Chapter Two
He woke up to a very familiar sound. Ball hitting dirt. He’d know that sound in any spot in the world. A chill shuddered through his body. How long had he been lying here in the grass? Judging by the painful vise cinched around his head—hours. Streaks of light sliced across the horizon, turning the sky overhead a bold, deep sapphire. Pre-dawn. The witching hour.
Lifting his head, he squinted toward the mound. A powerful, lean, lithe figure commanded the mound. He took the classic pitcher’s pose, body bent forward at the waist, ball behind his back, as if listening to an invisible catcher. Crush glanced at the plate to make sure. Yup, no catcher. That didn’t bother the pitcher, who shook off several imaginary signs before rearing back into his windup and drilling the ball over
