Pinch Hit (25 page)

Trevor still trembled but couldn't contain the smile on his face. He'd done just what he needed to do, and the play he'd made would only help Sam's stock with the USC coaches. He relaxed, straightening for a moment while Frankie tossed the ball back to Graham. Trevor returned to his position and settled his weight over the balls of his feet, bouncing ever so slightly and ready to go.

He still wore his mad grin when Graham wound up and delivered a fastball right down the middle. The bat cracked and the ball was a blur heading for the open space between him and the third baseman on a low line. In the millisecond it shot through the infield, several things went through Trevor's mind.

First, he knew it would take incredible skill and a near miracle to snag the line drive. Second, if he dove for it and missed, he would be out of position if the ball got past the left fielder and he needed a cutoff man to keep the runner from rounding third and scoring. The safe thing was to stay on his feet and provide a cutoff.

However, he knew if he
did
make the play, it would be spectacular and he would be
helping
Sam, rather than not hurting him, and it would help the team
win
. That might have been the most exciting prospect of all, and it was what took over his body and mind—the desire to win. So, with a burst of adrenaline, hunger, and joy, Trevor launched himself into the air, stretching every fiber toward the ball.

As the pants gave way, Sam swung himself like an acrobat, flexing his hips out, then in. As the pants tore free from the barbed wire, he reached out and snatched a grip on the chain-link fence, first with one hand, then the other. His legs dropped below him and his fingers spun around the insides of the holes he gripped so that he clung now to the fence, facing the onrushing handful of people from the movie set.

Without a second thought, Sam let himself drop the remaining three or four feet to the ground. His feet slipped, and he tumbled and rolled into the bushes. Then, slithering like a snake, he bellied his way into the trees, where he rose up and took off at a full sprint away from the fence and the studio and the horrified people crying out for “Trevor” to come back.

Sam broke through the trees and stumbled down a small slope, losing his balance and tumbling again, this time into a dry ditch. As he crawled up out of it, he could hear the racing sound of an engine. He poked his head up and saw a car rocketing toward him. The glare of sunlight off the windshield told him nothing about the driver, but the car looked like a big limo. It screeched to a halt alongside him, and the rear passenger door swung open.

Sitting in the backseat and waving him into the limo was McKenna.

Sam jumped in and pulled the door shut.

“Go, Dolph.”

The car took off. Sam buckled up, and McKenna did the same.

“Mr. Trevor,” Dolph said in his heavy accent. “You tell me where we go.”

Sam gave Dolph directions to the ballpark and thanked Dolph for coming through. “I hope you don't get into trouble.”

“Mr. Gabriel, he very angry,” Dolph said, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “But I owe favor, Mr. Trevor. I hope no lose job.”

“You won't lose your job if I have anything to do with it,” Sam said.

Dolph smiled and stepped on the gas.

Sam turned to McKenna. “How'd you get away?”

“It was easy. Everyone's in an uproar.” McKenna was clearly delighted. “I told them you were upset and talking about quitting. I told them you were having personal problems I couldn't discuss. It was like I kicked a hornet's nest. Everyone was swarming all over the place looking for you. I got into the car and told Dolph you needed him. We just drove right out of the studio and came around the back. It's perfect. Here, let me put some makeup on that phony birthmark. We've got to cover it up.”

Sam nodded, impressed with how thorough and smart McKenna was as she dusted up his neck. Then he thought of something and said, “But what about the switch?”

“Switch?”

“Trevor and I have to trade places.” Sam looked at the time on his phone. “The game's already started.”

McKenna frowned. “Well, your dad's script is already a done deal, and this game is more important to you than people finding out about you pinch-hitting for each other, right? I mean, it'll make a mess, but it might even be
good
for your dad's script. Everyone will be talking about it.”

Sam shook his head. “Don't you get it? The game
started
. Trevor is out there playing already. If they find out we made a switch, I'll be disqualified. There's no way I get the MVP. There's no way they'll even let me play. You can't substitute players in the middle of a game. No one can know.”

Thunk
.

It might have been the sweetest thing Trevor had ever felt. Even as he crashed to the dirt, jarring his joints and bones, his body flushed with delight. The ball sat snug in his glove. The crowd in the stands went absolutely wild. Trevor's teammates swarmed him. They thumped his back and mussed his hair. They hugged him, and RJ kissed his cheek.

Trevor's face burned from the thrill and the embarrassment and the pride.

He jogged to the dugout, dusting himself off. Coach Sharp gripped his hand with an iron shake. “That's the Sam I know.”

Trevor opened his mouth, then stopped. It scared him how close he'd come to telling Coach Sharp that he wasn't Sam, he was Trevor Goldman, and Trevor Goldman was the one who'd made the spectacular play.

Instead he looked down and muttered, “Thanks, Coach.”

The excitement quickly faded because they were down by one run and the Sherman Oaks pitcher was a boy no one had seen before. According to the roster, his name was Lee Pitts. His father had been a pro football player, and his arm was strong. The balls he threw warming up snapped into the catcher's mitt like gunshots.

“Look at his arm action,” RJ said. “It's practically sidearm. Thank God he's not throwing curves.”

The next pitch was a curve. RJ winced. Trevor knew what it meant. It meant that when Pitts threw a curve, it would look like it was coming right at you, then curve away at the last second. Most curveballs were twelve-six, where the ball started high and curved down. This pitcher would be a nightmare.

Coach Sharp stood right in front of where Trevor sat. The coach leaned over and spoke into the ear of one of his assistants. “Where'd this kid come from?”

The other coach shrugged and leafed through some papers and pointed. “Here, he's been hurt. That's why we didn't see him when we scouted these guys, but he was on the roster earlier in the year.”

“Oh boy,” Coach Sharp said as another pitch smacked the catcher's mitt. “We're in for it.”

Dorian Klum sat two players down from Trevor, and he leaned over to Scotty Needum and said, “Good thing they're picking MVPs today. I can hit this guy, but I doubt these other schmucks can.”

Trevor's butterflies returned. He watched in horror as RJ, their first batter today, jumped away from a curve that the umpire called a strike when he was already 0–2. Frankie walked to the plate and Trevor left his seat to warm up. As he swung, he watched Frankie.

Pitts wound up and threw and Frankie jumped back.

“Strike!” The umpire held up a finger.

Frankie's face reddened, embarrassed by the fright he'd had at getting hit when the pitch crossed the center of the plate. Frankie hung in and swung on the next two pitches, nicking the second one to stay alive. Pitts threw a fastball and Frankie connected. The ball took off down the third-base line but veered foul.

Frankie stepped out of the box, took a practice swing, and stepped back in.

Coach Sharp stepped up beside Trevor and they watched together as Frankie flinched at another curveball.

“Strike three!” The umpire pumped his thumb toward the stands.

Frankie grit his teeth and shook his head, stomping back toward the dugout.

“You know what you gotta do, right, Sam?” Coach Sharp asked.

“Get a hit.”

“Funny, but you know what I mean, right?”

Trevor looked at the coach in confusion. “I guess I don't know what you mean, Coach.”

“You gotta switch-hit.” Coach Sharp scowled and looked out at the Sherman Oaks pitcher. “You line up and bat lefty and you neutralize that curveball. I'm just glad you can hit from both sides of the plate.”

Trevor closed his mouth tight and swallowed the bile churning up from his stomach. He had no idea how he'd keep from throwing up. His brain swam in a sea of fog, and his feet seemed to float up off the ground.

Even in the batting cage, Trevor had never hit lefty in his life.

Dolph pulled up into the entrance of Elysian Park. McKenna leaned over to the window and tilted her head to look up at the sky.

“What are you looking at?” Sam looked up, too.

“Wishing for rain. If it rained and the game got delayed, we could make the switch, easy.”

“Or some kind of delay,” Sam said, thinking out loud.

McKenna snapped her fingers. “Yes. A squirrel.”

Sam scowled like she'd lost her mind. “Squirrel?”

McKenna's face brightened. “Remember a couple years ago, when the Yankees were playing the Twins? A squirrel ran out onto the field and stopped the game. They had to wait till it got off.”

“Right, but where are we going to get a squirrel?” Sam could see the ballpark and he directed Dolph to pull up among some cars parked near the backstop behind home plate. His heart galloped at the sight of Trevor approaching the plate. He knew he might only get three or four at bats, and he couldn't afford to have Trevor blow one of them. Still, he had no idea how they could make the switch now. The squirrel idea was crazy.

“We don't have a squirrel,” McKenna said, pointing toward the front seat, “but we've got a dog.”

Trevor met Coach Sharp's eyes. “No, Coach. I can't.”

“Can't what? What are you talking about?”

“I … can't hit lefty.”

Coach Sharp laughed. “What are you talking about? You're a great switch-hitter. You don't think the USC coaches will be impressed when they see you? They will. Trust me, you're just as strong from the left side of the plate as you are the right.”

“Coach, I can't. I'll have to bat righty.”

Coach Sharp's face darkened. “I told you, you gotta stop with this goofy behavior, Sam. I mean it. I'm telling you as your coach to go bat lefty from the right side of the plate. You can do it, and I expect you to do it.”

Trevor nodded, but his insides shook. He hefted his bat and staggered toward the plate. He looked over his shoulder. Coach Sharp glared at him.

Trevor stopped.

“He can do that?” Sam asked.

“He can do anything,” McKenna said.

Dolph nodded that it was true.

“I don't know,” Sam said.

“Then what's your plan?” McKenna folded her arms across her chest.

Sam nodded. “Okay, let's go. Dolph, get Wolf in there. Don't let him bite anyone.”

“Wolf no bite. Only if Dolph say ‘bite.'”

Sam turned to McKenna. “You get Trevor's attention in the ruckus. I'll be in the bathroom. Get him in there as fast as you can, and then you've got to keep anyone else from going in. Can you do that?”

“I'm an actress. I'll improvise.”

Sam leaned over and kissed her cheek. McKenna blushed, and they both hopped out of the car.

“Dolph,” McKenna said, “give me sixty seconds before you send Wolf onto the field.”

She grabbed Sam's hand, and they sprinted across the parking lot. This time it was McKenna who kissed him on the cheek.

“I better see you again,” she said.

“There's no way you won't,” he said.

She dashed off toward the backstop and Sam ducked into the bathroom. He opened the door of the last stall by the wall, pulled it shut, and began to remove his clothes so he could get into the uniform even faster.

Trevor stared helplessly at the coach's angry look.

“What?” Coach Sharp shouted from just outside the dugout.

“Let's go, batter.” The umpire and the catcher were staring at him, too.

Trevor's stomach heaved.

He doubled over and threw up.

He heard Klum and Needum howling with laughter from the dugout. The kids in the Sherman Oaks dugout giggled, too.

The pitcher, Lee Pitts, said, “Man, that's gross.”