“We’re down to our last shot. You think you can handle the big stick?” Ian jokes as he hands me my bat.

“Shut up, asshole.”

“What? You said so yourself the other night. You’re out of practice.” The bastard laughs at himself, as if he’s actually being funny. But on the other hand, maybe I’m wound a bit too tight.

After shooting Ian an icy look that screams just drop it already, I make my way out to the on-deck circle for a few practice swings. The relief pitcher is insane. Before joining the NYPD, he actually played in the minors. The tragedies of 9/11 spurred a change of heart in him and he joined New York’s finest when they needed him the most. He left the minors and immediately signed up for the next cadet class. It didn’t take long for him to become a local sensation. He was only barely legal at the time, but even now, well more than ten years later, he still throws like a professional. His character makes it a little difficult to hate the guy too much. But seeing as he’s struck out three in a row in the bottom of the eighth and now this first batter in the bottom of the ninth, it’s not completely impossible to be at least a little pissed at him.

Competition flows in my veins. It always has. Of course today is no different, but with Grace in the stands, I feel even more motivated to win the game. I know we’re here for the kids and that the charity is the main focus of the day, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just as equally motivated by winning over a certain redhead in the first row.

Ian slaps me on my back as he takes over my spot in the on-deck circle. “Don’t make an ass of yourself. Otherwise, you’ll never get laid again.” That comment earns him a quick elbow to the ribs.

Stepping into the batter’s box, I catch one last glimpse of Grace. Her hands are cupped around her mouth and there’s a nervous look in her eyes. Needless to say, I can’t hear her over the rest of the crowd, but knowing that she’s more than likely cheering my name makes me think about her calling out my name in a completely different venue.

Even though I don’t want to, I force myself to look away from her, shifting my focus back to the game. Ian is at least partly right. I definitely don’t want to make myself look like a fool. And not entirely for fear of living a sexless existence—everything always reverts back to sex for Ian.

No, any anxiety I’m feeling comes from the rows and rows filled with kids wearing their FDNY hats. They’re the reason I’m here. And sure, I want to win so I can impress Grace, but I want to win so I can make their day.

Taking a deep breath, I set myself up in the box and prepare myself to take the first pitch. Knowing what you’re up against is half the battle sometimes. But when that first pitch flies past me, I think I may have had more luck if I’d have swung the bat blindly in the hopes of at least getting a piece of it. The snap of the ball landing in the catcher’s mitt drowns out the “strike one” call from the umpire.

Okay, game on.

Sharper focus. Quicker reflex. You got this.

He winds up and blows another strike past me. At least this time I swung the bat. When the catcher stands up to throw the ball back, he actually shakes out his hand, his palm red from the stinging hundred-miles-per-hour fastball.

Only a few rows behind Grace, I see a group of young boys jumping up and down, waving their FDNY hats in the air. The low roar of a syncopated cheer grows in the crowd. Calling out “F D N Y,” the cheer gathers strength, the voices rolling into some kind of snowball effect.

Deep breath. Another practice swing. Knees bent. Head on straight. Let’s do this.

He winds up and, by some stroke of luck, he throws another fastball right down the center of the plate. The contact stings my hands, but it ends up being a solid hit. The ball soars over the left fielder’s head and bounces off the wall, landing me with a double.

One out. Man on second. Down by a run. Talk about the pressure being on. While I have faith in most of my teammates to get the job done, I’m more than a little relieved Ian’s at bat. If anyone can come through in a clutch, whether it’s saving my ass in a burning building, or getting a hit in a must-win situation, it’s definitely Ian.

Taking a larger than usual lead, I want to give myself the best chances of getting to third. The crowd is almost ear-piercingly loud and luckily it’s enough to distract the pitcher. The ball gets by the catcher, giving me the gift of advancing to third without the chance of being thrown out.

Ian nods in my direction before tipping his head toward the right field wall. With the next pitch, his unspoken message of lifting a ball into the outfield is heard loud and clear. My left foot planted firmly on the base, I wait for the right fielder to catch the ball before I sprint home.

“Holy shit,” I scream out in pain when I’m about halfway down the baseline. The sharp, searing pain of a pulled muscle nearly stops me in my tracks. Knowing that I need to score that run spurs me on past the pain.

Somewhat lamely, I close the gap and gain some ground, but not before the right fielder launches the ball to the catcher. Rendering the cut-off man utterly useless, the right fielder fires a straight shot to home plate. The ball lands in the catcher’s mitt a split second before I barrel into him. Dropping my shoulder, I try my best to knock him down hard enough, forcing him to drop the ball. We both crash to the ground in a tumble of arms and legs. The power of the hit sends my helmet flying through the air and my head slams into the ground as I roll over the catcher.

The ball remains firmly planted in his glove.

“You’re out!” the umpire yells and the crowd explodes, clapping, cheering, and yelling their excitement.

The NYPD team rushes the field, piling on top of the catcher. When I try to stand, my leg simply won’t work. My vision clouds slightly and a fog of dizziness descends upon me.

Talk about making a fool of yourself.

I’m lucid enough to recognize Ian standing over me.

“Andrews, you okay?” As if he’s speaking to a child, he says each word clearly and loudly.

Blinking, my eyes lose even more focus. Vaguely, I can make out the shapes of some other people standing around me. “Dave,” Ian calls out again. “You in there somewhere?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, but even saying the single word makes me feel nauseous. Only the sharp pain of my pulled muscle brings me back to the here and now. “I think I’m okay,” I spit out, trying to pull myself up a little.

“Slow down,” Ian chides. “Go slow.”

My vision returns to normal and I can make out that there’s a medic squatting in front of me as Ian loops his arm around my shoulder, helping me into a sitting position. A bright light flashes in my eyes. The medic says, “Pupils are reacting normally, but I’m a little concerned about him being so disoriented.”

“My head’s fine,” I say, my clarity returning. “It’s my leg that’s screwed up.”

With Ian on one side of me and the medic on the other, they help me stand from the ground and the crowd cheers. Their applause helps lessen the sting of losing the game. As we hobble off the field, I see Grace standing next to Jade, a relieved smile on her beautiful face. She walks out of her row and down to the netting separating the stands from the field.

“I’m good now,” I mutter to Ian and the medic, insisting they leave me by the net to speak to Grace in private.

“You okay?” The concern in her voice outweighs her attempt to cover it up with lightness.

“Yeah, I’m perfectly fine,” I lie, putting on a brave face.

“He’s a liar, too,” Ian chimes in at my side, slinging both my bag and his over his shoulders. “His leg’s busted up pretty badly, probably a pulled muscle. And, I’d put money on him having a concussion.”