Dean Mercer grabbed the batting cage with both hands.
And Grant Holloway stood motionless, his mouth slightly open.
The fourteen-year-old ball boy hadn’t merely touched the pitch. He had crushed it farther than anyone standing nearby had believed possible.
Malik lowered the bat.
His hands shook.
He looked toward the outfield wall, almost unable to believe what he had done.
Then Walter Sloan hurried toward him.
“Boy,” Walter demanded, “where did you learn that swing?”
Malik glanced down.
“My father’s notebook.”
Walter closed his eyes.
A terrible realization passed across his face.
The catcher approached.
“Who was your father?”
Before Malik could answer, Walter spoke.
“The man Grant Holloway spent ten years pretending never existed.”
Grant’s face went pale.
“Walter,” he warned.
But the elderly scout stepped closer.
“You swing exactly like your father,” he told Malik.
Malik’s heart pounded.
“You knew him?”
Walter nodded.
Grant suddenly stepped forward.
“Don’t say another word.”
Walter looked directly at him.
Then he spoke the name Grant had spent a decade trying to bury.
“Darius Turner.”
Malik froze.
Grant staggered backward.
But Walter wasn’t finished.
His voice cracked as he delivered the words that would destroy everything Malik believed about his childhood.
“Your father didn’t abandon you, Malik.”
The elderly man’s eyes filled with tears.
“He was sent to prison for something he didn’t do. And I helped put him there.”
