“Emerson?” Coach M tips his head and perks his brows. He looks nervous, like maybe I’m about to tell him I decided to run track and I’m going to miss a few games. That shit really pisses the coaches off. There’s nothing they like less than a guy who’s lacking 110 percent allegiance. God forbid anyone be multitalented.

“I’m … out,” I mumble, not sure that the words were actually audible.

Coach M looks around him, like he’s missed something. “Out of what?”

“Out of baseball.” I set the uniform on his desk and look at the clock. There’s exactly ninety seconds until the bell sounds. Ninety seconds until I have to flee, no matter what. I’m not an idiot, there’s a reason I skated in just under the bell. Because I can’t take being berated about this. I’m maxed out on guilt.

“Like hell you are, son.” Coach M is out of his chair, two hands planted on the desk, leaning toward me like he’s trying to keep himself from lunging. His face is already turning red, the way it looks when he screams “Gimme one more” as we run wind sprints—third base line to the mound and back, first base line and back, right field fence and back, our arms pumping until they’re tingling and almost numb. Only he doesn’t scare me then, because all I have to do is run. Just run, run, run and the screaming will stop. Run, run, run and eventually you get to go home. But I can’t run now. There’s still sixty seconds until that bell sounds, and even when it does, I don’t know that he’s going to let me leave. “You’re our starting pitcher. Have you lost your fu—” He looks around like he forgot he was in the school. His voice gets just a hair softer but it’s just a different kind of yelling. When it comes to yelling, it’s actually about tone, not volume. That’s what people don’t get about my dad yelling. I know what my dad sounds like mad; really mad, like I’ve done something wrong. It’s different from the frustrated yelling I hear from behind the fence every game. “Have you lost your mind, Emerson? You’re not quitting right before your senior year.”