His expression cycled through three emotions in 2 seconds. Confusion. Annoyance. And then something harder.Β
Something territorial. A scout at his showcase was consulting a kid who'd arrived on a bicycle. The story Prescott controlled, the story about money and access and pedigree, was slipping out of his hands in real time.Β
He strode to the fence. This time his voice went low. Private. A whisper with teeth.Β
"I don't know who you think you are, but if you're not off this property in 5 minutes, I'm calling the police. And we both know how that ends for a kid who looks like you." The threat hung in the air like smoke.Β
Before Tyler could respond, before he had to decide between swallowing it and walking away, Ray stepped in. Not with a speech. Not with heroics.Β
Just with practicality. He walked up beside Prescott, hands in his back pockets, and said it the way you'd suggest a lineup change in the sixth inning of a blowout nobody cares about anymore. "Dale, we're down four runs with no arms in the pen.Β
Let the kid face three batters. He can't do it, he walks. No harm." Prescott stared at Ray like the man had just suggested forfeiting.Β
But then something crossed the manager's face. A slow, mean, calculating smile. The kind that doesn't come from humor.Β
The kind that comes from seeing an angle because Prescott suddenly realized three batters meant three chances for Tyler to fail in public, on camera, in front of scouts and parents and every kid on both rosters. Three public humiliations instead of one.Β
And then Tyler would leave permanently. And the story would write itself. The delusional lawn boy who thought he could hang with real players.Β
Prescott turned back to the fence. His voice went loud again, performance loud, bleacher loud. Fine. You want to pitch? Pitch.Β
Three batters. You give up one hit, one single, one walk, one anything that isn't a strikeout, you leave and you don't come back. Ever.Β
Not to mow, not to watch, not to stand behind that fence. You're done. He paused.Β
Let the weight settle. Those are the terms. Take them or take your bike and go home.Β
Tyler looked at Prescott, not with anger, not with fear, with something closer to patience. The way you'd look at a locked door you've been waiting two years to walk through. He nodded.Β
Once. Three batters. He said he would strike out the side. He meant every word.Β
Someone unlatched the gate from the inside. The metal scraped, stuck, then swung open with a sound like a lock releasing. A small metallic pop that was louder than it should have been because every other sound in the complex had stopped.Β
Tyler stepped through. He'd been on the other side of that chain link for two years. He'd pressed his fingers through it, watched through its diamond-shaped openings, memorized an entire sport through a metal wall he was never invited to cross.Β