younger, than I thought she’d be. Long blonde hair, green eyes, and a tiny, perky body that I’d love to move on top of. Her shirt says “The Sweet Spot.” It’s probably the name of the ice cream kiosk, but it sure seems to promise more when she’s wearing those cutoffs and her legs go on for miles. I have a brief flash of how they’d feel wrapped around me.

Her nametag says “Ally H” and I know that name will dance through my fantasies tonight. Because that’s all I’m allowed anymore—late night fantasies.

“Does that mean a yes?” She flashes a gorgeous smile and I have to bite my tongue and remind myself she’s off limits. Everyone is off limits. Coach has been keeping a close eye on me during warm-ups and he’s goddamn everywhere.

“Got any chocolate?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes trained on the empty seats behind her and not on those chocolate brown eyes. Or those perfectly tanned legs.

“I’ve got just about everything you could want.” Was that a wink? I just bet she does have everything, only I can’t taste what I really want. “Chocolate, vanilla, pistachio. I come very prepared.”

“Just chocolate.” I swallow down the lump in my throat and look for Coach. A few of the other guys have ice cream cones, so I’m totally innocent here. Actually, we’re probably all enjoying her tight t-shirt, but the treat is a nice excuse.

“Want sprinkles?” How does she manage to make sprinkles sound so dirty? “Chocolate syrup?”

“Nah. I’m more of a plain kind of guy.” My eyes stray down to the way her shirt hugs tight across her perfect, perky breasts, but I force them back up.

“Maybe you just haven’t had the right kinds of toppings.” Her eyes sparkle and she’s got one tiny dimple in her left cheek. I want to reach out and touch it, but choke up my bat instead.

The feelings I’m having, this lust mixed with tenderness, make me feel guilty. I have to remind myself that this isn’t a fling, just a gorgeous girl from The Sweet Spot, taking my mind off the fact that the motions I use to hit the bat’s sweet spot are currently making me wish I’d saved some of that Fireball.

She scoops some ice cream and douses it in sprinkles. I didn’t ask for sprinkles, but I’ll take anything she gives me at this point. “Gonna score a run for me?”

One run? That’s not enough for a girl like this.

“I’ll score you three runs tonight.” I tell her, taking a big bite out of the ice cream. I swallow it down and wink back at her. “You know what, you were right about these sprinkles.”

She bats her eyes at me and I feel myself slipping. It actually hurts to walk away from this vision in a t-shirt and cutoffs, but Coach’s voice is getting louder and I start to fear for my life. I turn back to catch one last glimpse of her, and she’s walking off field with her chest of ice cream. Watching her walk away is almost as amazing as staring at her beautiful brown eyes.

That ass, though. It’s going to haunt my dreams tonight.

“Fife.” I turn to see Jamie jogging over. He’s got a vanilla cone in hand. I notice he didn’t get any sprinkles. “Thought you were serious about that promise to stay on the straight and narrow.”

I take another bite of my ice cream and frown. “I am. Why?”

“Flirting with Coach’s daughter sure doesn’t qualify.”

I nearly choke on a ball of chocolate and sprinkles. “That was Coach’s daughter?”

“Ally? Yeah. With how Coach is watching you today, you’d better keep your shit together. You know he’ll kill you for less.”

“Look, I was just getting ice cream.” I hold up my cone, trying to go into damage control mode. She flirted with me. I did nothing wrong. Okay, I got in some nice looks, but I didn’t know she was Coach’s daughter. Of fucking course she was. I am a magnet for trouble. “That’s all.”

He frowns, but Jamie knows me. I hold up my hands.

“Scouts honor, man. I made a promise. I keep my promises.”

And I do. I promised to stay on the straight and narrow, and that’s not something I will compromise on. I was just taking an easy distraction from my knee, that’s all. My dad taught me the value of a promise by breaking every one he ever made. A man is measured by his word. I may have my moments, but I don’t break a promise. There, I never compromise.

I may not be happy about being reined in, but I did say I’d do better. And I meant it. This is my lifeblood.

I also promised I’d make three runs tonight for that vision in cut-offs. I mean, Coach’s daughter. It’s just an innocent promise. Designed to impress. So, I better get on that. Before heading to the dugout, I sneak a glimpse around the stadium and find where The Sweet Spot hangs out, just past left field. Hey, I made a promise.

In the locker room, I sneak a handful of ibuprofen for my knee and join the others for Coach’s pep talk. We’re playing the Tigers, which is no big deal. Hell, I may score more than three runs tonight. Their pitching staff is weak and defensively they’re lacking. Their fans call it a “learning year,” but they’ve apparently been “learning” for the last decade or so.

Hey, no judgement here, we had to learn for three. Decades.

I like these games. Honestly, they’ve got some cool guys on the team and it makes for fast innings. Their offense can’t touch our bullpen and our new batting coach for the season has made us an all-around threat. We don’t just rest on the laurels of five starters and three closers anymore. Easy-peasy.

Coach grabs me as we head to the dugout. “Ready for tonight, Fife?”

I nod and pretend the issue in my knee doesn’t exist. I know how to bat around it, I just need to keep my focus—no looking into the left-field stands—and I’ve taken enough pain meds to pretend it’s a non-issue. “Ready, Coach.”

“Good man.” He pats me on the back and disappears down the hallway.

He trusts me. I take a moment to let that sit on me and mentally erase the image of Ally H—of his daughter from my mind. She’s gorgeous, but this is more important. Gotta keep my priorities in check.

Baseball is in my blood, more than booze or girls. It’s the swell of the crowd, the smell of sweat and leather, the feel of the bat when you hit the sweet spot and crack one out of the park. It’s the camaraderie, the fans, the adrenaline that pumps through your veins. It’s jumping around the dugout before we hit the field, it’s the high-fives after an excellent play. It’s my everything.

And there is nothing I love more, nothing, than the thrill of a game. Home games are the best, looking out and seeing nothing but a sea of royal blue.

They’re cheering for us. They’re cheering for me. It’s like a drug, the way it hits your system.

Jamie and I do our ritual handshake before the start of the game and charge the field. Working together as shortstop and second base, we work in sync better than most of the other teams. We cover bases, stop line-drives, and knock out a double play to end the top of the inning in a quick 1-2-3. We’re on fire tonight.

“Great start to the game, boys.” Coach hollers, smile on his face. He slaps a hand on my back with a wink before disappearing back to his corner, and I’m feeling better than ever. I’m in my element.

Harrison, Jamie, and I are the top of our batting order. Our big three. Harrison is walked to first and Jamie’s at bat. I go on deck for some practice swings and test my knee. So far, so good. I look out at the crowd and spy the pink awning of The Sweet Spot in the distance. I’ve got a promise to keep.

Jamie strikes out. Shitty, but it happens. He points to me as I amble up to home. Time to shine. Everything around me disappears until it’s just me and the pitcher, Donaldson. We’ve gone up against him before, and I know he favors a breaking ball. That’s fine. I know how to work a bat. He throws the first pitch, but my gut tells me it’s outside.

Ball one. The crowd cheers.

I settle back into my stance and give the bat a swing. Everything fades to black again and I can hear my own heartbeat. I can practically see the ball slicing through the air in freeze frame. I swing. Curve ball, not a breaking ball. I miss.

Strike one.

I spit in the dirt and shake it off. I back off the plate and take another practice swing before tightening my batting gloves and taking a deep breath. I’ve got this. Next ball is outside.

2-1.

I watch Donaldson carefully on the mound. This is my ball, I can feel it. I watch it soar through the air and I crack it off the sweet spot. I take a second to watch it and grin. It’s out of the park. The crowd goes nuts and I begin my victory lap around the bases, slapping fives with the first and third base coaches. I have to resist the urge to pump my fists in the air as I run. When I make it back to home, I hold up a finger in the direction of the left field. That’s one.

We celebrate in the dugout. Jamie and I high-five and Coach is full of praise. It’s going to be a good game. Easy.

Donaldson strikes out Carlos and Everett, leaving us at 2-0 at the top of the second. That’s fine. We’re in the lead and we’ve got eight more innings to put a sizeable gap between them and us.

Except it appears the Detroit offense has been putting in some serious work. They put two balls up in the outfield and we have to sweat a little to keep them from scoring. No big deal, I like a challenge.

“What happened to a learning year?” Jamie mutters as we head back into the dugout. “Their bats are supposed to be dead.”

“Keeps it from being boring.” Carlos shrugs as the bottom of our batting order takes the field. “I hate that 1-2-3-done shit. Give me something to do.”

“Spoken like a true third baseman.” Jamie winks and Carlos flicks him off behind his glove. The pitching coach, Coach Duff, whacks Carlos on the back of the head.

“Watch it.” He warns.

Everyone’s gotta be on their best behavior. Cameras are everywhere, and so are the fines. The three of us laugh it off and hang off the railing to watch Donaldson give up another run, but send Octivio and George packing with two strikeouts.

It appears this isn’t going to be the easy game we thought, and it really gets the blood flowing. We all work together in sync, trying to keep the Detroit offense from scoring, but our pitcher gives us a run, soaring in the right field stands, and narrowing our lead.

I’m up at bat again, and I narrow my eyes at Donaldson. It’s game on, now. I have big plans for this bat, and all of them involve destroying the Tiger defense. But my knee flares up a bit and I strike out. Fuck.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” Jamie thuds me on the back. “At least you aren’t 0-2. This is killing my batting average.”

“Shoulda paid more attention at practice,” I tease him. “Good thing you aren’t our DH.”

“Hey!” Octivio points over, a laugh on his face. “Don’t trash talk my spot, man. DH is serious business.”

“So start batting like it.” Jamie shoots back.

Have I mentioned I live for this? The banter, the laughs, and ass grabs. We talk shit but we love each other like brothers. It’s the most incredible feeling ever. I have never felt more at home than I do in the dugout.

A fly-out ends the inning and we hit the field. I swallow down another ibuprofen before running out. I’m going to have to be a little more careful from here on out. I just wish their defense wasn’t so on top of it today. Much as I love the competitive edge a close game gives, my knee could really use a break.

And it gets one. It’s another 1-2-3 inning with no balls lobbed my way. Two strike-outs and a fly-out to center field. Quick and easy.

“Give me more of that!” I slap Edwards on the back. “Destroy those Tigers!”

He flashes a grin, which I know means “Go fuck yourself,” and we all laugh and watch the bottom of the order go lay some damage on Donaldson. We walk away from the inning with two extra runs. My knee feels better.

Tigers score one more run, but it’s still easy going for me. I’ve learned how to jog without putting too much pressure on my knee. I’m up to bat and I’m fucking pumped. I’m ready. The crowd is loving the game and I’ve got a promise to keep. No more strike-outs.

I sit a solid line drive up the center for a double. Carlos comes up and hits a ball off the foul pole, batting me into home. The crowd goes wild and I shoot two fingers in the direction of the Sweet Spot. Two down, one to go.

The atmosphere in the dugout is electric. We fight and bat and throw and fight some more. We stop plays and have killer relays. It’s not enough, though, and the seventh inning turns particularly brutal. Edwards loads up the bases and allows a grand slam with no outs. They are only down by one.

Coach takes the field and we all go run to the middle to send off Edwards. He threw a good game, but it’s time for a pitching change. Edwards looks pissed, but I know it’s not at Coach. He’s a pitcher, after all. All those guys beat themselves up if they are pulled during the game.

“You threw a good seven innings.” Coach pats him on the back. “Time to go.”

We all pat Edwards as he leaves, but his shoulders are low. If we lose, he’s going to feel accountable. It’s all good, though, I want to tell him. I still have one more run promised. And I never break my promises.

Knickers comes out and Jamie and I high-five. He’s a killer reliever with a solid arm and a great curveball. Detroit won’t be able to touch him. We scatter back to our positions and get ready for the easy outs.

And then he lets another home run score. Well, shit.

Knickers slumps on the dugout bench after Detroit has another fly-out, his head in his hands. Coach Duff is talking to him quietly, so we all give them their space. We battle it out through the rest of the seventh, and eighth, with no progress on either side. They are as determined as we are to make some magic happen.

“All right, boys!” Coach Holstead calls out before we go up to bat. “Way to keep them staved off from scoring any more runs. I know these boys gave us more than we bargained for, but we’re the Royals and we win. You got me?”

“Yes, Coach!” We call out.

“Now let’s show them what our bats can do!”

“Yes, Coach!”

I’m up first to bat. Jamie smacks my ass and I feel the whole of the K watching me. It’s time to shine. Except, by “shine,” I mean “get walked to first.” Which is fine. Everyone cheers, I make small talk with the Tigers first baseman, and get ready to steal second. Carlos is up next and hits a hell of a sac-fly to center and I book it to third base. There’s a double play, and everyone is screaming, my heart is racing, and my knee is throbbing. Fuck my knee, I’ve got a run to score.

Coach Bart is third base coach tonight, and a notorious stick-in-the-mud. He likes to play it safe. I lead off and Coach Bart is already waving at me in my periphery. He wants me to keep my ass there, even though we’re currently tied with two outs, and I have a promise to keep.

The ball goes soaring into left field, bounces once, and is caught. Coach Bart yells at me to get back to base, but fuck this. I’ve gotta do this for Ally H. I made a promise. I wink at Coach and go for it, running faster than I ever have in my life.

My knee is screaming, the crowd is screaming, I’m pretty sure I just heard Coach Bart utter some pretty nasty things about my mother, but I slide into home seconds before the catcher tags me. Safe.

We win the game and the crowd goes crazy. My teammates rush me on the sidelines as I hold out three fingers.