Baseball World Series Page 7

  Then Liam understood. “Your ‘tell.’ ”

  A few weeks earlier, Melanie had accidentally sent Carter a video montage of Phillip pitching. Ash had watched the video with Carter, and he noticed that every time Phillip prepared to throw a changeup, he wiped his cheek on his shoulder. Any batter who knew about the face-wipe would know which pitch was coming.

  Carter, still bearing a grudge against Phillip, had sat on the information for a few days. But his conscience got the better of him, and he explained the discovery to Liam. Liam had told Phillip—only to find out that Phillip did the face-wipe intentionally as a superstitious ritual. Since the cat was out of the bag, however, he and Liam had come up with a new plan. Instead of actually doing the move, Phillip just imagined himself going through the motions. Fortunately, it seemed to work.

  “He could have used my ‘tell’ to his advantage,” Phillip murmured now.

  “He’d never do that,” Liam said. “That’s not the kind of guy he is.”

  “I wish I’d said something last night.”

  “You’ll have another chance,” Liam assured him.

  “Batter up!”

  Dom headed toward the plate. As usual, he hopped over the foul line, believing that stepping on it was bad luck. He needed more than luck to get a hit, though. Carter mowed him down with three straight fastballs.

  “Oooo-kay,” Dom said, looking dazed as he reentered the dugout. “Those weren’t regular fastballs. They were lightning-fast fastballs.”

  Phillip picked up his bat. “I’ll handle ’em,” he said confidently.

  He might have, too, except Carter didn’t serve him any. Instead, he got Phillip out on changeups.

  That brought up Matt. Easily the most muscular player on the team, Matt channeled his strength into solid hits whenever he connected. This time, though, he didn’t connect. Like Dom and Phillip, he went down swinging.

  As Liam strapped on his catcher’s gear, Coach Driscoll approached him with Mid-Atlantic’s lineup in his hand. “I thought you should see who’s batting this inning.” The coach showed him the order.

  First up was Charlie M. Then it was Carter’s turn. Liam’s heart started pounding. His palms turned sweaty and his mouth turned dry. He’d known he’d be behind the plate when Carter came up to bat, just as he’d known he’d face Carter’s pitches. He thought he was prepared for it. He wasn’t.

  What should I do? he thought as he hurried to his spot behind the plate. Should I look at him? Not look at him? Smile? Not smile?

  He pushed the concerns from his mind when Charlie M. got into his batting stance. Charlie knocked Phillip’s third pitch to Dom at shortstop. Dom threw him out at first.

  Now Carter stepped into the batter’s box at the right side of the plate. Their eyes met briefly. Then Carter turned to the mound and lifted the bat over his shoulder.

  In that instant, Liam’s game brain took over. He remembered that Carter, a lefty, used to pull the ball to the right whenever he hit it.

  I should have told Coach Driscoll about that! he thought. If the coach knew, he might have repositioned the outfielders a few steps to the right.

  But Liam hadn’t told him, and maybe it wouldn’t matter. After all, Carter could have learned how to send the ball the other way in the past few months, and if he didn’t pull the ball, the West players would be out of position.

  Carter’s getting a hit was a distinct possibility as Phillip had not been pitching his best. Liam hoped that it was just nerves and that Phillip had worked them out by now.

  He hadn’t. Liam signaled for a fastball, but what Phillip threw was anything but.

  Pow! Carter connected. Sure enough, the ball pulled to the right as it soared past first base and into the outfield. Applause thundered down as Carter sprinted down the base path. Liam appraised his progress.

  He’s faster than he was last year, he thought with a flicker of unease. Almost Charlie Murray fast!

  But it wouldn’t have mattered if Carter had been the fastest boy on the planet. Rodney caught the fly ball, and Carter was out.

  A small boy—Liam thought his name was Raj—came up to bat. He barely moved as three straight pitches sailed wide of the strike zone. He let the fourth go by for a called strike and got a free ticket to first when Phillip misfired the fifth.

  “Shake it off, man, shake it off!” Liam called out as he threw the ball back to Phillip.

  Allen looked the first two pitches into the mitt. He swung at the third, bouncing it toward Cole. Cole fielded it cleanly and threw to Nate at second. Raj was out, and the top of the inning was over.

  West hurried off as Mid-Atlantic took the field. Liam saw Carter’s head turn in his direction and then quickly snap forward. That was okay; the last thing Liam wanted was to distract Carter.

  In the dugout, he looked for Phillip, who usually helped him with his catcher’s gear. This time the pitcher just sat down heavily on the bench.

  Coach Driscoll hurried over. “Phillip, everything all right?”

  Phillip rubbed his hands over his face. “I think you should take me out, Coach.”

  Coach Driscoll chuckled. “Because you struck out and gave up a walk last inning? I hardly think that qualifies as not playing well.” He turned serious. “What would is the regret you’d feel later if you gave up on yourself now.”

  “You know what stinks?” Liam put in as he shed the rest of his gear, put on a helmet, and grabbed a bat. “Thinking that you have to carry the whole game yourself. You don’t. We’re all in this together!”

  “I know something else that stinks,” Dom called from across the dugout. “Dog poo. Oh, and Matt’s breath after he eats buffalo chicken.”

  “Say what?” Matt said, swiveling his head in Dom’s direction.

  “It’s the truth, and you know it,” Dom scoffed.

  “Hello?” Rodney, up first, was about to leave the dugout. “What would really stink is if you guys kept talking instead of cheering for me!”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Carter took his cap off, ran his forearm over his sweaty hair, and put the cap back on. He rubbed his left hand on his pant leg and took the ball out of his glove. It took willpower not to pound it back into the pocket over and over while he waited for the West batter to come to the plate. He knew that motion advertised anxiety—and he didn’t want the batter to think he was anxious. So instead, he clutched the ball behind his back.

  He was nervous, though, because Rodney had racked up lots of hits in the postseason. Ash knew it, too. He flashed the signal Carter was hoping for.

  Knuckleball.

  Carter hid his excitement and gave a curt nod. He’d already tucked the ball against his palm in anticipation. Now he curled his fingers so the tips of the pointer, middle, and ring fingers were digging into the white cover by the stitching and the tip of the thumb was gripping below. He went into his windup, reared back, lunged forward, and threw, flicking his fingers and thumb as he released the ball.

  That flick made all the difference in the knuckleball. If only the top fingers did it, the ball would spin wildly. Add in the thumb, though, and the ball scarcely rotated. Instead, it fluttered as it pushed its way through the air, resisting it.

  Carter’s flick was perfect. The ball looked like it was dancing as it headed toward Ash’s open glove. Rodney took a big cut but missed by a mile.

  Carter offered up a second knuckleball with the same result. Then, following Ash’s signal, he switched to a changeup. Rodney clipped the ball for a dribbler. Carter raced in, scooped it up, and threw to first. Rodney was out.

  Carter headed back to the mound. He took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly through his mouth, a relaxation technique that Liam had taught him. He turned to see who the next batter was—and breathed deeply a few more times.

  It was Liam.

  Carter squeezed his eyes shut.

  He’s just another batter. He’s just another batter. He’s just another batter.

/>   No, he’s not, a little voice inside Carter objected. He’s your best friend. And remember what happened last year?

  An image of Liam lying in the dirt after his strikeout flashed in Carter’s mind.

  Then another voice spoke in his head: “If I think for one second you’re taking it easy on me…”

  “I won’t, Liam,” Carter said under his breath. He pushed the ball into his palm and leaned in for the signal. When it came, he blinked in surprise.

  Changeup?

  He shook it off with a hurried movement of his head. But Ash flashed the same fingers again. Carter bit his lip and nodded. As he moved the ball in his hand, he glanced at Liam.

  His cousin was staring at him with an intensity Carter had never seen in his eyes. Because I’ve never pitched to him during a game before, he thought. He narrowed his eyes. Not until now.

  He reared back and threw. The off-speed pitch seemed to float toward Ash’s glove. Liam swung.

  Pow!

  It was a line shot toward third base. Allen leaped. He almost got his glove on the ball, but it fell behind him and rolled away. Fortunately, Charlie M. had dashed in from left field to back him up and was there to retrieve it. If he hadn’t, the damage might have been much worse: Liam might have been standing on second instead of first.

  Carter received the ball back from Charlie M. He glanced toward the first-base dugout to see who was up next. It was Mason.

  As he waited for Mason to take his stance, he heard a familiar voice cry out.

  “Get ready to motor, Liam!” Phillip called from the dugout.

  Unlike right-handed pitchers who face third base, Carter, a southpaw, faced first. So he saw what Phillip did next: He pointed at his chest, then his nose, and stabbed his finger in the air.

  Carter thought he recognized that gesture. It looked like the nose-bop Liam had pulled on Phillip at last year’s World Series, like the gesture Phillip had made after striking Liam out—the one he punctuated with “Made you whiff!”

  A shock wave rocketed through Carter’s system. He thought Liam hated that gesture because it reminded him of the strikeout. Why would Phillip make it now? Unless…

  Is it some kind of secret signal between them?

  He shook his head. If it was, he couldn’t waste time wondering what it meant. Instead, he faced Mason with renewed determination to make Liam’s the last hit West got off him.

  Mason stepped into the box. Green eyes blazing, Carter stared at him for a second. Then he went into his windup and hurled the first pitch, a heater that hit Ash’s glove with a loud pop. Mason didn’t even swing.

  “Strike one!” the home-plate umpire cried, gesturing to the side with his fist.

  Carter followed with a tailing fastball that caught the inside corner of the plate. Mason let that one go by, too.

  “Strike two!”

  Is he going to swing at anything? Carter asked himself.

  He got his answer on the next pitch, a knuckleball with plenty of movement. To Carter, it looked like it might go wide of the strike zone. Yet Mason went for it—and struck out. When Nate also fanned on three pitches, the inning was over.

  As he moved off the mound, Carter glanced back at his cousin. Liam wasn’t looking his way, though; he was approaching Phillip.

  “Time to show them your heat!” he heard Liam say.

  Not too long ago, Carter would have bristled to hear Liam support Phillip. But not now. They’re teammates. No… he amended, recalling the two of them joking the night before. They’re friends.

  And for the first time, that was really okay with him. What had happened in the past was no longer important. Moving forward was.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Okay,” Phillip said in the dugout, “let’s do this thing!”

  Liam didn’t know what had made the difference for Phillip—his teammates’ support, his almost-hit off Carter’s knuckleball, or just settling into the game—but he looked like a different player on the mound. His delivery was smooth and natural. His fastballs sizzled and hit Liam’s glove smack in the pocket for strikes. His changeups fooled batters again and again. And Liam could personally attest to the fact that his stare-down was as intense as ever. It came as no surprise to him when Phillip retired the side in order. The West players slapped him on the back when they reached the dugout.

  The bottom of the third began with a walk for Cole. Surprised, Phillip and Liam exchanged glances.

  “Think your cousin is losing steam?” Phillip whispered.

  “Don’t count on it,” Liam warned. But he wondered, too. And deep inside, a very small part of him hoped it might be true, because he wanted to leave the game a winner.

  Carmen grounded out but advanced Cole to second. Dom reached first on a fielder’s error and Cole dashed to third. Then Phillip knocked out a single that sent Cole home and saw Dom speeding safely to second!

  The West players in the dugout went crazy. “Keep it going, Matt!” they cried as the muscular boy strode to the plate. “You can do it!”

  Matt dug his toe into the dirt beside home plate, lifted the bat over his shoulder—and struck out in five pitches.

  “Knuckleballs,” he muttered as he came into the dugout.

  Two on, two outs—and Rodney was up. He pinged a dribbler toward the mound. Carter darted forward—and flubbed the pickup! Rodney made it to first. Phillip made it to second, and Dom landed on third. If the noise in the dugout had been loud before, now it was positively deafening!

  Liam’s heart started pounding, but with anticipation, not fear.

  Two outs, bases loaded! Look out, Carter, because here I come!

  As he left the dugout, however, a sudden thought struck him: I haven’t seen his knuckleball yet. Then it was fear that made his heart beat faster.

  Liam had never hit a knuckleball—at least, he didn’t think he had. Back in the Regional tournament, he had faced a pitcher who struck him out on three straight knuckleballs. He had faced him again in the title game, where he saw two more floaters before launching a pitch over the fence for a game-winning homer.

  But was that pitch a knuckleball? He thought it might have been. Hoped it was, because it meant he could hit the tricky pitch. But he didn’t know for sure.

  He eyed Carter warily. It was like looking at a stranger—an unsmiling, fiercely competitive stranger, whose stare was all business. Liam swallowed hard. His grip tightened on the bat.

  Something tells me I’m about to see that knuckleball for myself right now.

  He took a deep breath. Carter went through his windup and threw. The ball fluttered toward him. He kept his eye on it, swung—and missed.

  “Nice try.”

  The murmur behind him was quiet but filled with intensity. Liam risked a glance back, expecting to see a look of smug satisfaction on Ash’s face. But the catcher simply stood up and threw the ball back to Carter before settling back into his crouch.

  Carter threw again. Same pitch. Same result. Same murmured nice try from Ash.

  Liam quickly stepped out of the box.

  Is Ash trying to psych me out with that nice try stuff? he wondered as he tapped the dirt from his cleats. He flicked a look to the catcher again, but it was impossible to see Ash’s expression behind the mask. He gripped the bat more tightly, stepped back in, and stared down at Carter.

  Everything but the connection between them faded. Carter reared back, lunged forward, and threw. The ball practically danced toward the plate. Liam swung—and missed.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  I’m sorry, Liam,” Carter whispered as he trotted to the dugout, his head turning to watch his cousin trudge away from the plate. “I had to do it.”

  With bases loaded and two outs, Carter had thrown three straight knuckleballs. His teammates were overjoyed, but he just felt lousy. He had suspected Liam would struggle with that pitch, and he’d used it against him.

  But what else could I have done? he thought as he took a seat o
n the bench. If I’d thrown him a fastball, he would have killed it. If I’d thrown him a changeup, he’d have killed that, too, just like he did his first at bat. And if I hadn’t thrown the knuckleball, he would have killed me for taking it easy on him!

  A hand fell on his shoulder. “You okay, son?” It was Coach Harrison. He was looking at Carter with concern.

  Carter stared at the ground between his feet and shrugged. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “It wasn’t fair of me to put you in that situation,” the coach said. “So I’m taking you out and putting Peter on the mound.”

  Carter’s head snapped up. “What? No, Coach, it’s okay! I’m okay!” Carter knew Peter was a good pitcher, but he also knew that sometimes Peter let tension get the better of him.

  Coach Harrison’s mind was made up, however. “There’ll be other games,” he said.

  But how many, if we lose today? Carter wanted to scream.

  “We’ve got to get him out of our heads once and for all.”

  Carter turned to find Ash standing behind him, a cup of water in his hand.

  “Who?”

  “Liam. Remember how I told you he distracted me in the first inning?”

  Carter nodded.

  “Well, it wasn’t his fault. It was mine. I started thinking about the message he sent me at the parade—you know, about him being okay with me catching for you.” Ash drained his cup. “Anyway, I thought I should tell you… I said something to him while he was at bat this last time.”

  Carter tensed. “What?”

  Ash shifted on his feet. “I said ‘nice try’ after he missed your first two pitches. I meant it in a good way,” he added hurriedly. “But now I’m worried he might think I was being sarcastic or something. And that you might think it was kind of disloyal of me to, you know, offer him support.”

  Relief flooded through Carter. He tilted his head back to look Ash in the eye. “I don’t think that,” he assured the catcher. “But you’re right. We both need to put Liam out of our heads whenever we play his team. Which we might not get to do again if we don’t win today!”