Pinch Hit (24 page)

That didn't keep Stu from barging into the dressing room before Sam could even explain to McKenna what was going on.

“Kid! Have I been working overtime for you.”

Sam stared at him.

“Can't believe it, right?” Stu scooped up a handful of Skittles from the bowl on the coffee table and dribbled a few into his mouth. “Me neither, but I told you you were my star and you are. So, you ready?”

Sam looked at McKenna.

“What's a matter? You eat some bad lox this morning? I told them, only fresh lox for my star. What's the problem?”

Sam could only shake his head.

“Just tongue-tied with anticipation, right? Right. Okay, here's the deal:
I got a deal
. Mr. Greenlight does it again. Hal Finster to produce, Richy Cohen to direct, and Johnny Depp to star, alongside our own McKenna Steele, that is. How about me pulling off Johnny Depp? Can you believe that? Is he perfect, or what?”

Sam blinked.

“That's it? I put a deal together for your—excuse me, for McKenna's pet project, and all I get is the bad-fish look?”

“No, no. It's amazing. I'm sorry, Stu.” A light went on in Sam's head, and he knew how huge it was that Stu had succeeded, one of his father's scripts finally being made into a movie after twelve years. But the glare of the news about his mother and the thought of missing out on USC made the green light seem like a blip.

“You
should
be sorry.” Stu's lower lip stuck out. “Mr. Greenlight is a magician. He's a Hollywood master, a maestro, a maestro master, that's what he is.”

“It's unbelievable, Stu. Really unbelievable,” McKenna said. “Now, there's a young lady with some sense. She knows what's what.” Stu grinned at her.

“But I gotta go.” Sam couldn't help saying the words; they just came out.

Stu stared for a minute, then shook his head. He laughed bitterly, then chuckled to himself. He flicked a hand in the air as he muttered on his way out of the dressing room. “The kid is a chip off the old man's ice-cold block of a heart.”

The door slammed shut.

“Sam?” McKenna wore a pained expression.

Sam shared Trevor's news with her.

McKenna looked horrified. “Then we've got to get you there.”

“How, McKenna,
how
?” Sam felt fresh tears building up in the corners of his eyes.

McKenna's eyes sparkled and she raised her jaw.

“Follow me.”

Trevor whipped his pants down, tucked the phone into his underwear, and sat down. Coach Sharp rapped again.

“Sam?”

Trevor leaned forward and flicked the latch. The coach stuck his head around the corner of the door and immediately looked away. “What are you doing?”

Trevor conjured up a groan. “Coach, my stomach. I think I ate something.”

“You ate something, or you called someone?”

Trevor stayed quiet for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

“What are
you
talking about, on that phone? I heard you in there.”

Trevor thought fast. “I called my dad for some toilet paper, Coach.”

“You don't have any?”

“No, Coach.”

Trevor heard the coach sigh through the door and then go into the next stall, where he rolled off some paper before handing it under the door. “You've been real squirrelly this week, I gotta say. If you want any chance at USC Elite, you gotta snap out of it. You know what I mean?”

“I do, Coach.”

“Okay. Do what you got to and get out there.”

“You got it, Coach.”

“Give me thirty seconds,” McKenna said. “I'll distract Gabriel. You head for the back and make your first right. There's a hallway that leads outside to some picnic tables; the crew uses it as a smoking area. Don't say anything to anyone, and don't look at them. You just walk right by. If anyone asks you any questions, just hold your hand up like they shouldn't talk to you, like you're upset. When you get outside, take a hard left. Go all the way to the back of this building. There's all these crates and barrels back there stacked against the wall. Tuck in there, and I'll come get you.”

“Tuck in?”

“Hide.”

“For how long?”

McKenna shrugged. “Hopefully not long at all. When does the game start?”

“Eleven o'clock.”

McKenna looked at her watch and blew some air past her lips. “I've got to figure out who I can trust.”

“Well, we know it's not Sara Grant.”

“I know that, and we know it's
not
Gabriel.”

“Yes, but who?” Sam wrinkled his forehead, then snapped his fingers. “Dolph, that's who.”

“Dolph? Your driver? He barely speaks English.”

“He'll do it, trust me. You tell him it's for me. You tell him I said he can return the favor.”

“What favor?” McKenna asked.

“Does that matter now? Trust me,” Sam said.

“Okay,” McKenna said, “it's your scholarship, or whatever it is. Here we go.”

Sam waited, counting as slow as he could to thirty before he peeked around the dressing room door. McKenna not only had Gabriel distracted, she was leading him away. Sam darted down the hallway and took his first right. He burst out of the door into the sunlight and did exactly what McKenna told him to do. He kept his eyes straight ahead, looking at no one, and no one said a word.

When he rounded the corner, his heart skipped a beat. He looked over his shoulder. No one had followed him. He ducked between two barrels, rounded a big crate, and slipped inside. The pile of junk overhead was tall enough so that only small threads of light leaked through. In the darkness Sam could hear his own heartbeat. He strained his ears for the sound of Dolph's car.

When he finally did hear something, it wasn't a car.

It was footsteps.

They rounded the corner, scuffing grit. Sam heard heavy breathing, and then Gabriel's voice.

“Trevor … or whoever you are … you might as well come out.

“The game is up.”

Trevor stepped down into the dugout. Coach Sharp stared at him. Trevor shook his head and held his stomach. Coach Sharp pinched his lips tight and shook his head.

“Can you warm up?” the coach asked.

“Yes.” Trevor slipped on his glove and stepped out onto the field, taking his place at shortstop.

He felt Coach Sharp's eyes on him as he scooped up a grounder in the pepper drill. He made the throw to first and nodded to Frankie as the ball smacked into his glove. Trevor checked behind the backstop and saw the USC coach watching him. He punched his empty glove and got into a ready position, but he couldn't help grinning. He knew if Sam didn't make it back, he'd never be able to win the MVP on his own, but there was another option.

If Sam made it back
partway
through the game, all Trevor had to do in the meantime was not mess things up. If he could play without any major errors and not look horrible at the plate, maybe he could just hang on until Sam got here to make some stupendous plays that would earn him the MVP. It wasn't a great plan, but under the circumstances, it was the best thing Trevor could come up with. Because the Blue Sox were the home team, the visitors from Sherman Oaks would bat first.

If Sam could somehow get a ride out to the ballpark right away, he might be there within thirty minutes. With only fifteen minutes to go before the game started, Trevor knew he'd have to fill in for Sam at least one inning in the field. If Sam
could
get out there right away, then Trevor
might
not have to bat.

That's what he had to hope for.

Sam's stomach heaved and sweat beaded his brow.

He licked his lips but stayed put, frozen with fear, not so much of Gabriel finding him, but of what would happen next. In that split second he could see it all: his father caught in a scandal with the green light put out forever. The story in the papers, Trevor's life being thrown into chaos, his father sent to jail, and him probably being tossed into a foster home without a prayer of seeing McKenna ever again.

A phone rang—Gabriel's.

“Yes, I'm in the back.... Because someone saw him come back this way, that's why. There's a jungle of crates and boxes back here and—

“Who said that? McKenna did? I'll be right there.”

Gabriel's footsteps pounded away, skidding around the corner of the studio and fading to nothing.

Sam didn't know if he should stay or go.

Trevor's phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He took it out and read the text from McKenna.

can u get thru th fence?

if ys we cn mt u on road

thru trees

Sam slipped out of the crate and peered between the barrels. The fence stood ten feet high. On top were three strands of barbed wire, strung the entire length as far as Sam could see on metal struts pointing out and up at an angle away from the top of the fence. Beyond the fence the line of trees was too thick to see the road, but if McKenna said it was there, Sam believed her. He poked his head out from between the barrels, scanning side to side. There was nothing to see but boxes, barrels, broken pavement, and the back of the next studio.

He stepped out and approached the fence. As he looked to his left, he saw that beyond the next building the fence turned at a ninety-degree angle, heading back toward the buildings. In that corner was a small V-shaped space between the strands of barbed wire where one section ended and another began. Sam texted as he ran, telling McKenna that he thought he'd found a way.

When he passed the open area between the two giant buildings, he glanced that way and saw a handful of people on the opposite end. Sam didn't bother to see whether they'd spotted him or not, he just kept running. When he hit the corner of the fence, he leaped up and clung to the thick wire links. By jamming the tips of his toes into the small holes of the fence, he was able to climb to the top. When he reached the top, he realized the V-shaped opening in the barbed wire was narrower than he thought, and would require him to get sideways to pass through it.

The sound of voices shouting Trevor's name echoed off the far studio wall, moving toward him. Sam gripped the strut where the barbed wire ended and used it to help steady himself as he eased a leg through the gap. His heart banged around on the inside of his chest like a pinball. With one leg through, he twisted around so he faced the studio.

The shouts grew closer still, just around the corner. Sam panicked and swung his other leg up and over the barbed wire instead of taking the time to turn sideways and slip it through the gap.

The cuff of his jeans caught hold.

The barb bit into his ankle.

Sam jerked backward, lost his grip, and fell. The pant leg snagged by the wire yanked at him and he bounced, swinging upside down, suspended by the wire.

One of the voices turned into a scream. Sam was vaguely aware of the people shouting and screaming from the other side of the fence. He was distracted by the rocky ground nearly ten feet below and a sound much more terrifying than a simple scream. In all the ruckus, Sam could hear only one noise.

The rip and tear of his pants.

Sherman Oaks had one run already. There was a man on first, but one more out would end the inning. Butterflies continued to flutter in Trevor's stomach, even though they were well into the first inning. Part of his nervousness was because he couldn't decide if he wanted the ball to come to him or not. So far he'd only clapped for their pitcher, Tommy Graham, on two strikeouts and watched as two balls sailed overhead, one outside the park and a second into right field that left the runner on first.

Trevor checked his watch. He ached to know where Sam was. Graham wound up and threw a strike. The runner on first started to steal. Trevor bolted to second, ready for the throw from home plate. It came like a missile, and all Trevor could think of was that he could not miss it. Of all the things in his life he'd ever flubbed, this could not be one of them. From the corner of his eye, he saw the runner stop halfway down the baseline and go back.

The ball snapped into Trevor's glove, and without thinking he flung the ball to first. It was smooth and relaxed, and the throw was perfect.

SNAP
.

The ball hit the first baseman's glove, low and a bit outside so that Frankie could sweep his glove across and tag the runner. The runner slid. Frankie tagged his leg.

The umpire behind the plate shouted, “Safe.”

The Blue Sox fans groaned and booed the close call.