Coach Harris stepped forward, his voice low and strained. "Mike… don't make this worse."
Michael met his gaze. The man who'd once called him "son" now looked hollow. Guilty. Good.
"I'll leave," Michael said, loud and clear. "But first, I'll make you a deal."
Ms. Greene's eyebrow twitched. "We don't negotiate with—"
"Three batters." Michael pointed to the field. "Your best players. If I strike them all out, you walk away. No lawsuits. No suspensions."
The crowd erupted. Lila's eyes lit up like a shark smelling blood. "You're challenging the university to a pitching duel?"
"Not just any duel." Michael raised his left arm, veins bulging under the thrift-store sleeve. "Three batters. Three strikeouts. No hits, no walks, no fouls. If they even touch the ball, I lose."
Ms. Greene blinked. "And if you lose?"
"I'll record a video." Michael pulled close to her so only she and coach Harris can hear what he is going to say next. "I'll issue a formal apology. That UT's been so supportive. It was I who was ungrateful." He smirked. "You'll own the narrative."
Coach Harris's face twisted like he'd swallowed gasoline. "You're out of your damn mind, Cobb! You really think you can strike out three batters with one arm?!"
Michael didn't flinch. "You saw me throw. You know I can."
Ms. Greene stepped forward so that only Michael and Coach Harris could hear her.
"We'll take the deal." Her voice dripped with the smug calm of someone who'd already won the lottery. "But you record the apology video now. I don't trust you'll do it once you lose."
Michael kept his eyes locked on Coach Harris. "Can I trust you to honor the deal if I win? Really trust you?"
Coach's jaw worked silently. For a split second, his gaze flickered to Michael's pinned sleeve—a tiny crack in his authority.
"This is insanity. Even a Little Leaguer could hit your pitches."
"Then you've got nothing to lose," Michael said flatly. He turned to Ms. Greene. "We'll record the video. But Coach Harris holds it. Not you."
"Absolutely not!" Ms. Greene snapped. "I'll handle the recording—"
"Because you'll 'accidentally' publish the video if I win?" Michael kept his voice low. "Everyone here knows you'd shred it the second I throw my last pitch. Coach might still have some integrity left."
Ms. Greene opened her mouth to protest, but forced a smile instead. "Fine. But the video will be recorded immediately. Understood?"
There's no possible way that Michael, a cripple now who's using his non-dominant arm, can strike out three of the school's best batters in a row. Ms. Greene was sure of it. And he's even smug enough to say that they won't even make contact. What an idiot.
Michael nodded. "Dugout. Two minutes."
Coach Harris followed him into the shadowed tunnel, away from the crowd's roar. The second they were alone, the older man grabbed Michael's shoulder.
"Kid, stop this! You're gonna get yourself sued—"
Michael shrugged him off. "Record. Now."
Coach's phone trembled as he opened the camera app. "Why me?"
"Start recording."
Coach wanted to say something, but decided against it. He clicked on the red button and started to record.
Michael spoke fast. "I, Michael Cobb, now publicly apologize to the university for…" He paused, meeting Coach's haunted stare. "…for spreading misinformation today. I regret my actions and am willing to face the consequences. Done."
Coach stopped the recording. "You're really gonna do this? "
"Really." Michael snatched the phone.
Coach's throat bobbed. "Why'd you pick me?"
Michael leaned in, voice low. "Because you'll hate yourself if you cheat me."
Without waiting for a reply, Michael marched back onto the field. The crowd's cheers hit him like a wave. He raised his right stump high. "Deal's sealed! Now bring out your best batters!"
…
The livestream viewer count exploded:
1,532... 2,109... 2,877...
Comments blurred faster than anyone could read:
@UTFan4Ever: LET'S GOOOO 🔥
@MedStudent101: BRO'S DELUSIONAL BUT I'M HERE FOR IT
@DeltaQueen: MICHAEL COBB NATION RISE UP!!!
Donations chimed nonstop—
10k...
10k...12k... $13k—as Michael glared at Ms. Greene. The Phoenix Vial's timer pulsed in his peripheral vision like a bomb: [00:08:21…]. Less than an hour. Make every pitch count.
Ms. Greene smoothed her blazer, her face a mask of icy calm. "Coach Harris. Select three batters from the team. Top tier."
Coach hesitated. "Ma'am, this feels… excessive. Cobb's just—"
"Now," Ms. Greene snapped.
Landon stepped forward, still clutching his bat. "Don't pick scrubs. I faced him earlier." His eyes flicked to Katie, who stood beside Michael's camera crew. "He's got a cannon for a left arm."
Murmurs rippled through the UT players crowding the dugout.
"Wait, Cobb's pitching left-handed? Since when?!"
"Dude lost his right arm. How's he throwing 90+ with his off-hand?!"
Ms. Greene frowned. "Landon, you sure?"
Landon's jaw tightened. "I've batted against MLB draft picks. Cobb's fastball's legit."
Ms. Greene blinked, her composure cracking for a split second. "You expect me to believe a one-armed amateur throws harder than professionals?"
"Believe whatever you want," Landon muttered. "But pick your best."
A deep voice cut through the noise. "I'll bat."
The crowd parted as a hulking figure emerged—Jason Cole, UT's star hitter and a top MLB draft prospect.
Coach Harris stared at the giant stepping onto the field, his gut twisting. Jason Cole. Six-foot-four, 230 pounds of pure muscle—the kind of hitter who turned fastballs into home run confetti.
Last season, he'd batted .402 with 28 homers. MLB scouts drooled over his swing. And now he was volunteering to crush a one-armed kid.
This isn't right, Coach thought. But Ms. Greene's shark-eyed grin said otherwise.
"First batter," she announced, smooth as a snake. "Jason Cole."
The crowd buzzed. Livestream comments exploded:
@UTFan4Ever: NO WAY THEY'RE USING COLE?! OVERKILL!!!
@MLBScout22: Cole's my draft pick. Cobb's dead.
Michael's left thumb traced the baseball's seams. His pulse stayed steady, the Phoenix Vial's icy focus numbing the panic. Cole's a power hitter. Swings for the fences. But he's slow to adjust.
"Who's next?" Ms. Greene called, scanning the team.
Landon shoved forward, bat already on his shoulder. "Me."
Katie stiffened. Landon's eyes locked onto her, burning with that same mix of jealousy and pride that made him challenge frat guys to beer pong at 3 a.m.
"Why?" Ms. Katie frowned. "You already struck out."
"Exactly." Landon spat. "I owe him a rematch."
No, Michael thought. You owe me a broken jaw. But he kept quiet. Landon's ego made him predictable—swing early, swing hard.
Ms. Greene shrugged. "Fine. Second batter: Landon Shaw."
The crowd murmured. Jake zoomed his camera on Katie biting her lip. Comments rolled in:
@DeltaQueen: LOVE TRIANGLE ALERT 🍿
@GossipGurl: LANDON'S JEALOUSSS
"Third batter," Ms. Greene said. "Someone who can end this farce."
A man stepped out of the dugout shadows.
Coach Harris's heart stopped.
No. Not him.
The crowd fell silent as the man removed his cap. Salt-and-pepper hair, eyes like frozen steel. A scar split his left eyebrow—a souvenir from a 98 mph fastball.
"Mason King," someone whispered.
MLB All-Star. Five-time Gold Glove winner. Retired three years ago. Now UT's "special advisor"—a fancy term for "guy who scares freshmen into crying during drills."
King tossed a bat onto his shoulder, the maple wood gleaming under the sun.
"I'll close this."
Coach Harris grabbed his arm. "Mason, come on. The kid's got one arm!"
King didn't blink. "He chose the game. I play to win."
Ms. Greene clapped, delighted. "Third batter: Mason King."
Livestream comments went nuclear:
@BaseballHistorian: KING'S CAREER BATTING AVG .297 AGAINST MLB PITCHERS
@UTAlum89: THIS IS A MASSACRE
Michael's left shoulder twinged. He didn't realize that Mason King was going to get involved. He remembers him to be a somewhat expressionless guy. Really tough in training, as it should be, but he never had any qualms with King. Why'd he want to get involved?
Michael took a breathe and let it sink in that he now has three demons to slay: Jason Cole, Power. Landon, Pride. Mason King, Perfection.
He scooped three baseballs from the bucket, lining them on the mound.