I push the doors open and walk into the courtyard where the bike racks are. My yellow Schwinn is the only one left. It’s still dusty and scratched from two years of sitting in the backyard shed since I got my permit and abandoned it. I brush off the black handlebars and give it a squeeze in my palm. It’s just you and me this summer. As I roll out onto the sidewalk I can see a few of the guys out by the double doors leading out of the gym, at the opposite end of the building. They’re looking out into the parking lot.

When Stevens’s eyes meet mine, I know they know. I hear my name in a loud shout—not angry, just loud—and steer myself in the opposite direction. They can’t fix this. And I don’t want to hear about how I’m letting the team down, or ruining senior year, or driving away scouts. I know I’m doing it. I let all those thoughts infest my brain for the last week, until it got so messed up I had to let them out. I’m used to baseball being on my brain—games, scouts, college plans, all of it. But not when I can’t have it. Not when I know it’s out of reach.

Because there’s no such thing as a legally blind pitcher. Even if it’s just one eye. I close my left eye as I pedal, and watch everything get soft and shaded like a watercolor painting. I can still see the road—the dark strip stretching out in front of me. The grass and trees are all shades of green, blended together, lights and darks, like little puddles of paint against the blue background of the sky. I close my other eye as well, just for a second, feel the breeze against my face, warm sun in my hair. My shoulders suddenly feel so much hotter.

I jerk as a rush of air goes by me. My eyes whip open as the car flies by down the country road, my tire sliding just off the shoulder into the gravel, crashing me down to the ground.