That’s when the new guy showed up. He pulled up in a beat-up Honda Civic—not fancy, not flashy—and got out wearing basketball shorts and a hoodie. He was maybe mid-twenties, with a neat beard and a friendly smile that reached his eyes. “Yo, is this the baseball program?” he called out. Coach Marcus walked over. “Yeah, who’s asking?” “Name’s Devin. Devin Harris.” He extended his hand. “I heard y’all were looking for an assistant coach. I used to play in high school. Thought maybe I could help out.” Marcus looked him up and down. “We weren’t looking for anyone.” “Oh.” Devin’s face fell slightly. “My bad. I must’ve got bad info. I just moved to the neighborhood and heard about this place. Thought I’d shoot my shot.”
Gavin walked over, wiping dirt off his hands. “You played ball?” “Four years varsity,” Devin said. “Made all-conference junior year. Had a scholarship offer to a community college but…” He shrugged. “Life happened. Had to work instead.” “You coach before?” “Nah, but I’m good with kids. Patient. I know the game.” Devin looked around the field. “This is really nice, man. Like, really nice. These kids are lucky.”
Something about him felt right. Easy. Genuine. “Tell you what,” Gavin said. “Come back Saturday. Help Coach Marcus with practice. We’ll see how it goes.” Devin’s face lit up immediately. “For real? Yeah, absolutely. I’ll be here. Thank you, man. Seriously.” He left smiling, waving at some of the kids as he walked back to his car. “You trust him?” Marcus asked Gavin quietly. “I don’t know him well enough to trust him,” Gavin admitted. “But everyone deserves a chance, right? That’s what this whole place is about.”
That Saturday, Devin showed up early. He brought his own glove—worn leather, clearly well-loved—and a bag of sunflower seeds to share with the kids. “Alright, team,” he called out. “Who wants to learn how to throw a knuckleball?” The kids swarmed him instantly. Devin was good. Really good. He knew how to explain things so the kids understood. He never got frustrated when someone messed up. He made jokes that actually made people laugh. He knew every kid’s name by the end of the first practice. Even Skye liked him. “Your form’s already pretty solid,” Devin told her, watching her pitch. “But if you turn your front foot just a little more, you’ll get even more power.” She tried it. The ball flew faster. “See?” He grinned. “Small adjustments. That’s all it takes.”
Over the next three weeks, Devin became a regular fixture. He showed up to every practice. Stayed late to help clean up. Brought extra equipment, even spending his own money on baseballs, batting gloves, and a bucket of bats he’d found at a thrift store. The kids adored him. The parents trusted him. Even Evelyn conceded he seemed like good people. Gavin started paying him. Not much, just minimum wage for the hours he put in. But Devin acted like it was a fortune. “Man, you don’t have to pay me,” he said. “I’m just happy to help.” “You’re working,” Gavin said. “You get paid. That’s how it works.” Devin nodded, folding the bills carefully into his wallet. “I really appreciate this, Mr. Parker. You don’t even know.”
Everything felt right. Perfect, even. But what nobody knew, what nobody could have known, was that Devin Harris had another phone in his car. A burner phone with only one number saved in it. And three nights a week, after practice ended and everyone went home, Devin sat in his car and made quiet calls.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he’d say quietly. “Practice went till seven tonight. Parker stayed late talking to some parents. Security’s just one guy, walks the perimeter every hour. The equipment shed isn’t locked. Yeah, I can get you that info. Next Tuesday. That works.”
Because Devin Harris wasn’t there to coach. He was there to watch. To learn. To report back to someone who had very different plans for this field. Someone who didn’t want Gavin Parker building anything in this neighborhood. Someone who had been patiently waiting for the right moment to strike. And that moment was coming soon.
But for now, on a warm Saturday afternoon with kids laughing, parents cheering, and Skye throwing perfect strikes, nobody suspected a thing. Devin stood near the dugout, smiling his friendly smile, chewing sunflower seeds. “Good practice today, Sky,” he called out. “You’re getting scary good.” “Thanks, Coach Devin,” she said, grinning. He waved, got in his car, and drove away. And as soon as he turned the corner, he pulled out that second phone and sent a text.
They trust me now. Ready when you are.
Three dots appeared. Then a response.
Good. Phase two starts Monday.
Devin stared at the message for a long moment. His jaw tightened. His hands gripped the steering wheel. For just a second, he looked like a man who’d made a deal with the devil and was starting to feel the crushing weight of regret. But then his phone buzzed again.
Don’t forget what you owe me.
Devin closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Then he typed back.
Confirmed.
Monday morning arrived with a sky so clear and blue it felt like a promise. Skye woke up early, excited. Today was special. Gavin had announced they were going to have a soft opening for the field—invite the whole neighborhood to come see what they’d built. There would be food trucks, music, games. A real celebration. She got dressed quickly, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and practically ran the three blocks to the field.
But when she turned the corner, she stopped dead. Her stomach plummeted.
The field was destroyed. Completely vandalized.
Spray paint covered everything. The beautiful dark blue dugout was now covered in ugly, hateful words—curse words, threats, slurs that made Skye’s eyes burn just reading them. Someone had painted a giant red X across the pitcher’s mound. The bases had been brutally ripped out of the ground and thrown into the outfield. One of them was snapped in half. But the worst part? The dirt. Someone had poured something thick and black all over the infield. Oil, maybe. Or tar. It soaked into the ground in dark, spreading stains that reeked of harsh chemicals.
“No,” Skye whispered, her voice barely audible. “No, no, no.” She started running. Ran right onto the field, her shoes squelching in the oily mud. She grabbed one of the broken bases, holding it like it might still be fixable. Behind her, she heard voices. Other people arriving. Gasping. Cursing. One woman started crying. “Who would do this?” someone said. “This is sick,” another voice added. “Just sick.”
Gavin’s car screeched to a stop outside the fence. He jumped out, still wearing his suit from an early morning meeting, and just stood there staring. His face went white. Then red. Then something harder. Colder. He walked onto the field slowly, taking in every detail. The spray paint. The broken equipment. The ruined ground. When he spoke, his voice shook with pure rage. “Who did this? Who the hell did this?”
Nobody had an answer. Coach Marcus arrived next, took one look, and punched the fence post so hard his knuckles split. “Six weeks of work. Six weeks!” Devin showed up last, parking his Honda and walking over with wide eyes. “Oh my god. What happened?” “Someone destroyed everything,” Skye said, her voice breaking. “Everything we built.” Devin shook his head slowly, his face twisted with what looked like genuine shock and anger. “This is messed up. Like, seriously messed up. Who would hate on kids like this?”
Police showed up twenty minutes later. They took photos. Asked questions. Wrote things down in little notebooks. But Skye could tell by their weary faces that they didn’t really care. Just another vandalism case in a poor neighborhood. They’d file a report and forget about it by lunch. “We’ll look into it,” one officer said without much conviction. “In the meantime, you might want to increase security.” “There was security!” Gavin snapped. “A guard walks this place every night. Where is he now?” Good question. Nobody had seen the security guard that morning. It turned out he’d called in sick. First time in six weeks. Convenient timing.
By noon, news vans showed up again. Different story this time. Not feel-good. Not inspiring. Just sad. “Field for underprivileged kids destroyed in hate crime.” Skye stood at the edge of the field with her arms wrapped around herself, watching reporters talk into cameras. Watching them turn her pain into a story. Into content. Into something people would scroll past while eating lunch. “You okay, kiddo?” Coach Marcus asked quietly, walking up beside her. She shook her head. “We worked so hard.” “I know.” “Everybody was so happy.” “I know.” “Why would someone do this?” Her voice cracked. “What did we do to anybody?” Marcus put a hand on her shoulder but had no answer. Because there wasn’t a good one.
That afternoon, parents started calling. Pulling their kids out. “I’m sorry, but it’s not safe,” one mother said. “First the vandalism, next it might be something worse.” “My kid was so excited,” another dad told Gavin sadly. “But I can’t risk it. Not after this.” One by one, they withdrew. Apologizing. Looking guilty. But leaving anyway. By evening, only five kids remained committed. Down from thirty.
Skye sat on one of the dugout benches, the one that hadn’t been spray-painted, and stared at the ruined field. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the oil stains. Gavin sat down next to her. He looked exhausted. Defeated. His tie was loose. His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were red. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For what?” “For thinking money could fix everything. For believing that just because we built something good, people would let it stay good.”
Skye picked at a thread on her jeans. “You think they’ll come back? The people who did this?” “I don’t know.” “You think we should quit?” Gavin was quiet for a long moment. Then, “Do you want to quit?” Skye thought about it. Really thought about it. Part of her wanted to say yes. Wanted to walk away before things got worse. Before someone got hurt. But another part—the part that had thrown a ball from a third-story window to save a stranger’s life—that part refused to give up. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t want to quit.”…
