The locker room buzzed with pure, unfiltered energy. Music blasted from a Bluetooth speaker someone had wedged into a cubby, and half the team was out of uniform, tossing towels at each other or dancing like maniacs. Even Coach had cracked a rare smile after the walk-off win.
It was Mark who got tackled first, still half in his gear, drenched in sweat and Gatorade.
"You're a damn legend, Reyes!" shouted Devon, giving him a headlock-hug combo that almost knocked the wind out of him.
"Put him down!" Jared shouted from across the room, laughing as he limped toward them, his arm still in a sling.
"No way," Devon said. "Our MVP needs to suffer!"
Mark grinned, wrestling free. "That was one hit. Chill."
"One hit that saved our season," said Travis, handing him a water bottle. "Don't be humble. You crushed it."
Jared leaned against the wall next to Mark, eyes soft. "That was something else."
Mark gave him a glance, and despite everything that had happened between them, a warmth lingered in Jared's gaze that made his heart beat a little faster.
Coach clapped his hands and the room quieted down.
"Alright boys, that was a big one," he said. "But don't celebrate too hard yet. We've got one more game. Win, and we're playoff-bound. Lose, and the season's over. I expect everyone to keep their heads in the game."
A few groans rose up, but the energy stayed electric. Playoffs were within reach.
What no one knew—except Jared—was that he was planning something.
---
Jared had been sneaking into the athletic training room for a week. Ice baths. Resistance bands. Range-of-motion drills. His physical therapist had warned him not to rush it—but he couldn't stand being on the bench anymore.
Not when the team needed him.
Not when Mark needed him.
By the morning of the final game, he'd made his decision.
He was going in.
---
The stadium was packed. Parents, alumni, students—everyone showed up. The bleachers buzzed with chants, cowbells, and stomping feet. It was the biggest crowd they'd played for all season.
Mark walked out to the mound for warmups, adjusting his chest guard. His heart thudded in time with the music blaring from the speakers. Jared caught his eye from the dugout, nodding.
They were ready.
And when the game started, it was like something had clicked.
First inning? Three up, three down.
Second inning? Back-to-back doubles and a home run put them up 3-0.
By the third, it was 5–0 and the crowd was electric.
Even without Jared, the team had found its rhythm. But Mark kept glancing to the dugout, watching the way Jared paced, muttered along with every play, arm still in its sling but eyes laser-focused.
"Feels like we're finally playing like a team again," Travis said, sitting next to Mark between innings.
"Yeah," Mark replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Still a lot of baseball left, though."
He wasn't wrong.
By the seventh-inning stretch, the score was 9–4. But that's when everything started to unravel.
---
The opposing team came out swinging. A bloop single here. A walk. Then a hard grounder past third. Bases loaded, one out.
Mark called for a change-up. Their pitcher nodded and delivered—but it hung too high.
CRACK.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
The ball soared deep into center field. Mark watched, frozen, as it cleared the wall.
Grand slam.
Now it was 9–8.
The stadium deflated.
The pitcher wiped his brow. Coach stayed seated, hands clenched. Mark called for time and jogged to the mound.
"You good?" he asked.
The pitcher nodded too fast.
Next batter—walked.
Next one—hit by pitch.
Now it was first and second, still one out. The coach stood and headed for the mound.
"Alright, that's enough," he said. "You gave us six solid innings, but we need to change it up."
He called for a reliever. The team huddled. Everyone tense. Everyone quiet.
Then, from behind them, a voice cut through the air.
"I'll pitch."
Everyone turned.
Jared stood there, glove on his right hand, sling nowhere in sight.
Coach stared at him. "No. You're not cleared."
"I've been rehabbing. Every day. I can throw. Just give me one inning. That's all I'm asking."
Coach hesitated. Mark's heart was in his throat.
"Jared—" he began.
But Jared looked only at the coach. "Let me finish this."
A long pause.
Then Coach nodded once. "One inning. No heroics. If your shoulder so much as twitches, I'm pulling you."
Jared jogged to the mound.
The crowd, confused at first, slowly began to cheer. Then they erupted.
Jared was back.
---
He threw a few warmups. Nothing fancy, just fastballs, but they hit the catcher's mitt with enough snap to make the batter raise an eyebrow.
Mark knelt behind the plate, watching closely.
"You sure about this?" he muttered.
Jared gave him a quick grin. "Let's do this."
Mark signaled for a curve.
Jared nodded.
The pitch danced low and inside. The batter swung—missed.
Strike one.
Second pitch—fastball up. Foul tip. Strike two.
The crowd leaned in. One more.
Jared exhaled and fired.
Strike three.
The next batter grounded out to shortstop.
Inning over.
The stadium roared.
Mark threw his fist in the air. Jared gave him a look—just a look—but it said everything.
They weren't done yet.
---
The bottom of the 7th had come and gone in a flash—three batters up, three batters down. Mark's chest rose and fell steadily behind the plate, his gear damp with sweat, but his focus razor sharp. Jared, despite being out of the game for nearly a month, looked like the version of himself from the start of the season—precise, composed, in control.
They were three outs from keeping their slim lead intact.
Top of the 8th.
Jared took the mound again, determination etched into every movement. Mark crouched low behind the plate, giving a quick fist of encouragement.
"Let's keep it going," Mark called out.
The first batter swung at the first pitch—strike one—then fouled off the second. Jared wasted no time finishing him off with a low curve that nicked the outside corner.
Strike three.
One out.
The next batter stepped in and lined a sharp single past the shortstop.
Mark popped to his feet and whipped the ball back to the mound, eyeing Jared.
"You good?" he asked.
Jared nodded. "Still locked in."
The third batter stepped in, big and built like a linebacker. The opposing dugout was shouting now, fired up.
Jared ignored it.
First pitch—fastball. Low and inside.
The batter made contact, a sharp grounder toward second.
"Two!" Mark shouted.
The second baseman scooped it up, flipped to short—then to first.
Double play.
The dugout exploded with cheers.
Jared walked back to the dugout to a wall of slaps on the back and high-fives. Mark gave him a subtle nod, his heart pounding.
Bottom of the 8th.
First batter: struck out swinging, fastball high and tight.
Second batter: Travis.
Travis dropped a perfect bunt down the third base line. The third baseman charged, barehanded the ball—and fired.
Safe.
The crowd erupted.
"Nice wheels!" someone from the dugout yelled as Travis tossed his helmet toward the batboy and clapped his hands.
Then he was off again, stealing second with the first pitch of the next at-bat. The catcher's throw bounced into center, but the center fielder was quick to back it up. Travis stayed put at second.
Mark leaned on the bat in the on-deck circle, eyes narrowing. His pulse thumped in his ears.
The next batter hit a fly out to left field, just deep enough to tag Travis to third.
Two outs. Runner on third.
Mark stepped into the box.
The air was thick. Everyone was standing now—students, parents, even the rival fans holding their breath.
"Let's go, Reyes!" someone shouted from the stands.
From the dugout, Jared's voice rose above the noise. "You got this, Mark!"
Mark tightened his grip.
The pitcher went into the windup. First pitch—ball, low.
Second—called strike.
Third pitch—swing and a miss.
1-2 count.
Mark stepped out, tapped his cleats, then settled back in.
The pitcher stared him down, nodded to the catcher, then delivered.
Fastball.
Mark read it instantly, turned on it, and crack—the bat connected cleanly, sending the ball slicing down the left field line.
Travis took off the second the ball left the bat.
The left fielder gave chase, but it bounced just fair and skidded to the wall.
Travis scored.
Mark rounded first and slid into second.
RBI double.
**10–8.**
The stadium lost its mind.
The dugout emptied as Mark stood up and pumped his fist, greeted by hugs and slaps. Jared was one of the last to reach him, grin wide, eyes bright.
"You're clutch, Reyes," he said softly.
Mark grinned, panting. "Just doing my part."
As the team gathered for the last inning, with Jared set to close it out, the energy was electric.
They were almost there.
They just had to finish the job.