Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
The manager, Reyes, if I recall correctly, plants himself between me and his pitcher, though it’s unclear who he’s really trying to protect. “What’s the call here?” he demands, resting his hands on his hips. “We had a good game going, and now you’re throwing balk calls around like confetti.”
“Your pitcher made an illegal motion,” I explain, gesturing at the rubber. “He engaged for a throw to first, then attempted to revert to pitching home. That’s a balk.”
“You telling me that was a real balk?” Reyes’s voice rises with each word, and I can see the veins popping in his neck. “Or did you just see an opportunity to flex those stripes?”
Outrage flares in my chest, but I force it down. “I’m not here to ‘flex’ anything. Balk is a balk. The rule is clear. Check your replay if you don’t trust me.” I flick my gaze to the scoreboard, which shows the newly tied score. “One run came in because of a mistake. That’s the game. Let’s move on.”
Reyes splutters, but I think he realizes pushing the issue could get him tossed out. The crowd is chanting something now—hard to make out over the general din, but it sounds like a mix of “Ump, you suck!” and “Let him pitch!” Typical fan meltdown. Tuning them out, I gesture for the game to continue. Riptide’s still standing there, eyes locked on me, as though he’s daring me to do something else that’ll set him off.
The catcher tries once more to calm him down. “Come on, Ripley. Let’s just get back in the zone. We still have a couple innings left.”
Riptide finally picks up his glove from the dirt. He points at me again, but his voice is lower, more controlled, as he mutters, “This isn’t over. You owe me.”
I nearly roll my eyes. “I owe you nothing,” I say firmly. “Pitch the game or leave the field. That’s your choice.”
For a second, I think he’s about to launch another tirade, but then he bites down on his lip and storms back to the mound, firing a resentful look my way. Meanwhile, the manager lingers in front of me for a moment longer, his gaze boring into me as though he’s memorizing my face for future vendettas. Then he turns on his heel and stomps back to the dugout.
I replace my facemask, ignoring the sheen of sweat on my forehead. My pulse is pounding, but outwardly I keep it together. I glance toward the stands, noticing a few fans leaning forward in their seats, cameras and phones raised to capture the drama. Great—this’ll probably end up on social media, with endless debates about the call. But if it’s the right call, it’s the right call. That’s why I’m here… to keep the game fair.
The next pitch from Riptide is a fastball, low and inside. “Strike!” I call, my voice echoing across the field. The batter barely flinches. There’s a certain heat behind that throw, a barely contained rage that might cost Riptide if he can’t control it.
He sets up for the second pitch, shoulders taut, tension visible in every muscle. The ball rockets toward home plate, this time going wide. “Ball!” I bark.
The catcher shakes his head slightly as he throws the ball back, probably telling Riptide to breathe, to steady his arm. But the pitcher’s expression is stormy, and his gaze darts back to me more often than it does to the catcher’s signals.
As the at-bat continues, I notice the runner on first creeping off the bag again. The tension is back. If Riptide tries another pick-off move, he’ll have to be flawless. The crowd knows it too. Every time he lifts his foot, the entire stadium seems to hold its breath, waiting for a repeat of that balk call or some other meltdown.
He hurls another fastball. “Foul!” I announce as the batter clips it, sending it dribbling up the first-base line. The runner retreats, and the tension ratchets up another notch. We go through a few more pitches—two more balls, another foul, then finally a sharp grounder to short. The shortstop scoops it neatly and fires to second. They catch the runner in a force play, and the second baseman whips it to first, but the batter beats the throw by a step.
“That’s two outs!” I yell. The scoreboard updates, showing the home team’s fleeting chance to salvage the inning. Riptide stands on the mound, hands on his hips, glaring at the dirt as if it’s personally offended him.
Between batters, I step back to give the catcher some space. He glances up at me. “You all right, Kali?” he asks softly, sounding almost sympathetic.
“I’m fine,” I reply, shifting my mask up to my forehead. “Just hot as hell out here.” My throat is parched, and I’d love a big swig of water, but I can’t leave my post now. The game is still on, the next batter stepping up to the plate. The scoreboard clock says we’re two hours into the contest, and it feels like it’s just heating up in more ways than one.