Almost Home

Chapter Five

The sun warms me to the core, casting out around Lydia and I as we watch the fourth game of the series.

After Jack, Easton, and I were done talking, Easton walked me back up to my hotel room before heading to his own.

Lydia had, of course, asked me for details, only to be extremely disappointed when I didn't have any that didn't involve baseball.

We'd gotten up this morning and headed over to the baseball complex, drinking our iced coffees behind home plate as we waited on the teams to warm up.

We're down seven to five in the bottom of the sixth.

Easton was on the pitcher's mound, confident in his abilities.

Carson was behind the plate, not letting a single ball slip through.

I wasn't truly worried that we were losing, not as long as those two were where they were supposed to be.

But I should've been.

For the first time this tournament, drawing into extra innings to try for a hard-fought victory, the Frogs lose the game.

I wait for both my brother and Easton outside of the dugout, and, most likely because of all the equipment Carson has to remove, Easton exits first.

He has a streak of dirt across his forehead, his eye black smeared nearly to his chin on the right side.

When he approaches, he's wiggling his fingers, grimacing slightly, but I don't think anything of it as he gives me a small downcast smile.

"I thought these little meetings were saved for if I pitched a good game."

"That was when we weren't friends and I was just being polite," I nudge him with my shoulder, "And you did pitch a good game."

He doesn't look convinced, "I was practically throwing them right down the middle, so it's no wonder they were killing the ball."

I'd sat right behind home plate, so I know where his pitches were located.

Definitely not 'right down the middle.'

I'd played this game before - wounded athlete versus caring friend.

Carson is always in a bitter mood when he loses, no matter how good the other team was, or how good he, alone, played.

I know how to win this game.

"Are all the pitches you hit thrown right down the center?"

"No," he grins, "I like the outside corner ones. Take a step towards the corner of the plate and boom," he pretends to drive one deep into right field, "But I don't know what that - oh, wait a minute."

I chuckle as the realization sinks into him, "See my point?"

"Maybe."

"Trust me, I've played the wounded soldier game with Carson before."

"I can tell," he slows his pace, so I don't have to walk quite as fast to keep up with him, "You're pretty good at it."

"Pretty good? I just made Easton Trout realize he wasn't as bad as he thought as was."

"Well, yeah, but he's already so obsessed with himself that it couldn't have been too hard."

"That's true."

"Hey, now," he laughs, giving me a gentle shove, "Gentle. He, also, gets offended easily."

"Easton," Jack's voice doesn't sound as hearty and fun as it did yesterday, "That was quite the game you pitched."