The pitcher grinned. He felt good. Strong. “You’ll see. I’m betta than ever. I won’t let you down.”

The man tugged on his cap. “We’ll see.”

Duke watched him jog back to the small group waiting in the dugout. The batter took another practice swing and then stepped up to the plate, giving Duke the nod. Duke breathed in and out, deeply, then went into his stance, one leg up, his elbow going back—

There was a buzz at the back of his brain that suddenly became very loud. He realized he’d been hearing it for a while now but he’d been ignoring it. What is that? He tilted his head, patted his ear. Still there. He dropped his stance and smacked at his head. The batter gaped at him like he was crazy. Duke shrugged and offered the guy a grin, but the buzz persisted.

What in the hell? He pounded his fist into his baseball glove, willing the high-pitched sound to go away. Like I need this right now. About to give the biggest performance of my life. And then he knew what it was.

His sense of right was making itself known. His conscience had woken up.

His whole life, he’d fought hard to be acknowledged. When he found it was pitching that earned him recognition, adoration, he’d worked even harder. He lived and breathed baseball, until the game and his role in it became a major part of his psyche. When he was on the mound, he wasn’t faking it. It wasn’t a performance. It was him, the raw talent he’d built into a skill, the man he’d worked to become.

Angel’s right. I can’t cheat now. I’d never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

Stepping off the mound, Duke slowly pulled the glove from his hand, dropped it on the pitcher’s plate. He caressed the leather of the ball one more time, the red stitches catching at the calluses on his fingertips. Then he let the ball fall into the glove.

He and the manager exchanged a long look. Sadness washed over the manager’s face when he realized what was happening; the older man offered a single nod and turned away. Duke, unable to bear the shame, broke into a jog, heading for the locker room.

From behind him, the famous pitcher heard loud conversation boiling out of the dugout, and then the Bronx Bolts’ owner shouting after him. The harsh words bounced around the empty Bronx Bolt Stadium.

Duke left the field with the echoes pinging around inside his skull.

You’re fired, you’re fired, you’re fired …

Chapter Twenty-one

Angel sat on the floor of a shower stall in the clinic’s female locker room; it was her second time crying in the shower that day.