Three Strikes, You're Mine: Chapter Five - The Third Strike
The morning after the wreckage of Room 1204, Finn and Liam must step onto the diamond and pretend the world hasn't changed. But with the "Third Strike" looming, the final play isn't about the scoreboard—it’s about whether they can survive the fall when the rest of the world finds out.The morning after the wreckage of Room 1204, Finn and Liam must step onto the diamond and pretend the world hasn't changed. But with the "Third Strike" looming, the final play isn't about the scoreboard—it’s about whether they can survive the fall when the rest of the world finds out.
Chapter Six
The Third Strike
FInn
The Philadelphia sun is a physical assault, a blinding, white-hot weight that presses down on the back of my neck. It’s 12:15 PM, and the heat rising off the turf at Citizens Bank Park is thick enough to distort the horizon. It’s a "heavy air" day—the kind of afternoon where the ball doesn't carry, where the dirt feels like scorched concrete, and where every breath tastes like hot rubber, sweat, and old popcorn.
I’m standing in center field, my glove tucked under my arm, staring at the back of the pitcher’s mound. From this distance, Liam looks like a statue, a silhouette of broad shoulders and rigid intent. But I know better. I know the man under the jersey. I know the exact rhythm of his heart because I felt it against my own palm just hours ago.
The transition from the sanctuary of Room 1204 to the hyper-visible reality of the visitor’s dugout had been a masterclass in psychological torture. We had dressed in a silence so heavy it felt like it was pinning us to the floor. No coaching. No "over-rotating" comments. No data points. Just the sound of zippers, the rustle of fabric, and the frantic, echoing memory of his hands on my skin. We’d walked through the hotel lobby together, three feet apart, two professionals heading to a job. But every time our shoulders brushed in the crowded elevator, I felt a jolt of electricity that threatened to drop me to my knees.
Now, as the national anthem fades and the crowd’s roar rises like a tidal wave, Liam is on the mound.
He’s going through his final warmup pitches, his movements fluid and violent. To anyone else, to the scouts in the stands and the millions watching on TV—he looks like the same untouchable Ace who’s dominated the league for years. But I’m a strategist. I’ve spent years deconstructing his every twitch. I see the "three-inch drop" in his shoulder. I see the way he’s gripping the ball too tight, his knuckles turning white as he tries to squeeze the life out of the leather. I see the tension in his jaw that has nothing to do with the batter and everything to do with the fact that he knows I’m standing directly behind him, watching his every move.
Focus, Finn, I tell myself, slamming my fist into the pocket of my glove. The sound is muffled by the roar of the crowd. Play the percentages. Watch the lineup. Stay in the game.
But the percentages are failing me. The math doesn't account for the way my skin still burns where he touched me. The "Third Strike" isn't a pitch; it’s the terrifying realization that I can no longer distinguish between the game and the man.
By the bottom of the fifth, the game has become a scoreless tie. The tension in the stadium is a living thing, a low-frequency hum that vibrates in my teeth. It’s a pitcher’s duel, a war of attrition, but for Liam, it’s a desperate one. He’s throwing harder than I’ve ever seen him, high 90s, bordering on 100—but he’s losing his command. He’s pitching like a man trying to outrun his own skin, trying to fire the ball through the memory of last night.
I’m playing deep, shading toward right-center, and I see Liam glance back at me. It’s a split second—a fraction of a moment that no one else in the park would notice. But I see the look in his eyes. It’s not the focused, ice-cold glare of an Ace. It’s the dark, blown-wide hunger from the hotel room. He isn't checking the runner; he’s checking me. He's making sure I'm still there, making sure I haven't vanished into the logic of my own mind.
And in that second, the count slips. The world tilts.
He hangs a slider. It’s exactly what I’d warned him about in the dark. He gripped it too hard, his release was a fraction of a second too late, and the ball stayed up, floating right over the heart of the plate. The batter, a veteran with a grudge against every pitcher in the division, doesn't miss.
CRACK.
The sound is sickening. It’s different than the one in Boston. This isn't a line drive; it’s a towering, high-velocity moonshot that’s headed straight for the center-field wall. My wall.
I’m running before I even think. It’s instinct, not strategy. I’m not calculating the launch angle or the wind speed. I’m just moving. I’m tracking the ball against the blinding, white-hot glare of the sun, my cleats digging into the turf, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I can feel the eyes of thirty thousand people on me. I can feel the cameras zooming in, capturing the desperation in my stride. But most of all, I can feel Liam. He’s standing on the mound, his back to the plate, his head turned, watching me like his entire life depends on this catch.
I reach the warning track. The dirt crunches under my feet, a harsh, abrasive sound in the sudden vacuum of the moment. I don't stop. I leap, my body stretching, my glove hand reaching for the blue-white sky. For a heartbeat, I’m weightless. The world goes silent. There is no crowd, no scoreboard, no contract, no New York trade. There is just the white sphere of the ball and the memory of Liam’s voice whispering my name in the dark of Room 1204.
I snag it.
I hit the wall hard, the impact jarring my teeth and knocking the wind out of my lungs, but I keep the ball in the web. I pop up in one fluid motion, my arm already winding back, and I fire the ball to the infield with a ferocity that surprises even me.
The stadium erupts into a deafening wall of sound. My teammates are screaming, throwing their gloves in the air. But as I walk back to my position, my lungs burning, I look at the mound.
Liam hasn't moved. He’s staring at me, his chest heaving, his face a raw, unfiltered map of emotion. He knows I just saved his game. He knows I just saved him. And I know that the "Third Strike" just landed. The game we were playing, the rivalry, the distance, the professional pretense—is dead.
We win the game 1-0. It’s a grueling, ugly victory, the kind that leaves you feeling like you’ve been through a meat grinder. The walk back to the dugout is a blur of high-fives and backslaps that I don't feel. My mind is already ten steps ahead, back in the locker room, back in the quiet.
The post-game clubhouse is a madhouse. Music is blasting, the media is crowding around Liam’s locker like a pack of wolves, and the smell of victory, sweat, champagne, and cheap cologne—is overwhelming. I keep my distance. I don't belong in the center of that circle. I retreat to the back of the training room, a small, dimly lit space filled with the scent of rubbing alcohol and athletic tape. I sit on a metal treatment table, staring at the bruise forming on my shoulder from the wall.
I hear the heavy thud of the door clicking shut. The lock engages.
I don't have to look up to know who it is. I can smell the mint, the salt, and the raw, electric scent of his skin. I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
"You caught it," Liam says. His voice is low, vibrating in the small, quiet room, cutting through the distant muffled bass of the music next door.
"I’m an outfielder, Liam. It’s my job. I play the percentages." I look up, and the breath hitches in my throat. He’s still in his uniform, his jersey unbuttoned, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. He looks like a man who’s just walked out of a war zone.
"It wasn't just a catch, and you know it." He steps into my space, his height looming over me, his presence filling every inch of the room just like it had in Room 1204. "You saved me. Again. You've been saving me since the day you got here, Finn. Why?"
"Because the percentages say we win when I do," I whisper, though the lie feels like a lead weight in my chest.
"Screw the percentages, Finn. You and I both know the numbers stopped mattering the second we got to Philly." He reaches out, his hand grasping the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear. It’s a possessive, grounding touch. "The Third Strike just happened. We caught it. Now what?"
"Now the world is going to find out," I say, my voice trembling. "The media will talk. The front office will look at the tapes. The trade, the rivalry... it’s all going to blow up in our faces."
"Let it," Liam growls. He leans down, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my lips. "Let the whole damn world watch us burn. I’d rather be in the wreckage of my career with you than on the mound pretending you’re just another teammate."
He kisses me then, not with the messy aggression of the night before, but with a terrifying, permanent finality. It’s the "Third Strike." The count is over. The game has changed. I can feel the grit of the infield dirt on his skin, the salt of the game on his lips, and the truth of him in every heartbeat. As I pull him closer, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, I realize that for the first time in my life, I don't care about the outcome.
I’ve finally found something more important than winning.
Journal Entry (Tucked into the back of Finn's travel binder, written as the team plane prepares for takeoff from Philly)
Target: Liam Hart.
Observation: The game is officially over, but the reality is just beginning. I used to think baseball was a series of predictable events, a mathematical certainty that could be managed with enough data. I was wrong. The most important plays happen in the dark, in the silence of a hotel room, and in the look of a man who’s willing to lose his entire world for a single catch.
I’ve officially retired the strategist. I can't calculate a future with him, and for the first time, I don't want to. I'm no longer watching the play from center field; I'm standing in the center of the storm. The Third Strike didn't put me out. it put me exactly where I was always meant to be.
Come back next week for another story
Copyright © by LS Phoenix
No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Published by LS Phoenix
New Hampshire, USA
https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix
First Edition: February 2026
Cover Design by LS Phoenix
Comments
Post a Comment