Tucker threw two strikes in a row to the third batter, then three balls. The batter fouled off the next three pitches, battling the full count. When the batter hit a long ball to left field, Aubry stood, along with everyone else in the stadium. When the ball was caught by the fielder, the stadium erupted in wild cheers.

It was still on, and the Rivers were going to bat next.

“Oh, my God,” Liz whispered, then turned to her. “Do you think?”

Aubry grinned. “I hope so. I really hope so.”

“But you know we can’t hope too hard. There are still two innings left.”

“I know,” Aubry said. “Anything can happen in two innings.”

She’d seen it time and time again. A pitcher could take a . . . you know . . . into later innings, and all it took was one hit, and then it was over.

But still, she hoped. For Tucker’s sake, she really hoped.

Plus, he was throwing so well.

She and Liz linked hands.

She couldn’t imagine the pressure Tucker must be feeling right now, but she sent him every bit of mental good luck she could right now.

She had a very good feeling about the . . . thing.

This was Tucker’s night. She just knew it.

TUCKER SLIPPED ON HIS JACKET AND SAT ALONE IN the corner of the dugout. No one spoke to him, and he knew why. Everyone knew why.

He didn’t want to think about it. It was just another game, like any other game, and he intended to approach his pitches the same way he always did. Face each batter the same way as usual. Every inning was just an inning that he wanted to keep run free.

And that was all he was gonna think about.

Right now he concentrated on the Rivers batting. They had a man on first and third with one out in the bottom of the eighth inning. When Dedrick Coleman slammed a long ball that went over the left field fence, Tucker breathed a sigh of relief, then stood to clap with his teammates.

They were up five to nothing. That was a great cushion for the team in case he gave up some runs.

He had to focus only on that. The team. Winning the game.

Nothing else mattered.

When the Rivers finished the inning, he shrugged out of his jacket and took the mound for the top of the ninth, appreciating the roar of the home crowd. He drew in their energy, hoping like hell he could finish this game with a win for them.

He refused to think about the other thing. That was a pipe dream, a rarity for a pitcher. All he wanted to do was finish the game. A shutout would be great. He’d aim for that.

He threw his warm-up pitches, then waited for the first batter to come to the plate. Top of the order was up, so this wasn’t going to be easy.

His arm still felt good, though. He was within his comfort zone as far as total pitch count.

He was ready.

He took the pitch call from Sanchez.

A curve. His curve was on fire tonight—thank God—so he nodded, wound up and threw.

A strike.

His next two pitches were fastballs, and the batter bit on one that he grounded to the shortstop.

One out, and the crowd went crazy.

Two outs to go. Energy and nervousness sizzled down his spine. He pulled the energy forth and batted down the nervousness.

Just another game, and a game he needed to finish.

He walked around behind the mound, took the ball and rubbed it in his hands, focusing his concentration only on the next batter.

His first pitch was a ball, high and outside.

Shit.

Focus, Tucker.

He leaned in, took the sign from Sanchez, then threw the curve. It sailed perfectly and the batter swung and missed for a strike.

Tucker fed on the cheers of the crowd, the noise almost deafening. Focusing, he threw the next pitch, the batter swung and the ball sailed toward right field. For a second, Tucker didn’t breathe—not until the ball landed in Trevor Shay’s glove for out number two. Tucker exhaled, taking in the ever-increasing decibel level from the crowd.

He had to admit he dug it. A lot. It wasn’t distracting to him at all, because his focus was on the prize now.

He absorbed the crowd noise and what was just beyond his grasp. He had this. One batter left. He could feel the win, and the win was all he was going for, was all he thought about. Not the other thing.

The batter came to the plate and Tucker was ready for him. He zinged a curveball and the batter didn’t swing.

The ump called a strike.

The crowd was on their feet now, stomping and cheering as Tucker threw the second, another curve. This time the batter swung.

And missed.

Strike two.

Sweat poured down Tucker’s face, down his back. He pulled off his ball cap to swipe his face with his arm, tucked his cap back on, then stared down the batter while waiting for the call sign.