“Sure.” She smiles and reaches for her drink as I step into a corner of the bar.

“Hey, Roark, what’s up?”

“Ryot, lad, how’s it goin’?” His heavy Irish lilt falls through the line.

“Good. Did you see the home run tonight?”

“I did. So did the Bobbies.” My ears perk up. My skin prickles. “Jones tore a muscle in his back tonight diving for a ball, so they’re calling you up.”

“Wait, what?” I ask. My heart’s beating so rapidly I can barely breathe.

“It’s your time, Ryot. You’re going pro.”

“Holy fucking shit,” I breathe into the phone. “Dude, you’re not kidding me? This is for real?”

“So real that you need to be on a red-eye tonight at eleven.”

I quickly glance at my phone to see the time. “That’s in three hours.”

“Yeah, so get packing.”

“Holy shit.” I grip my hair. “You’re fucking serious. This is happening?”

“This is happening, man.”

“Fuck, okay. I need . . . shit, I need to call my brother and pack.”

“Let me know if you need anything. I’m arranging housing for you as well as transportation. I’ll message you the details.”

“Thanks, Roark. Fuck, okay, I gotta go.”

“Talk soon. Cheers.”

We both hang up the phone, and I quickly dial Banner’s number. I pace the three-by-three space and pull on the short strands of my hair while I wait for Banner to pick up. After four rings, he answers, “This better be good.”

“They fucking called me up, man,” I say as my throat grows tight.

There’s silence, and then, “Fuck, are you serious?”

“Yes. I have a red-eye flight in three hours. I’m going to head back to the house now and pack. Dude, you’re coming, right?”

“You know I’ll follow you wherever you go. That’s the pact.”

“Good, then it looks like we’re headed to Chicago.”

“Fuck yes, we are!” We both laugh. “Ryot?”

“Yeah?” I answer.

“I’m really fucking proud of you. Have you told Nola yet?” he asks, referring to our sister.

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Okay, maybe we call her together while we pack. And then we can call Mom and Dad.”

“Sounds good. Meet you at the house in twenty.”

“On my way,” he answers, and then we hang up. I head back to the foosball table where Myla is waiting patiently. Wow, this could not have been worse timing.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, I, uh . . .” I scratch my chest. “I was called up.”

The cutest crinkle pulls at her nose as confusion crosses her expression. “Called up to where? The bar? Heaven?” She presses her hand to her chest. “Has your time come to go through the Pearly Gates?”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “No, called up to the Majors. I’m headed to Chicago . . . tonight.”

“Wow.” Her eyes widen. “Really? That’s amazing.” She moves around the table and wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me into a tight hug. “Congratulations, Bisley Balls.”