Three Strikes, You're Mine: Chapter Three - The First Strike

Finn lives by the numbers, but Liam Hart is the one variable he can’t solve. As the Beacons head toward a collision course, Finn tries to deconstruct Liam’s mechanics, only to realize the real danger isn't on the mound—it’s in the quiet spaces between them. 

Chapter Three

The First Strike

Liam

The air at Beacon Heights Park is heavy tonight, thick with the scent of overpriced hot dogs, spilled beer, and the kind of swampy New England humidity that makes a baseball feel like a greased pig. I’m standing on the mound, the floodlights humming overhead like a swarm of angry hornets. I dig my cleats into the dirt, carving out a hole for my lead foot, and rub the ball between my palms until the friction burns. I’m trying to find a grip that doesn’t feel like I’m holding a wet stone, but my skin is slick with sweat and a mounting, restless frustration.

I hate this weather. I hate the way the jersey sticks to my shoulder blades. But more than anything, I hate the fact that every time I look over my shoulder to check a runner, I see Finn Miller standing in center field like a judgmental statue.

He’s been here for two weeks, and the clubhouse is already divided into two camps. There are the guys who like his "strategic" approach, mostly the benchwarmers who think if they study enough spreadsheets, they’ll suddenly find a power swing, and then there are the guys who know that baseball is played with your gut, not a calculator. I’m the leader of the latter group. Or I was, until Finn started opening his mouth during every team meeting.

I wind up and fire a fastball. 

Pop. 

It hits the catcher’s mitt with a sound like a gunshot echoing through the stadium. Strike one. I should feel good. I should be locked in, but my skin is prickling. I can feel him out there in the grass. Even without looking, I know he’s tracking the velocity, the spin rate, the break. I can feel him analyzing my release point, probably calculating the exact trajectory of my sweat to the fourth decimal point. It makes my arm feel heavy. It makes my rhythm feel off.

The next batter is a powerhouse from Chicago, a guy who eats fastballs for breakfast and shits out home runs. I know I should go with the slider, the scout's report is screaming it, and my catcher is flashing the sign—but my ego is roaring louder. I want to blow a heater past him just to prove I can. I want to prove that Finn’s "percentages" don't mean a damn thing when you have a 99-mph arm and the will to use it.

I check the runner on first, then glance at center field.

Finn is moving. He’s shifting two steps to his left, waving his glove in a subtle, annoying "get down" motion. He’s telling me the batter is going to pull the ball into the gap. He’s telling me how to play the game on my own mound. In my park.

Shut up, Miller, I think, my jaw tightening so hard my teeth ache.

I ignore him. I shake off the catcher’s sign for the slider and nod for the fastball. I want to show him that I don’t need his logic. I want to hear the sound of the air being sucked out of his lungs when I strike this guy out my way. I wind up, give it everything I’ve got, and fire it right down the pipe.

CRACK.

The sound is sickening. It’s the hollow, wooden sound of a mistake. The ball screams over my head, a line drive that looks like it’s headed for the moon. I watch, paralyzed, as it sails toward the gap in center-right. It’s a guaranteed two-run double, maybe a triple. My ERA is about to take a hit because I wanted to be right. I feel the blood drain from my face as the runner on first rounds second, the crowd’s collective gasp rising like a wave.

But then I see a flash of red.

Finn is already there. He’d started running before the bat even touched the ball. He’d anticipated the hit based on the very shift I’d ignored. He leaves his feet, a full-body horizontal dive that looks more like flight than baseball. He snags the ball out of the air an inch above the grass. He pops up in one fluid motion, the momentum of the catch carrying him into a spin, and fires a laser to second base to catch the runner tagging up.

Double play. Inning over.

The crowd is screaming, a deafening roar that vibrates through the soles of my cleats. My teammates are pouring out of the dugout, cheering, slamming their gloves. But as Finn walks back toward the infield, he doesn't look at the fans. He doesn't look at the scoreboard. He looks directly at me. He doesn't say a word, but his eyes say everything: I told you so.

By the time we hit the dugout, I’m seeing red. The adrenaline that should be a victory high feels like battery acid in my veins. I don't even wait for him to put his glove down. I corner him near the water cooler, the plastic cups rattling on the dispenser as I slam my hand against the wall near his shoulder.

"What the hell was that?" I growl, my voice low so the coaches don't hear, but sharp enough to draw blood.

Finn pulls his cap off, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He looks exhausted, but his voice is like ice. "It was a double play, Liam. You’re welcome."

"You were mocking me out there," I say, my voice rising despite myself. The rest of the dugout goes quiet. The guys stop talking. They’re watching the train wreck. "Shifting before the pitch? Trying to show everyone you’re the smartest guy on the grass? You made me look like an amateur."

"I was playing the percentages," Finn says, stepping closer until we’re chest-to-chest. I can see the golden flecks in his eyes, the way they’re dilated from the game. He smells like grass and salt. "The batter hits 80% of fastballs to the left-center gap. If I hadn't moved, that’s a home run and two runs on your record. I wasn't mocking you. I was saving you from your own stupidity."

"I don't need saving!" I slam my glove against the bench. The sound echoes like a gunshot. "I need an outfielder who follows the lead of his pitcher. This is my game, Miller. My mound. You stay in your lane."

"Your lane is leading us into a loss because you’re too arrogant to admit when you’re wrong," Finn shoots back. His eyes are blazing now, that calm, strategic demeanor finally cracking. "You think this is all about how hard you can throw? It’s about winning. But you’d rather lose your way than win mine."

The heat between us isn't just about the game anymore. It’s that same suffocating tension from the locker room, but now it’s out in the open, fueled by the adrenaline of the ninth inning. I want to shove him. I want to grab the front of his jersey and shake him until that smug, calculated look disappears and I see the fire I know is buried under all that logic. I want to know why he’s the only person who can make me lose my mind with a single look.

"You think you’re so much better than me," I hiss, leaning in so close I can see the pulse jumping in his neck. "You come in here with your New York attitude and your 'perfect' stats, but you don't know the first thing about this team. You’re an outsider, Finn. A guest. Act like it."

"I know this team deserves an Ace who cares more about the W than his own ego," Finn whispers.

He turns to walk away, dismissive and cold, but I grab his arm. It’s a mistake. The contact is like a lightning strike. My fingers wrap around his bicep, solid, warm, and trembling just a little. For a second, we both freeze. The noise of the stadium, the music, the cheering, the chatter—fades into a dull hum. I’m looking at his mouth, and I know, with a terrifying certainty, that if I don’t let go of him right now, I’m going to do something that will end my career and change everything.

His eyes drop to my lips for a split second, and the world tilts. I can feel the frantic beat of his pulse under my palm. It’s the same rhythm as mine. We aren't fighting about baseball anymore. We're fighting about the fact that we can't stand how much we want to touch each other.

"Let go, Liam," he breathes. It’s not a command. It’s a plea.

I let go like he’s made of fire. My fingers feel numb.

"Stay away from me, Miller," I mutter, turning my back on him and stalking to the far end of the dugout where the shadows are thickest.

The rest of the game is a blur. We win, but I don’t celebrate. I sit in the locker room long after the others have left, staring at the floor. During the post-game press conference, the reporters ask about the "heated exchange" in the dugout. I gave them the corporate bullshit, just competitive fire, two guys who wanted to win, but my hand was still shaking under the table. Every time I close my eyes, I feel the solid weight of his arm under my hand.

Later, in the parking lot, the city of Boston is quiet. Beacon Heights Park is a dark silhouette against the starless sky. The streetlamps cast long, sickly yellow pools of light across the asphalt. I’m heading to my car, my bag heavy on my shoulder, when I see him. He’s leaning against his SUV, looking like he’s waiting for someone. 

Me.

I try to walk past, my keys biting into my palm, but he speaks without looking up.

"The scout's report was wrong about you, Liam."

I stop, the silence of the parking lot ringing in my ears. "Yeah? What did it say?"

Finn finally looks at me. The streetlamp overhead casts long shadows across his face, making him look older, tired. The perfection is gone, replaced by a raw, jagged exhaustion. "It said you were untouchable. It said nothing gets to you. That you were a machine on the mound. Pure ice."

He takes a step toward me, the gravel crunching under his boots. "But I’ve been under your skin for three years, and now that I’m here… I think I’m starting to realize that the feeling is mutual. You're not a machine. You're a mess. Just like me."

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say, but my voice is weak. It lacks the bite I want it to have.

"Don't I?" He’s standing right in front of me now. No teammates. No coaches. No cameras. Just the two of us and the heavy Boston air. "Then why are you still standing here? Why didn't you just walk to your car and drive away? Why are you looking at me like you’re waiting for me to hit you?"

I don't have an answer. Or rather, I have an answer that involves me pinning him against that SUV and finding out if he tastes as bitter as he speaks. I can feel the pull of him, like a 100-mph fastball heading straight for my chest. It's gravity. It's unavoidable. It’s the terrifying realization that I don't hate him… I'm obsessed with him.

"This is the first strike, Liam," he says softly, his gaze dropping to my lips one last time, lingering there long enough to make my lungs ache. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my chest before he pulls it back, clutching his keys instead. "Two more, and you’re out."

He gets into his car and drives away, the taillights disappearing into the city traffic. He leaves me standing in the dark, the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin and the scent of him—mint and sweat and something electric—hanging in the humid air like a promise I'm not sure I can keep.

---

Journal Entry (Scrawled on a crumpled page from a notebook on Liam’s bedside table)

Target: Finn Miller. 

Observation: He caught the ball. He saved the game. And all I wanted to do was tackle him into the dirt. I told myself it was because I was angry. I told myself I hated his interference. But when I grabbed his arm in the dugout, I wasn't trying to stop him from walking away. I was trying to pull him closer. I wanted to see if the fire in his eyes was as hot as the one in my chest. God, I’m a mess. If he catches me again, I’m done for.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

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First Edition: February 2026

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