While the mountain cabin settled into the silence of woodsmoke and slumber, five hundred miles to the south, the clubhouse at the Quail Hollow Country Club in Charlotte was ablaze with crystal chandeliers, polished brass, and the low, self-satisfied hum of Southern wealth.
Harrison Vance sat in an oxblood leather wingback chair in the private cigar lounge, a tumbler of twenty-year-old bourbon sweating onto the mahogany coaster beside his elbow. Across from him sat Senator Thomas Croft, Julian’s father.
Thomas Croft was fifty-eight, with manicured silver hair, a bespoke Italian silk suit, and the unblinking, predatory stare of a man who owned three construction conglomerates and sat on the state senate’s judiciary committee. He held an unlit Churchill cigar between two manicured fingers, rolling it with slow, metronomic regularity.
"Harrison," Croft began, his voice smooth as poured oil, "Julian tells me you looked rattled yesterday afternoon."
Harrison’s throat tightened, but he forced a confident, dismissive chuckle, waving his left hand through the blue haze of tobacco smoke.
"Julian is seventeen, Thomas," Harrison said smoothly, adjusting the collar of his custom polo. "He misread an exhibition drill. We had a local kid wander onto the field during an open-tryout hour. I took three swings with a cold shoulder to demonstrate plate discipline against junk pitching. Nothing more."
"That's not what Arthur told the national crosschecker for the Dodgers this morning," Croft said coldly, leaning forward until his shadow extinguished the warm amber light on Harrison's tumbler.
Harrison froze, the glass halfway to his lips. "What did Arthur say?"
"Arthur told Frank Caspar that Julian was the second-best arm coming out of the state this year," Croft said, his tone dropping an octave into pure, venomous authority. "He told Caspar that there was a twelve-year-old Black boy from the municipal district who had better late action than any draft-eligible prospect on the eastern seaboard. He said he was bringing him to the showcase on Saturday as a personal invitee."
Harrison slammed his glass onto the table, the bourbon sloshing over the crystal rim.
"Arthur has lost his mind!" Harrison hissed, his face flushing crimson. "The man is seventy years old, Thomas! He lives out of a Buick and buys scouting notes from retired high-school coaches! He's trying to settle a fifty-year-old grudge against my father and me because we built an academy that actually turns a profit instead of chasing romantic nonsense about barnstormers!"
"I don't give a damn about your family grudge, Harrison," Croft said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "Julian has a two-point-four-million-dollar pre-draft agreement lined up with the Padres. That agreement is contingent on Julian being the undisputed centerpiece of the Charlotte showcase. If some unschooled circus act walks out of Arthur Vance’s car, strikes out three batters, and steals the front-page writeup in Baseball America, that bonus drops by eight hundred thousand dollars. Do you understand what that means for your academy's reputation?"
"Julian won't be overshadowed," Harrison pleaded, leaning forward, his hands trembling slightly against his knees. "Julian throws ninety-two with a professional slider! We have the biomechanical overlays, the release-point consistency charts, the national rankings—"
"Scouts don't draft charts, Harrison," Croft interrupted, tapping his cigar against the marble ashtray. "They draft arm speed and mystery. A kid who pops out of nowhere throwing smoke is the most dangerous thing in this business. He makes every front-office executive feel like an idiot for spending millions on player development."
Croft stood up, buttoning his silk suit coat with one hand. He looked down at Harrison Vance with the absolute disdain of an investor inspecting a broken piece of machinery.
"The showcase rules state that every participant must be registered through an accredited preparatory academy or have a signed sanction from the state athletic committee," Croft said. "You sit on the sanctioning board, Harrison. You’re the regional director."
Harrison swallowed hard. The meaning was crystal clear.
"I can withhold his clearance," Harrison whispered. "I can cite an incomplete medical packet, lack of certified amateur standing, insurance liabilities... I can keep him off the complex entirely."
Croft looked down at his watch, a diamond-encrusted timepiece that cost more than the house Wesley and his mother lived in.
"Julian wants him to throw," Croft said quietly. "Julian has pride, Harrison. More pride than you have, apparently. Julian wants that boy on the mound in the seventh inning so he can hit his best pitch over the left-field light tower and bury your uncle’s fairy tale once and for all."
Croft leaned down, his face inches from Harrison’s ear.
"You let him enter the park," Croft whispered. "You let him put on a jersey. But you make sure that boy knows where he came from before he ever touches the rubber. You have the security check his bag at the gate. You have the athletic commission demand an immediate random substance check on his glove. You shake that boy’s knees until he can't find the strike zone with a shovel. You understand me?"
Harrison looked up into the senator’s cold, dead eyes. The phantom pain in his lower back—the sharp, twisting memory of that third swinging strike—pulsed with a dull, rhythmic throb.
"I understand, Thomas," Harrison said.
"Good," Croft replied, turning toward the double doors of the lounge. "Don't disappoint me again, Coach. Riverside is a very expensive school to maintain without my foundation's support."
Harrison Vance sat alone in the leather chair for a long time after the doors swung shut. The ice in his glass melted into the amber liquor, turning it pale and cloudy, while the grandfather clock in the corner chimed twelve slow, heavy strokes.