Batting practice was in full swing, with the Rockets’ power hitters behind the plate. Kyle was shagging fly balls in right field, keeping an eye on the practice pitcher throwing strike after strike. Tyler Brock had just soared three in a row over the fence at center field, making it look easy. Kyle never hit fly balls like that—he’d always hit for average, not for power. He was in a batting slump now, had been for almost a month. Not a single hit, no matter who was pitching—righty or lefty, men who came on with heat, or crafty bastards who knew just where to put the ball. It didn’t make any difference to Kyle—he just wasn’t seeing the pitches, wasn’t getting his bat through the zone in time. Brock hit another high fly toward the fence, and Kyle broke into a dead run. He got to the warning track, got to the wall. He whirled and found the ball, soaring straight toward him, like a magnet drawn to an iron column. He tensed his legs and extended his arm for the catch. He snagged the ball in the web of his glove, automatically snapping his fingers closed to keep it safe in the leather pocket.
