At 5:50 PM on Saturday, the scanner at Gate A blinked red.
Thirty people in line behind me saw it.
The guard checked his screen.
"Ma'am, your name's flagged."
I handed him the pass from the Foundation.
LOT 9 · THROWER + ONE GUEST
He held it up next to a printed list.
My name was on it twice.
Once in red.
Once in black, under Lot 9.
He tapped the black one.
"Thrower and one guest."
"Who's the guest?"
"Me," Kaitlyn said.
He waved us both through.
It was the home finale.
31,840 people.
A win would clinch a wild-card spot.
At 6:10 PM, I sat down in Section 112, Row F, Seat 8.
Seat 7 was empty.
I had the sign under my arm, folded.
The ball was in my jacket pocket.
It still had the smear of mud on one seam.
I'd practiced with it all week in Kaitlyn's backyard.
Rhett had told me not to aim.
Just throw it to him.
A man behind Row F had his phone up.
It was a different man.
It was the same phone.
At 6:26 PM, the PA announcer's voice filled the park.
"Tonight's ceremonial first pitch, presented by Rebound!"
"Garrett and Brielle!"
Kaitlyn grabbed my wrist.
"That's your pitch."
"I know."
Todd had swapped the script.
The script was all he could swap.
Garrett and Brielle came out of the dugout holding hands.
He wore a Rebound polo.
She wore the teal.
The board put them in a pink heart.
A Rebound rep handed Garrett a wireless mic.
He walked out in front of the mound.
"Hey, Charlotte!"
The crowd cheered, mostly.
"Before we throw, I need to say something."
"Honestly, it's for my safety."
He pointed up at Section 112.
"She's here tonight."
"She's stalking us."
"There's a court date."
The board didn't follow his finger.
The PA announcer stood by home plate with a handheld mic.
Rhett walked up beside him in a catcher's mitt.
He took the handheld.
His voice came out of every speaker in the park.
"Callie Dunaway."
"Your pitch."
The broadcast truck had the owner's order.
Cam 4 swung to Row F.
My face was forty feet tall again.
Thirty-one thousand people turned around.
I stood up.
I walked down the dugout-side steps onto the grass.
Garrett's mic went dead.
Somebody had switched it off.
Rhett met me in front of the mound.
He put the handheld in my hand.
He walked back to the plate and crouched.
I took out my phone.
"Thursday, September 3."
"9:47 PM."
"Garrett Mabry, to Bri."
My voice came back to me off the upper deck.
"'Sat. Bottom 6th.'"
"'Cam 4 on 112 Row F.'"
"'T's guys printed the sign today.'"
"'I walk, they cut to you in 113.'"
"'Wear the teal.'"
"'Act surprised.'"
I looked at Brielle's jersey.
So did the whole park.
Garrett pulled the rep's mic back and switched it on.
"Fake!"
"I made that sign."
"Sharpie, poster board."
"I swore to it."
"Okay," I said.
I unfolded the sign.
The foam cracked along the old crease.
I turned the back toward the TV camera at the dugout rail.
The board showed the white label, ten feet wide.
OSPREY STUDIOS PRINT · JOB 0903-14 · "SORRY CALLIE" 24×36 FOAM · REQ: G. MABRY · THU 09/03/26 2:15 PM
"Osprey Studios."
"Job 0903-14."
"Requested by G. Mabry."
"Thursday, two-fifteen."
"The same day as the text."
"You swore Sharpie."
"Your ballpark printed it two days before you 'snapped.'"
Phones went up all over the park.
Then they went down, because people were reading.
"Your sister timed you walking away," I said.
"Three times, in her living room."
"The club's own lawyers list this sign as Item 1."
I looked straight at him.
"You didn't break up with me, Garrett."
"You booked it."
Section 112 started it.
"You BOOKED it, Garrett!"
Then 113 took it up.
Garrett turned in a circle.
He looked for the Rebound rep.
Then he pointed at the suites behind home plate.
"T booked it!"
"He paid me seventy-five hundred!"
Every camera in the park went up to the glass.
Todd Kimbrough was standing at the window of the club suite.
He stepped back from it.
Behind him, the owner stood up.
Brielle let go of Garrett's hand.
She stepped away from his mic without a word.
She walked into the dugout by herself.
Garrett was still holding the mic.
Nobody was listening.
I handed the handheld back to the announcer.
I folded the sign and set it on the grass.
I took the ball out of my pocket.
I put my foot on the rubber.
A mound is higher than it looks.
Rhett held his mitt up, square.
I didn't aim.
I threw it to him.
It hit the mitt with a pop.
The umpire's arm went up.
Strike.
31,840 people cheered a kindergarten teacher's strike.
The Ospreys won that night, 5 to 2.
They clinched a wild-card berth.
Right then, Rhett stood up out of his crouch.
He didn't throw it back.
He looked at the ball once.
He put my ball in his pocket.