Pinch Hit Read Free

wiggled in his seat, but then sat rigid after they passed Beverly Hills High School and every park between their Bel Air home and the 101 Freeway. If he was going to join a league, those were the places he’d have to go. He glanced at his mom, fearing she was too engrossed in her phone conversations to remember where they were headed.
    When they got on the freeway heading south, Trevor looked back over the seat at the Hollywood hills disappearing behind them, then up ahead at downtown Los Angeles.
    â€œWhere are we going?” he asked, wondering if in fact they were going to some special place where a travel team might be practicing.
    It was almost too good to be true, but Trevor pinched his arm and knew it wasn’t a dream. He was a kid people said had everything: money, fame, a loving family. But all those things had been given to him. Trevor wanted to compete for something, to use his own skills to try and win. And, if he didn’t win, he would lose , and that would be okay once in a while. No more scripted lines and parts written just for him, but a real battle on a real team.
    Trevor didn’t spend much time with his father, and they almost never played sports. One time, though—when his father had been delayed for an afternoon trip to London because a part had to be replaced on his jet—the two of them had gone out into the yard with two gloves and a ball. Trevor had a glove signed by A-Rod, but Trevor’s dad had a glove that was old and faded and well-worn. It turned out to be his father’s own mitt, a mitt he had used as a player for the college team at Yale. Trevor never knew his father had been an athlete, and when Trevor threw well—earning a smile and some praise from his father—he made up his mind at that moment that baseball would be his sport, too.
    Since that afternoon he’d dreamed of it, of playing, being part of a team, hitting home runs, making outs. Maybe one day he’d even play for Yale. But all his life there were reasons why he couldn’t. No time. Family travels. Too much of a distraction from his work as an actor. Too difficult to deal with all the drama that came from being a kid who was not only a movie star, but the son of a movie star and a famous Hollywood producer.
    Trevor’s mother didn’t seem to have heard his question, so he asked it again. “Where are we going?”
    She clucked her tongue, muted the phone on her agent, and shook her head. “A surprise from your father and me.”
    â€œBut I’m playing baseball?”
    â€œI said you were. Relax. You only turn thirteen once. I said it’s a surprise. Where we’re going is part of the fun.” His mother checked her lipstick again in the mirror and tucked the bra strap on her shoulder back into her shirt. She took the mute off and started talking again.
    When they got off the freeway at the exit to Dodger Stadium, he knew it couldn’t be a coincidence. They circled the stadium, then drove right up to the front of the team offices. His mom parked where it said “No Parking,” got off her phone call, and got out while two different camera crews surrounded the car.
    â€œWhat are these guys doing?” Trevor asked.
    â€œYour father wanted to see it all,” his mother replied. “Come on, pretend they’re not there.”
    Trevor’s father was on location in Australia. His studio was shooting a blockbuster with Russell Crowe. Having a film crew hovering around him wasn’t anything Trevor hadn’t seen before, and even though it was annoying, it didn’t distract him for more than a few seconds. He followed his mother through the offices, where they picked up two men and a woman, all wearing suits and fussing over his mother while saving plenty of smiles, chuckles, and nods for him. His mother didn’t give them much attention in return. She began sending text messages and appeared—at the same time—to have