Bryce called out grinning, “Nice glove, bro. Garage sale or dumpster?” The boys laughed. The sound bounced off the polished walls and came back louder. A security guard appeared at Wesley's side. Come on, kid.
Let's go. Wesley didn't move. Not yet. Something was happening inside him. Not breaking, igniting.
Every insult Sullivan had thrown was fuel and the fire had just found oxygen. He looked at the security guard's hand on his arm, then looked past him, directly at Sullivan, who was already turning away, already done, already erasing the boy from his mind. Wesley spoke. Not loud, not screaming, worse, calm. The kind of calm that makes powerful men stop walking.
I'll win $100 million in three pitches. Sullivan stopped, turned. The field went quiet. Wesley continued, steady as a heartbeat. Put a bat in your hand, coach.
I don't care that you're a World Series champion. Three pitches. You won't touch one. For Two seconds nobody breathed. Then Sullivan laughed.
Not a chuckle, a full explosive doubled over roar. He looked at his coaching staff. “Did you hear that? A hundred million. Three pitches.” He pointed at Wesley the way you'd point at a dog doing a trick. “The kid doesn't have a hundred dollars and he's talking about a hundred million.”
The laughter spread. Coaches, parents, players. A hundred people were laughing at a 12-year-old boy in a gray T-shirt who had just made the most ridiculous promise anyone in that building had ever heard. The security guard pulled Wesley toward the exit. Wesley didn't resist, but his face, jaw locked, eyes burning, glove pressed against his chest, was not the face of a boy who had been defeated.
It was the face of a boy who had just set a timer on a bomb. High in the bleachers, a man in an expensive but understated jacket lowered his phone. He had filmed the entire thing. He wasn't laughing. His name was Victor Crane and he was already making a call.