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Andrew walk by the far fence on their way to shoot some hoops. “Killer Kylie!” they yell out. “Ow! Ow!”
    Take that, Amber.
    After two more perfect practice pitches, Coach Kate shouts, “Okay, let’s get started.” She points the radar gun at me.
    Emily gives me the sign and calls out, “Fastball, outside.”
    Don’t overthink, just throw . Coach Malone’s words fill my head. I remind myself that I’ve done this a bazillion times before. Then I take a deep breath, wind up, push off the rubber, and fire.
    “Strike!” Coach yells. “Nice pitch, Kylie.” She looks down at the radar gun.“Fifty-nine.”
    My heart stops. Oh my God. That’s nearly what I want to top out at UCLA. I might actually be able to do this.
    I fire two more fifty-nine-mile-per-hour fastballs.
    Beat that, Amber .
    Emily gives me the sign for the screwball. My best pitch. I feel for the seams, wind up, twist my wrist, and fire my favorite pitch. It cuts right.
    “Beautiful,” Coach yells, and scribbles something on her clipboard. “Fifty-eight.”
    As I throw a drop and changeup, I look over at the dugout. Amber just sits there, smiling as she hugs her glove. Enjoy the bench , I silently tell her.
    “Can I see your rise?” Coach asks, holding her pen over the last box on the evaluation sheet.
    “Yeah. I mean, yes,” I say, mustering up as much confidence as I can. Again my pitching coach’s words echo in my ears: Don’t aim, throw.
    I dig my foot in and take a deep breath, attempting to control the butterflies at war in my stomach. I find the seams with two fingers, wind up, take a giant leap, and twist the doorknob just like I’ve been practicing with my spinner. The laces snap across the tips of my fingers. The ball flies from my hand, darting upward. But instead of cutting right before the plate, it rises early and way too high.
    Emily reaches up to grab it. It’s good, but it’s far from great.
    “Fifty-three. Nice work, Ky,” Coach says, looking up from her clipboard. “Sophia, you’re up next.”
    Sophia hops off the bench and tucks her glove under her arm. She leans down, pulls up her socks, and jogs toward the mound, passing me on the way. Let’s see what you’ve got , my eyes tell her.
    When I enter the dugout, Amber jumps down from the bench and holds out her hand for a teammate slap.
    I don’t think so.
    Pretending I don’t see her hand, I pass her and dig into my bag for my water bottle.
    “Nice work, Ky! I just knew you were going to do amazing. Do you need a water bottle?”
    “Thanks, I’m good,” I reply, pulling the bottle out of my bag. After yesterday’s practice, I knew Amber would only be all too eager to take care of everything. And I couldn’t allow that.
    Taking a few more steps away from Amber, I scan for a spot in the dugout, knowing that there’s no way I’m taking a seat on that bench. God forbid Coach see me there and think that I want to stay.
    Ultimately, I decide to stand to the side and watch Sophia in action. Fortunately, there isn’t much to watch. After five okay pitches in the high forties, Coach announces that she’s seen enough. Then she calls for Amber.
    “Yay!” Amber jumps off the bench and excitedly makes her way to my mound.
    Once there, she moves her foot around, manicuring the dirt with her head down. I do my best not to jump up and strangle her right in front of everyone. Nothing irritates me more than when the visiting pitcher digs into my mound. And now Amber has the gall to do it. Ruin my smooth surface.
    I take another swig from my water bottle.
    “Are you ready?” Coach asks Amber, a whopping five practice pitches later.
    “Yup.” Amber beams. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
    I roll my eyes, wishing that Missy were here to crack jokes and cut the tension.
    Emily calls the pitch. “Fastball inside.”
    Amber winds up.
    Smack . The ball explodes into Emily’s glove. The power of Amber’s pitch pushes Emily back a bit. Just like it did me yesterday.
    This