“Who is this kid?” Ty muttered for the fourth time that game.
“I keep telling you,” Theo said patiently, which didn’t bode well for him not having heard Ty’s cussing, “his name is Jeff Bridges.”
Tyknewwhat the clipboard said. But how was he supposed to believe that kid’s actual name was so appropriate?
Jeff Bridges If That Was His Real Name dragged his bat through the dirt. He squared up to the plate. He spat over his shoulder the way he had the first three times he’d batted.
Henry signaled to the fielders, in case they’d forgotten. His first hit had gone just fair down the first-base line, not quite over the fence—Central’s first run of the game. Second was a pop fly, caught out center field, but after that Central’s coaches got gun-shy and opted for the safe route—an infield grounder to get on base in the hopes someone else could bat him home.
With the game on the line, it was do-or-die time. Ty expected the kid to swing for the fences.
“You can do it, Pete!”
Ty blinked, startled to realize the encouragement came from Danny. “Aren’t the two of them still—”
Henry stepped on his foot, like he thought Ty might jinx it by saying it out loud.
Pete wound up and released the pitch.
“Strike one!”
“Attaboy, Pete! You got this!”
Pete’s cheeks flushed, either with the heat or the pressure or the encouragement.
“Strike two!”
Not Really Jeff Bridges spat again. He waggled the bat. He narrowed his eyes.
Crack.
It happened almost too quickly to see. One minute Pete was releasing the ball. The next minute he was flat on the ground, clutching at his throat.
Not Jeff Bridges didn’t even run. He dropped the bat, his face white with horror. For the first time, he looked like he belonged on a high school baseball team.
Ty was running, though, almost before Pete hit the ground. “Henry, get the first-aid kit! Danny, call 911. Riley, sit with Theo.” The last thing he needed was for his kid to see this.
He skidded to his knees in the dirt, already reaching for Pete’s neck even as he fished out his pocketknife. “Hey, Pete, try to stay calm, okay? I’m going to check out the damage and then I’m going to help you breathe.”
Pete’s eyes were wide and terrified, and their time was limited, but Ty needed to keep him from panicking if he was going to have to do what he thought he’d have to do.
Pete let Ty coax his hands away from his throat, where the ball had struck him straight on below the chin. The impact had left a round red welt, but he’d been lucky enough to take the hit high. Ty had a little room to work.
“Okay, Pete, I need you to do two things. First, can you wiggle your feet?” Ty wouldn’t be able to see his toes inside his shoes.
Both feet moved in the dirt just as Henry set the first-aid kit down next to him.
“Good, that’s good, Pete. Okay, now I want you to take a very slow deep breath if you can. Got it?”
Pete nodded infinitesimally, but his chest barely rose. Ty could see him start to panic.
Ty flicked open the pocketknife without looking up at Henry. “Give me an iodine swab and the straw from one of the water bottles.”
Henry set the supplies on Pete’s chest and took off at a run for the dugout.
“Okay, Pete, you’re doing fine. You’re going to be able to breathe in a minute. Try to relax. This is probably going to hurt, but it’s important to stay still.” Ty didn’t want to wait until he passed out.
Pete gave him a weak thumbs-up. His lips were turning blue.
