[02:21:34…]
Two hours. That's all I get.
"Why your channel?" Tyler muttered, squinting at the zero subscribers on Michael's YouTube. "This is suicide. My frat's got 10K followers."
"Your frat's also skims 50%," Michael snapped, firing another fastball. The crack of the ball against the backstop made Tyler flinch. "Every donation goes straight to my PayPal. No cuts. No delays."
He whipped his phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Tyler. The catcher nearly dropped it. "If this vibrates, yell. Doesn't matter when."
Tyler blinked at the cracked screen. "Uh…why? You waiting for a hospital call or—"
"Just do it." Michael crouched to retie his sneaker, his mind racing. The Eagle-Eye Totem would alert him if Aiko's HP dropped below 20%, but he couldn't afford to check the game mid-pitch. Not with cameras rolling.
Luis nudged Jake, gesturing at Michael's bandaged stump. "Dude's acting like he's got a secret CIA mission."
"Shut up and frame the shot," Tyler snapped, propping Michael's phone on a cooler. The livestream dashboard glared back: 0 viewers.
Pathetic. Michael clenched his jaw. But not for long. He grabbed the ball bucket and dumped it onto the mound. Twenty baseballs rolled in the dirt—his ammunition.
"Start filming," Michael ordered.
Tyler hit "Go Live" on Michael's barren YouTube channel. The title flashed: [THE ONE-ARMED COMEBACK: WATCH HIM THROW HEAT].
For a full minute, the viewer count stayed at zero.
Then it ticked to 1.
A comment popped up: "lol fake much?"
Michael ignored it. He wound up and fired. The ball cracked against the backstop's strike zone painted on plywood.
THWACK!
"Holy sh—" Jake's camera jerked, catching the ball's afterimage.
Another pitch. Another thunderclap.
The viewer count inched to 3.
Too slow. Michael's pulse spiked. Need a catalyst.
He stopped mid-windup, letting the baseball roll from his fingers.
"Why'd you stop?" Tyler peeked from behind his phone camera. "We finally got two comments!"
"Two?" Jake snorted. "One's asking if you're faking the arm thing. The other's a bot."
Michael ignored them. He crouched, pretending to adjust his shoelaces while scanning the parking lot. Where is she?
A silver BMW glinted in the distance. His gut twisted.
Finally.
Katie smoothed her pleated skirt in the passenger seat, with Landon's hand rested on her thigh, his thumb rubbing circles through the denim.
"You sure about this, babe? Dude's probably just begging for sympathy donations."
"He's trying," Katie said. She softened her tone. "Just… let's be supportive, okay?"
Landon smirked. "Whatever you say."
He drummed his nails on the BMW's leather steering wheel. The baseball field loomed ahead, its gates plastered with "CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE" signs.
"This is a bad idea," Katie muttered.
Three months ago, she'd held Michael's remaining hand in the ICU, promising to stay. Then the infections started. The endless surgeries. The stench of antiseptic and defeat. When Landon slid into her DMs with gym selfies and "hope ur ok :heart: " texts, she'd folded.
Guilt gnawed her stomach as they parked.
Michael stood on the pitcher's mound, his right sleeve flapping empty in the breeze.
God, he looks worse.
Landon whistled. "Dude's trying to pitch? With one arm?"
"Don't," Katie snapped. "Just… be nice."
"Relax, I'm always nice." Landon grabbed the "Get Well Soon" balloon from the backseat—a prop he'd insisted on buying. "Let's go bless the cripple."
Katie's chest tightened as she stepped out of the BMW. The baseball field stretched before her, bleachers empty, sunlight glaring off the aluminum benches.
Landon slung an arm around her shoulders, the "Get Well Soon" balloon bobbing mockingly in his other hand.
He looks thinner, Katie thought, watching Michael's silhouette on the mound. His thrift-store jacket hung loose around his frame, the right sleeve pinned up.
But something felt… different.
"This is sad," Landon muttered, loud enough for the cameras to catch. "Like watching a dog play fetch with three legs."
Katie jabbed him with her elbow. "Be nice."
Landon smirked, adjusting his letterman jacket. "I'm just saying. Dude should stick to wheelchair basketball."
CRACK.
The sound echoed like a gunshot. The ball smacked into the plywood strike zone, splintering the wood.
Landon froze. "What the hell was that?"
Ninety miles per hour. Maybe more, couldn't be from Michael. Who else's also pitching here? McDuffy?
They looked at each other, and walked inside the ball park. To their suprise, the only pitcher the saw was Michael. Who is not even a pitcher anymore.
It couldn't be… IT COULDN'T BE HIM.
"Hey, Katie." Michael scooped another ball from the bucket, . "Thanks for coming."
Landon stepped forward, balloon string crinkling in his grip.
"We heard you're, uh, fundraising. Thought we'd drop by." His gaze flicked to Michael's missing arm. "Looks like you're… managing."
Katie winced. Managing? Landon, you idiot.
"Livestream's for donations," Michael said, ignoring Landon. He fired another pitch. CRACK. "Share the link. Your sorority follows you, right?"
Katie blinked. This wasn't the broken boy she'd visited last month. His posture radiated control, his remaining arm whipping through throws with military precision.
Even his voice sounded stronger—no morphine slur, no self-pity.
"Sure, I'll share," she said, pulling out her phone. "What's your channel?"
Landon's jaw tightened. He hated being ignored. "Seriously, man. You should let the team handle this. They've got actual fans."
Michael ignored Landon. He nodded to the phone on the cooler. "Handle's on the stream."
"OneArmedAce," Michael said, locking eyes with her. Her Instagram had 15K followers. "Tell your sorority to donate. Direct link in bio."
Landon persisted. "OneArmedAce? Catchy. But uh…" He lowered his voice. "You sure you wanna… show yourself like this? I mean, no offense, but pitching's a two-arm sport."
"Ignore him, Mike. The stream's a good idea! Let me share your link." Katie shot Landon a warning look. "My sorority's group chat has 300 girls. They'll spread the word."
"Much obliged." Michael said expressionlessly.
Landon wanted to say something, but stopped himself as his eyes widened: "I get it now! Smart move, Cobb! Weaponizing pity. Capitalize on that tragedy, right?"
Tyler bristled. "Dude, shut—"
"Set up the phone cam," Michael ordered, cutting Tyler off. He snatched a ball from the bucket.