Isaiah regardait Mason debout seul devant le dugout.
Le visage du garçon était pâle.
Les parents avaient cessé de lui demander des photos.
Certains joueurs le regardaient avec colère, comme s’il avait personnellement modifié les relevés.
Mason a retiré la bannière vitrine de la rambarde du dugout.
Son propre visage le fixait.
Il plia la bannière jusqu’à ce que la photo disparaisse.
Isaiah ne ressentait aucune satisfaction.
Mason s’était déjà moqué de lui.
Il avait aussi eu l’air honteux quand son père avait refusé un échauffement.
Quoi qu’ait fait Brent, Mason devait maintenant apprendre que le nombre que tout le monde louait ne lui avait jamais appartenu.
Daniel Mercer s’approcha d’Isaiah.
« Quel bras ? »
« D’accord. »
« Douleur ? »
« Juste serré. »
« Nous avons un dresseur certifié dans le tunnel. »
« Ça va. »
« Tu as lancé quatre-vingt-dix-huit sans t’échauffer. Tu vas voir le dresseur. »
Isaiah jeta un coup d’œil à Earl.
Le gardien hocha la tête.
Dans la salle d’entraînement, une femme examina l’épaule et le coude d’Isaiah.
Elle n’a trouvé aucune blessure immédiate mais lui a ordonné de ne pas lancer pendant plusieurs jours.
Mercer attendait près de la porte.
« Qui te représente ? » demanda-t-il.
« Personne. »
« Voiture de voyage ? »
« Non. »
« Coach de lycée ? »
« L’école a coupé le programme junior varsity l’année dernière. »
« Pour quelle équipe joues-tu ? »
« Je ne le fais pas. »
Mercer regarda Earl.
« Tu lui as appris ? »
« Un peu. »
Isaiah faillit rire.
Earl lui avait tout appris.
Mercer demanda : « À quelle fréquence lancerez-vous ? »
« Trois matins par semaine. »
« Combien de lancers ? »
« D’habitude trente-cinq. »
« Des balles qui cassent ? »
« Seulement des changements. »
répondit Earl avant qu’Isaiah ne puisse répondre.
« Pas de glisseurs. Pas de courbes. Son bras a quinze ans. »
Mercer hocha la tête avec approbation.
« Tu comprends à quel point quatre-vingt-dix-huit ans est inhabituel à son âge ? »
Isaiah regarda ses chaussures.
« Je sais que c’est rapide. »
“It’s beyond fast.”
“Does that mean I can play?”
The question silenced the room.
Mercer sat in the chair across from him.
“It means people will offer you things.”
“A team?”
“Teams. Training. Travel. Attention. Some will be real. Some will want to use your name before they help your arm.”
Isaiah looked toward the field where parents were shouting at Brent.
“How do I know which is which?”
“You ask who benefits if you say yes.”
Earl smiled faintly.
Mercer continued.
“And you do not sign anything without your mother and an independent advisor.”
Isaiah nodded.
“My mother is at work.”
“Call her.”
Rochelle Reed arrived forty minutes later wearing her hotel housekeeping uniform.
She had left work so quickly that a plastic name tag remained pinned crookedly to her shirt.
Naomi sat in the passenger seat of their old sedan.
Rochelle crossed the parking lot with fear in her face.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, ma’am.”
“They said you threw a baseball and something happened.”
“My arm is okay.”
She looked toward the police vehicle near the clubhouse.
“Why are officers here?”
“Coach Brent changed radar numbers.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
Isaiah hesitated.
Earl handed her a bottle of water.
“Your son threw ninety-eight miles an hour.”
Rochelle stared at him.
“Is that dangerous?”
Earl almost smiled.
“Only to hitters.”
Isaiah explained what happened.
The laughter.
The one-pitch challenge.
The first reading.
Mason’s throw.
The second reading.
Then he explained the stored history.
Brent had known about Isaiah’s speed for months.
He had attached Isaiah’s early-morning pitches to Mason’s recruiting profile.
Rochelle listened without interrupting.
When Isaiah finished, she looked toward the field.
“Where is this man?”
“Rochelle,” Earl said, “there are investigators with him.”
“He humiliated my child for entertainment after stealing his work.”
“Yes.”
“I only want to speak.”
Earl watched her.
“So did he.”
Rochelle found Brent near the first-base dugout.
Alicia Warren, Daniel Mercer, and two sheriff’s deputies stood with him.
The deputies had not arrested him.
Not yet.
They were preserving equipment after Alicia discovered financial records linked to the altered player profiles.
Brent charged families for “verified performance certificates.”
Those certificates contained the false radar numbers.
Several parents had used them in scholarship applications, academy placements, and recruiting communications.
The showcase council’s attorney had advised everyone not to delete anything.
Rochelle stopped six feet from Brent.
“You knew my son could pitch.”
Brent looked at Isaiah’s hotel-uniformed mother, then at the people watching.
“I knew he had been using the field without authorization.”
“You knew how fast he threw.”
“I saw questionable readings.”
“You copied those readings to your son.”
“That has not been established.”
Daniel Mercer held up the radar gun.
“It has.”
Brent ignored him.
He addressed Rochelle.
“Isaiah entered restricted facilities, used equipment without permission, and created liability for the program.”
Rochelle looked at Isaiah.
“Did you break into the field?”
“No. Earl let me in.”
Brent pointed toward the groundskeeper.
“He exceeded his authority.”
Earl said, “The field belongs to the county, not your academy.”
“The academy has priority use.”
“Before sunrise in January?”
“You had no right to train him.”
Rochelle stepped closer.
“You keep talking about rights as if you did not put my child on a mound cold so people could laugh.”
Brent’s face reddened.
“He volunteered.”
“He asked for one pitch.”
“And I gave it to him.”
“You gave him a damaged ball and threatened his job.”
“It was a joke.”
“Who was supposed to laugh?”
Brent said nothing.
Rochelle looked around at the parents.
“Who was supposed to laugh?”
No one answered.
She turned back to him.
“You saw a Black child carrying buckets and decided his dream was entertainment.”
Brent’s attorney, who had just arrived, moved toward them.
“We should end this conversation.”
