AVEL
My arms were already heavy and my breath slurred in my chest when I stepped up to the plate for my final round. Tryouts at this place were not a game; you had to earn your spot. And as a first baseman and designated hitter, they’d run me through everything.
I had gone through fielding drills, scooping grounders, reacting to line drives, and perfecting that stretch across the bag before moving on to batting. The test was no joke.
But, eventually, I was done, and the coach gave me a firm nod as the whistle went off. I jogged off the field, adrenaline still humming but beginning to wear off, and instead of going around the dugout and walking the long way, I hopped the short fence and climbed over to the stands.
My thighs ached, and my shirt was stuck against my back. I was dead tire
