Game Changer (2 page)

KT already had that.

It was the top of the fifth inning, and KT’s team was behind 3-2.

Coach Mike sent her out to the pitching circle with a slap on the back and three words: “Shut ’em down.”

KT had been pitching for Coach Mike for two years. She knew exactly what he was asking for: three strikeouts in a row, nine pitches so dazzling and tricky that three of the best fourteen-year-old batters in the country would swing and miss, swing and miss, swing and miss. Boom, boom, boom. You’re out; you’re done; your half of the inning is over. It’s our turn now, baby.

KT knew that if Coach Mike had been sending out one of the other pitchers, Vanessa, he would have said, “Get back our at-bat.” Vanessa liked the drama; she needed
that sense of revenge, the suggestion that something that rightfully belonged to her team had been taken away and she needed to take it back.

KT liked keeping things simple.

But as she jogged onto the field, everything behind Coach Mike’s words flashed through her mind. He didn’t want three strikeouts just because it would be quick. He wanted those strikeouts as psychological warfare. Ten or fifteen minutes from now, when the teams switched sides, he wanted the girls from the other team spreading across the field thinking,
Maybe we’re not as good as we thought we were. Maybe we deserve to lose. Maybe we’re losers after all.

And he wanted those strikeouts for KT’s sake, to show what she could do. KT didn’t know if there were really scouts there or not—Coach Mike had a policy of not talking about things like that until after a game—but a few people in the stands didn’t seem to be cheering for either side, and that was always a tip-off. KT had done well in the first four innings, but she’d let two runners get on base. She just hoped the scouts noticed that none of them actually scored. All three of the Cobras’ runs had come last inning, when Vanessa was pitching, not KT.

Never mind. KT was back now. She was ready to pitch her best.

KT dug her cleats into the ground, marking her territory. She swung her arm around, loosening it up. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to flinch at the aching protest her arm sent up, but KT managed to keep her expression poker-face smooth. She got into position, and that hurt too.

No pain, no gain,
she thought, and hurled the ball toward
the catcher’s mitt.

The batter swung so hard KT could almost feel the breeze.

“Strike one!” the umpire hollered.

When she was batting, KT hated those words. She’d tell herself,
That’s nothing. Just a warm-up swing. Give me another one like that and I’ll hit it out of the park.

KT could tell that this batter was telling herself the same thing.

Oh, no, you won’t,
KT thought, and she threw the next ball.

“Strike two!” the umpire called.

Told you,
KT thought.

Two strikes, no balls—it would be easy for a pitcher to get cocky at this point. To start counting her strikeouts before they were pitched, to maybe even look toward the next batter warming up off to the side. But KT’s coaches had all but beaten into her brain:
Finish the job. You start celebrating too soon, it’s you who’s going to be finished.

So KT allowed herself only one triumphant nod, a quick jerk of her chin down and back up. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Bree over on first base, nodding back. It was like they were connected telepathically, each one thinking,
Don’t tell Coach Mike, but we might as well start celebrating now, because we are going to win this thing.

The batter stepped out of the batter’s box, tried a few experimental swings, and stepped back in.

Losing confidence, are we?
KT thought. She threw the next ball.

“Strike three!” the umpire cried.

KT could tell he was trying to hide the admiration in his voice. He was supposed to be neutral, after all. But
those had been three beautiful pitches. The Cobras were known for their batting. They
never
struck out.

The next batter took her time getting to the plate.

Trying to make me cool down my hot arm?
KT thought.
Uh-uh. Not going to happen.

But the momentary break gave KT a second to feel the throbbing in her arm again.

I thought Advil was supposed to last longer than this,
she thought.
Guess I won’t be doing any commercials for
them
after I’m in the Olympics.

The batter was ready now.

So was KT.

The pitch.

The swing.

The umpire’s call: “Strike one!”

And again.

“Strike two!”

And again.

“Strike three!”

Nothing to it,
KT thought, even as the stands went wild. KT could hear her parents’ voices loudest of all, calling out: “KT! KT! KT!”

“Just one more strikeout!” her father yelled.

Coming right up,
KT thought.

But she knew those last two batters had been the bottom of the Cobras’ lineup—talented girls, probably good enough right now, at fourteen, to star on most varsity high school softball teams in the country. They could probably star on a lot of college teams too. But compared with the rest of the Cobras, they weren’t stars. They were inconsequential specks of
dust.

The Cobras’ star batter was coming up next.

Her name was Chelisha, and she was so famous in softball circles that KT had heard rumors about her even though she lived hundreds of miles away. Supposedly, her father had been a record-breaking baseball player in Cuba; her mother had been an Olympic skier. Supposedly, she’d hit her first home run when she was two.

Chelisha, in batting stance, was a portrait of coiled-up power and menace. She
looked
like a cobra.

Yesterday, watching the Cobras’ semifinal game, KT had been in awe of Chelisha’s elegance, her grace, her speed—and the three runs she batted in during the second inning, the home run she sent sailing over the fence in the fourth, the triple she scored on in the sixth.

“Wouldn’t you love to be the pitcher who struck her out?” Vanessa had whispered to KT.

Oh, yeah,
KT thought.

Now was her chance.

Under her batting helmet Chelisha fixed her eyes on KT’s—
a trick
, KT thought.
She’s trying to rattle me.

For just an instant a jab of self-doubt pierced KT’s brain:
Who am I to strike out the great Chelisha? She’s amazing. Maybe I’m not as good a pitcher as I thought. Maybe I’ve just been lucky. Maybe, underneath it all, I’m just a loser.

Whoa. Chelisha was
good.
And all she was doing was standing there.

Oh, no, you don’t,
KT thought, narrowing her eyes right back at Chelisha.
Who are you to think you can get a hit off the great KT? I just struck out two of your teammates, and now I’m going to strike out
you!

KT threw the first pitch.

It was a little . . . erratic. KT had been working so hard to block out the pain radiating through her body that maybe she was ignoring other signals too. Like where her hand was when she let go of the ball.

The ball dipped, then rose, then dipped again. The last time KT had pitched so gracelessly was her first game in the Ponytail League, six years earlier. But the ball crossed the plate in the strike zone.

And—it wasn’t what Chelisha was expecting. She swung a second too late, a millimeter too high.

“Strike one!” the umpire called.

So there!
KT thought.
Even when I mess up I’m great!

But she didn’t have to turn her head to feel Coach Mike glaring at her. She knew exactly what he was thinking:
There’ll be no more of that. Nobody can win with pitches like that. Can you get your act back together, or should I take you out?

“It’s back together,” KT whispered to herself.

She hoped.

She got back into position, her own version of a coiled cobra ready to strike. Or—ready to throw a strike. Her entire being was focused on that one action: every nerve, every muscle, every tendon, every ligament, every brain cell. She whipped her arm around and—boom!

The ball lay in the catcher’s mitt.

Chelisha hadn’t even tried for it.

“Strike two!” the umpire called.

Who’s bad now?
KT’s eyes asked Chelisha.

Chelisha was a cool customer. She yawned.

Just waiting for something worth hitting,
her
eyes said back to KT.
You going to throw something I can respect or am I going to have to make do with garbage like that?

Respect this,
KT thought back at her.

She got back into pitching position. She could feel her teammates behind her, and knew without looking that they were in position too. She knew they were ready for anything, but hoping for two things at the same time. Deep in their hearts they were wishing for KT to throw another strike, because they could be generous like that, and they knew how happy she would be to strike out Chelisha. But, just as deep in their hearts, all of them were also wishing that Chelisha’s bat would connect with the ball and send it soaring straight into a glove—their own. Because every girl wanted to be the hero. You didn’t practice ten or twenty hours a week just to stand on a field and do nothing.

Sorry, girls,
KT thought.
Maybe next time. This one’s mine.

She hurled the ball toward the plate.

The pitch was just a bit outside the strike zone, but maybe Chelisha wasn’t as cool as she pretended. She reached for it. She jerked her bat around to slam the ball down toward the ground. The ball bounced once, speeding back toward the pitching circle. It was just to KT’s right.

KT could see in her mind’s eye exactly what would happen if she didn’t stop that ball. The third baseman, Kerri, would scoop it up a split second too late, and fire it toward Bree, on first, another split second too late—and Chelisha would already be on base.

KT had to get that ball.

It was awkward, leaping sideways and at the same time reaching up and to the right with her gloved left hand.
But KT had done this exact move a million times in practices and other games. It was automatic for her, her muscles working in sync practically before her brain could process,
That ball’s mine. Grab it!

KT reached higher, higher, higher. The ball seemed rocket-powered, headed for outer space. Definitely beyond KT’s glove.

No!
screamed through KT’s mind.
I’m stopping it!

She made her arm stretch farther. The ball slammed against the lacing at the top of the glove, and for a fraction of a second it felt like the ball itself was trying to decide:
Stay here or keep flying on?

KT jerked her right hand over the ball, a risky move because she didn’t have the glove firmly in place, solidly behind it. But the gamble worked. She squeezed her hand tight, and the ball was right there, firm against her palm. She whipped around and fired the ball toward Bree on first base.

Something happened during that throw. Her arm flailed out of control. A wave of pain crashed through her body—too big to ignore, too overwhelming to fight. KT couldn’t even surrender, because the pain didn’t ask her to surrender. It just took over.

The pain slammed her to the ground. Darkness sagged over her vision; a buzzing took over her ears. But her brain gasped out one more thought before it, too,
shut down:

Where’d I throw that ball?

KT fought against waking up.

It’ll hurt,
she thought.
Can’t face it . . . can’t . . . can’t . . .

As lullabies went, this one sucked. Each “can’t”
forced her closer and closer to consciousness, as inevitably as a swimmer surfacing after a dive.

Stubbornly, she kept her eyes squeezed shut. She held her body perfectly still.

Can’t look,
she thought.
Can’t move. Can’t call the pain to me.

She had a vague sense that she might be in a hospital, might be in traction, might be in one of those full-body casts where nothing showed but the patient’s eyes. If she let herself listen, she was fairly certain that she’d hear beeping monitors, doctors’ and nurses’ regretful voices, maybe even her own parents’ sobbing.

She didn’t want to let herself listen.

Then, as so often happened, she heard Coach Mike’s voice in her mind.

There’s no room for cowards on a softball team,
it was saying.

KT forced herself to open her eyes.

And—she grinned.

She wasn’t in a hospital room. There was no traction, no cast; there were no monitors, no doctors or nurses. She was simply in her own bed at home, the morning light streaming in through the windows so blindingly that she couldn’t see through it.

Perfect softball weather,
she thought, as she did any time it was sunny.