“You notice anything inside his car? Maybe a receipt from a motel or a restaurant? Any clue about where he’s hiding out?”
“No, I didn’t notice anything. But I wasn’t really looking.”
Rico leans in and stares at me for a long beat, studying my face for signs that I’m lying. Eventually, he heaves an annoyed sigh. “Next time, pay better attention.”
“O-okay,” I bleat. “I will.”
“If he shows up again — and he will show up, make no mistake — we want to know about it. You understand?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. Your little baseball star boyfriend knows how to get in touch.”
He jerks his chin at his partner. Barboza releases me instantly. I drop like a rag doll, crumpling to the pavement in a pile of limp limbs. A heavy boot stomps down, directly beside my head.
I flinch into the fetal position — curling my knees to my chest, shielding my head with my arms. Trying to make myself as small as humanly possible.
Rico chuckles. “See you soon, sweetheart.”
I don’t dare move until the sound of their footsteps has retreated across the parking lot, until their engine has rumbled out of earshot. When I finally find my feet, the men are long gone.
I pick up my keys, climb into my car, and start the engine. I’m halfway home when I have to pull over again.
My eyes are too full of tears to see the road.
Chapter Twenty
ARCHER
The cameras flashfrom all sides, a blinding strobe. I grin as I lift the State Championship trophy over my head. My teammates are a blur of motion around me — jumping into the air, pounding their chests, howling at the top of their lungs.
“WOLFPACK!AH-WOOOOO!”
“STATE CHAMPS!”
“UNDEFEATED, BABY!”
The Xaverian team trudges off the field, disappointment ebbing off them in waves. They gave their best effort, but it wasn’t enough to beat us.
To beatme.
Tonight, I brought my A-game. I channeled every ounce of rage and fear and self-loathing into my arm; let it coil in my muscles like electrical charges in a storm cloud. Each pitch was a lightning strike, a bolt of pure power flying out with unstoppable force.
No batter stood a chance.
Inning after inning, they stepped up, determined to land a hit. Inning after inning, I sent them back to the dugout, unsuccessful in their efforts.
A no-hitter.
A massacre.
HOME: 10
AWAY: 0
A perfect end to a perfect season.
After the final score is called, Exeter fans flood onto the field — a mix of family members and significant others, alumni and school staff. I briefly catch sight of my parents in the mob, jumping up and down like enthusiastic teenagers. I lose track of them when Chris Tomlinson and Andy Hilton hoist me into the air. The whole team begins to chant my name.