Stealing Bases (9 page)

eighteen

About three hours later, at the top of the seventh inning, the infielders—including Phoenix, Nyla, Abby, Jessica, and
ME
—gather at the mound and shout, “Beachwood!”

“Academy!” the outfield echoes, and disperses to their positions.

“Nice work.” Nyla gently taps me on the back with her glove.

“Kylie’s back!” Abby shouts.

Jessica adds, “Kylie’s not just back. Kylie’s a beast!”

“I know! Talk about
devouring
the competition!” Phoenix yells.

I burst into a huge grin at that one. It feels so good to be back inside our complex with the girls—and not as a stupid, insignificant onlooker.

“Balls in,” the umpire calls from his spot behind home plate.

Nyla hands me the ball and smacks my leather glove. “Go get ’em, Killer Ky.”

I smile even wider. “Killer Ky” is the understatement of the century. Bel Air hasn’t scored in six innings. Meanwhile, our team is up by two, and I’ve earned five strikeouts and no walks. We’re in the perfect position to continue our winning streak—if we win today, we’re undefeated with five wins. And that moves us into serious consideration for the Desert Invitational and that much closer to saving the softball program.

I tuck my glove in between my knees and shove my shiny white number seven home jersey into my matching shorts. Then I reach down and pull up my socks. When I’m finished, I fill a little dirt into a small hole that’s appeared in front of the rubber from Bel Air’s pitcher. Although I’ve never been one to manicure my mound, it seems to work for Amber, so I continue to smooth out the rest.

“First batter,” Coach Kate yells from the dugout. “Nyla, your way twice.”

“Batter up!” the umpire shouts as Zoe settles in behind the plate. Since Emily sprained her wrist, Zoe took over her spot at catcher and has been doing amazing.

“Go, Kylie!” Zachary shouts from the stands.

I feel an extra little spring to my step. As much as I love Zoe, I secretly suspect that Zachary is only here to watch me.
Not that I would ever tell her that . . .

My self-congratulatory moment ends as soon as I see Bel Air’s number fourteen set up at the left side of the plate. It’s time to focus.

“Watch the drag,” I shout at my teammates, turning around so that all of them can hear me. I spot the four
K
signs hanging in center field to mark my strikeouts—five if you include the giant blue
K
painted on Brandon’s chest. (Apparently, the lacrosse guys didn’t have enough poster board for all of my strikeouts.) The smile on my face grows to enormous proportions—Amber isn’t the only one who gets the star treatment.

As I turn to face the Bel Air batter, I can feel Jessica to my left and Phoenix to my right inching toward the batter’s box. They have the right idea—the last thing we need is a batter on. I set up on the rubber and take a deep breath. Zoe gives me the first sign—a fastball, tight and inside. I glance toward first base and make eye contact with Jessica. She reads my expression and inches up even closer. Confident that my teammates are in position, I feel for the C-grip, wind up, take a huge step, and snap the ball hard.

Fourteen explodes out of the batter’s box, dragging her bat through the strike zone.

Dong.

The ball hits the inside of the bat and rolls slowly toward Jessica, who’s in front of the bag. She picks it up bare-handed and fires it to first. Abby sprints from second to the bag and covers first just in time.

Instantly, the crowd erupts.

From the dugout, our subs Sophia and Chloe look on in awe. Danielle just glares.

“Out,” the field umpire shouts.

I pump my fist. There’s no way Amber’s coming back after this performance.

“One out,” Nyla yells, holding up one finger as she receives the ball from the infield toss around. She jogs it to me, drops it into my glove, and slaps hands.

I look around the field, glancing over at the stands. Zachary’s still seated at the top of the bleachers, smiling at me. To his far left, Hannah and Missy wave at me, and Taylor gives me a thumbs-up.

I can do this. Just two more outs and I have a future in softball—at Beachwood AND maybe even at UCLA.

Bel Air’s second batter digs in. I recognize her immediately. Two innings ago, she launched my fastball hard toward left field.

Zoe gives me the sign. Fastball outside. I shake her off. She gives me another—changeup.
Perfect.

With my hand hidden inside my glove, I bend my fingers and grip the knuckle change. Then I wind up and fire. The ball barely makes it over the plate.

The batter is miles ahead of it. So much so, she could have swung twice.

“Strike one,” the umpire calls.

Again the crowd erupts.

Zoe fires the ball back to me. Then she sets up inside and gives me the screwball sign.
Ahh, too easy.

I rearrange the dirt (Amber’s strategy seems to be working) and set up. I move my thumb to the bottom of the C-grip, wind up, stride to the left, and twist my wrist, peeling the ball into a perfect right tight spiral.

The Bel Air batter half swings and jams herself.

Dong.

The ball ricochets off the inside of her bat, so close it almost hits the grip, and rolls to a stop a foot in front of Zoe. She rips the catcher’s mask off her face and fires the ball to Jessica at first.

“Out!”

“One more out, B-Dub!” the crowd shouts.

My teammates once again toss the ball around the horn. When the infield is finished, Nyla hands me the ball and yells, “Two down. Go to first!” Then she returns to her position at short.

Number twenty-three digs into the batter’s box.
She’s the only one who has two hits off me today.

“Your way, Nyla and Phoenix!” Coach Kate calls out from the dugout.

Our bench begins to yell, “Hey, batter take a hike! ’Cause Kylie’s gonna pitch a strike!”

Unlike my ASA team, Beachwood Softball hasn’t sung dugout cheers since long before I joined. And I’m loving every minute of it.

Zoe shows four fingers. Another screwball. I definitely want to end this game the way I’ve been winning it, with my go-to pitch. Amber might have the rise, but she doesn’t have my screwball.

I wind up and release the ball.

Number twenty-three doesn’t move. The pitch cuts right at the perfect time.

“Strike,” the umpire shouts.

“Woot!” The stands burst into cheers.

“Kylie is a friend of mine. She can strike you out anytime!” the bench cheers.

I puff out my chest and dig my royal-blue spike into the mound. I set my feet on the rubber. Fastball outside. I shake it off. Zoe gives another sign for a curve. I shake her off once again.

Twenty-three holds up her back hand in the stop position and steps out of the batter’s box.

“Time,” the umpire calls.

I step off the rubber and wait for twenty-three to dig in again. I hate it when batters call time to slow down the pace of the game. So stupid.

Once the batter digs in again, Zoe shows two fingers. I shake her off. She knows I want to throw the screwball. She shows me four fingers.

I wind up and throw the screwball again.

Twenty-three isn’t fooled. She makes contact, but fouls the ball over our dugout.

“Foul ball,” the umpire yells. “No balls and two strikes.”

“Straighten it out!” the other team shouts.They stand in a row at their dugout fence, knowing this is their last chance.

“Put her away, Kylie,” Coach Kate screams from our dugout.

Bel Air’s dugout roars.

Zoe gives me a screwball sign, but I shake her off this time. Number twenty-three is on to me. She holds out five fingers. The rise ball. I freeze.

If I throw the rise ball and blow it, I’m sure Coach will reinstate Amber. But if I shake Zoe’s sign, Coach will know my rise is still weak and might go with Amber anyway.

I stare at Zoe’s fingers, trying to will myself into action. She gives me the sign again.

I can’t help myself. I shake her off.

“Time,” Zoe says to the umpire. She removes her mask and jogs to the mound. “What’s up?”

“Change,” I say into my glove so the Bel Air batter doesn’t read my lips.

“She’s expecting that.” Zoe holds her catcher’s mitt in front of her face. “You’ve been messing with batters all day with the change.”

“Then screwball it is, freshman,” I say to Zoe.

“Your call.” Zoe shrugs.

Zoe turns around and jogs back to position. She maneuvers into her squat. Then she gives me four fingers.

I wind up and fire.

I thought twenty-three was smarter than the rest, but I gave her way too much credit. I let go of the pitch too soon and she chases a high ball out of the strike zone.

“Strike three.” The umpire punches the air.

The complex explodes into cheers.

Nyla smacks me on the back.

Jessica follows. “Way to go, Ky!”

“Yeah, Ky. Nice job!” Abby beams.

“You rock,” Phoenix adds on her way by.

I stand on the mound for a minute and let it all soak in. Then I scan the crowd. Zachary is on his feet cheering. Taylor, Missy, and Hannah are literally jumping up and down. My teammates continue to scream my name. At last, everything is back to normal.

Ignoring the roar of the complex, I close my eyes and picture myself two years from now: I’m standing on the mound at UCLA’s Easton Stadium wearing a crisp white, pale blue, and pale yellow short uniform. Just like now, the crowd is on their feet. I’ve just struck out the side. And Amber is a distant memory . . .

nineteen

A half hour later, I’m still floating. Seriously. My feet are literally ten feet off the ground.

I duck into the team room to call my mom to share news of the amazing game when Nyla smacks me on my back again, landing right on my number seven jersey.

“Wow! Kylie! Way to go,” Emily shouts, her wrist in an Ace bandage.

“Amazing game!” Zoe adds.

Chloe and Sophia look like they’re about to say something too when Coach Kate walks in, followed by Assistant Coach Jackie. “Nice screwball today,” she says. Mimicking Nyla, she pats me on the back.

I’m golden. My spot is mine again.

“Okay, everyone, grab a seat on the benches,” Coach Kate announces. She rests the score book up against the whiteboard as Jessica runs in, looking harried.

Guess she got caught talking to Colin.

We find our spots on the vertically aligned wooden benches. Nyla and Phoenix shove next to me. The rest of the team files behind us. Without turning around, I feel more than see my other teammates trying to grab my attention. (Meanwhile, Danielle sits as far away as possible.)

But before I can even say “thanks” (to everyone but Danielle, of course), Coach launches into her speech. “As many of you know, we’re gearing up for the annual Desert Invitational tournament. And with another win today that places us at the number two seed, behind Santo Bay. There’s no way the Board of Trustees will demote us to club status with this effort! Beachwood Academy Softball will have a long life as an interscholastic sport if we keep up our intensity.”

My teammates burst into cheers. If I thought I was having a hard time keeping my feet on the ground before, it’s nothing compared to the way I feel now.
Coach essentially just said that I saved the day.

For a moment, I’m in heaven.

But then I notice the fiery determination in Coach’s eyes, and I realize it’s not over yet.

“Incredible outing against Bel Air today. I was so impressed with our teamwork, communication on the field, and overall performance.” Coach eyes me as she grins. “Kylie’s amazing game on the mound was just what we needed.”

I was right. I’m so the number one starter.

“But we’re just at the beginning of the biggest fight in Beachwood history. It’s time to bring it up another notch. And to take the momentum of today into tomorrow and the rest of the week.”

Coach pauses and I can’t help it—I wonder if the other shoe is about to drop.

It does.

“And with Amber’s presence, we’re unstoppable!”

Did Coach just mention Amber the same day I pitched the greatest game of my life?

“It’s our turn! We’re going to bring home our first Beachwood Academy banner in almost a decade. With all this effort, we might even come away with the district title.”

Everyone cheers again, except for me. It’s like no one even noticed what just happened.

“Get a good night’s sleep and be ready for practice tomorrow.” Coach grabs her scorebook from the whiteboard edge. “I’ll see you then.”

Did she seriously just say that?

I wait until my teammates vacate the team room, then barrel up to Coach Kate, interrupting her conversation with Coach Jackie. “Can I talk to you for a second?” I ask.

To Coach Jackie she says, “Why don’t you meet me in my office in five minutes?” And then to me, “Yes, Kylie?”

“I just wanted to double check what you meant when you mentioned Amber.” I shift nervously.

Coach’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“I just thought that after the game today you would see that I’m the one who should be starting.” I pause for a second and then I let it all out. “You saw my screwball today. I dominated Bel Air. And you know how important Division I is to me. It’s all I . . .” I stop myself when I see Coach Kate’s bottom lip jut out just a bit. And before I sound just plain pathetic.

Coach Kate’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, Kylie. I know this is really hard. And I know we’ve been working together for a number of years . . .” She lets out a breath. “But you know, Santo Bay isn’t Bel Air. They’re not the same team. Have you been working on your power and the accuracy of your rise ball?” She tilts her head to the side.

I face her head-on. “Of course I have. And you know it’s not all about the rise ball. I have movement on my pitches. Accuracy. My screwball.”

Coach Kate crosses her arms. “You’re a very good control pitcher, Ky, and I’d love for you to start again. But with Amber’s rise ball being over sixty-five miles per hour, how can I possibly bench her? Without that kind of power in your arsenal, I just can’t permanently move you to the starting spot.”

“But that spot was mine for—”

Coach Kate interrupts me. “I know, Kylie. That spot was yours for two years. And I can only imagine how this must hurt you. But you know as well as I do that this is the best thing for the team.”

“I—” I cut myself off when I feel the hot tears start to build. The problem is Coach Kate is right. I turn around and sprint out of the team room.