Mason stepped off before delivering the pitch.
Jordan slowed halfway toward second, confused.
“What happened?”
Ward walked to the base path and examined the dirt.
Chase ripped off his mask.
“He jumped early! That’s a balk of a start!”
“No,” Ward answered.
Chase frowned.
“What?”
“He didn’t guess.”
Ward turned toward Mason.
“Show me your pickoff move.”
Mason demonstrated.
“Again.”
He repeated it.
“Now deliver home.”
Mason began his motion.
Ward’s eyes narrowed.
“Your heel.”
Mason stopped.
“What about it?”
“You’re telling the runner where you’re throwing.”
A ripple passed through the players.
Ward pointed toward Jordan.
“Explain what you saw.”
Jordan swallowed.
“When he throws home, his back heel unloads sooner. When he picks off, he keeps his weight pressed down longer.”
Ward stared at him.
“How long have you been watching that?”
“About twenty minutes.”
Chase snorted.
“He got lucky.”
Ward looked at Chase as though deciding whether an argument was worth his time.
Then he raised one hand toward the bullpen.
“Rafael!”
A huge figure appeared near the bullpen gate.
Rafael Mercer, six feet four inches tall, had built his reputation on fastballs that regularly reached triple digits.
He was considered one of the fastest arms in the league.
“What’s up, Coach?”
Ward pointed toward the mound.
“Give me your quickest delivery from the stretch.”
Rafael looked at Jordan.
Then at Chase.
“What’s this?”
“A wager,” Ward said.
Rafael noticed the shoes.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nobody’s kidding.”
Jordan felt the atmosphere change.
A quick pitcher meant less time to reach second. If Rafael delivered a fastball, Chase would have the ball in his glove almost instantly.
But Ward wasn’t finished.
“Rafael, no deliberate tells. Mix your pickoff moves. Make him earn it.”
Rafael rolled his shoulders.
“You got it.”
Then Ward turned to Chase.
“And you. No excuses when this is over.”
Chase laughed.
“Fine. Let’s get this done.”
Jordan returned to first.
Across the stadium, the maintenance crew continued working.
His mother still didn’t know what was happening.
But someone else did.
Standing behind the third-base dugout, Coach Warren Blake had stopped watching batting practice.
His expression wasn’t amused.
It was furious.
Blake didn’t care about Jordan Price’s pride.
He cared about the cameras.
Three local sports reporters were already recording the challenge. Several players were streaming it.
If the video spread, it would remind people that Jordan Price had once been Ridgefield Academy’s fastest youth player.
And Blake had spent eighteen months ensuring that stories like Jordan’s disappeared.
Tomorrow evening, Ridgefield Academy would play for the state youth championship.
The game would take place right here at Falcon Park, in front of scouts, sponsors, investors, and thousands of spectators.
A victory would help finalize a development agreement worth one hundred million dollars.
Blake would become the public face of a new private baseball training empire.
There was only one difficulty.
Preston Knox, the wealthy businessman coordinating the development, had made his expectations unmistakable.
His son, Tyler Knox, needed to be the championship hero.
Tyler had expensive equipment, private trainers, and a father willing to spend almost anything to secure his future.
What Tyler didn’t possess was exceptional pitching talent.
That belonged to Noah Carter.
A fourteen-year-old Black teenager with a battered glove, borrowed cleats, and a grandfather who had taught him more about pitching than Blake understood.
Noah had been Ridgefield’s most effective pitcher throughout the season.
He had also been sitting on the bench increasingly often.
The official explanation was that Blake wanted to protect his young arm.
The real explanation was that Noah kept outperforming Tyler.
And Preston Knox hated being embarrassed.
Blake’s phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
PRESTON KNOX: I heard something is happening with the Price boy. Keep the distractions away from tomorrow.
Blake typed quickly.
Handled.
But before he could put the phone away, another message arrived.
And remember our agreement. Tyler finishes the championship. No Carter.
Blake stared at the screen.
Then he deleted the conversation.
He didn’t notice Tamara Price standing thirty feet above him, where the service walkway overlooked the dugout.
She couldn’t read his phone.
But she recognized Preston Knox’s name when Blake whispered it during his angry reply to an assistant.
She had heard that name far too often lately.
And she was beginning to understand why.
Jordan took his lead.
Rafael stood motionless on the mound.
For the first time, Jordan couldn’t find an obvious difference between the pitcher’s delivery and his pickoff move.
Rafael had excellent mechanics.
His back foot stayed steady.
His shoulders revealed nothing.
And Chase Dalton was waiting behind the plate.
Jordan’s stomach tightened.
He had wanted to prove that he belonged.
Now he was beginning to fear he’d made a terrible mistake.
Rafael glanced toward first.
Jordan retreated a step.
Rafael threw over.
The baseball cracked into the first baseman’s glove.
Jordan dove back, barely touching the bag before the tag.
“Safe!” Ward called.
Chase clapped his hands.
“That’s one warning, kid.”
Jordan stood, brushing dirt from his uniform.
His left shoe felt loose.
More tape had peeled away.
Rafael came set again.
This time Jordan watched his entire body.
A professional pitcher could disguise his feet, but he couldn’t throw to two bases at once.
At some point, his weight had to commit.
Jordan remembered something his grandfather had taught him.
Don’t run because you think the pitcher is going home. Run when you know he can’t come back.
Rafael lifted his front foot.
Jordan started—
Then stopped.
Rafael spun toward first.
The ball arrived with a loud smack.
Jordan scrambled back safely.
The players began murmuring.
“He’s actually reading him.”
“Did you see that?”
“That kid’s got instincts.”
Chase’s expression tightened.
Ward moved closer to the first-base line.
He watched Jordan’s feet.
“Price.”
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s wrong with that left shoe?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Jordan looked down.
The sole was hanging open.
Ward studied it.
“Do you have another pair?”
Jordan shook his head.
Ward glanced at a coach’s equipment bag.
“We can get you some.”
