Chapter 6: The Man Who Controlled the Check
Pruitt reached them before Cole could say another word.
"We have a situation," Pruitt said.
He wasn't looking at Tariq or Coach Carter.
He was looking at Cole.
"The video is already circulating."
Cole turned toward him.
"What video?"
"Someone in the bleachers filmed the pitch.
The whole thing.
The bet, the throw, Barrett missing, the exchange afterward." Pruitt's voice was tight and controlled.
"It's been shared forty-seven times in the last twenty minutes."
Coach Carter said nothing.
"So handle the PR," Cole said.
"That's what you do."
"The PR is manageable," Pruitt said.
"The check is the problem." He finally glanced at Coach Carter, and his expression was polite in the way that certain doors are polite — smooth on the surface and very solid underneath.
"The event terms are clear.
No funds are disbursed without formal committee approval.
The committee meets in six weeks."
"Six weeks," Coach Carter repeated.
"Their field gets removed from the schedule in four."
"I'm sorry about that," Pruitt said, with the tone of someone who was not sorry.
"The bet was made in public," Coach Carter said.
"In front of sponsors, scouts, parents, and players.
That video you're concerned about captured every word of it."
"A verbal agreement made under informal circumstances by a private individual does not obligate the committee's funds," Pruitt said.
"Cole Barrett can make a personal donation if he chooses to honor the spirit of the moment.
The event check is a separate matter."
Cole looked at Pruitt.
Something shifted between them — not a break, not yet, but a slight pulling apart, the way two people who have always moved together discover they are no longer taking the same step.
"You're saying I'd have to write a personal check," Cole said.
"I'm saying the committee check requires committee approval," Pruitt said carefully.
"What you do personally is your own business."
Tariq was watching Cole.
Coach Carter was watching Pruitt.
Raymond, still seated on the dugout bench behind them, was watching all of it with the patience of a man who had seen long games before.
Marcus Webb's text was still on Coach Carter's phone screen.
She made a decision.
"Tariq," she said, "go sit with Raymond for a few minutes."
Tariq looked at her.
"Go on," she said.
"I'll be right there."
He walked back to the dugout.
Coach Carter waited until he was out of easy earshot, then turned back to Pruitt.
"Your father's name was Wallace Pruitt," she said.
Pruitt's polite expression didn't change.
But he stopped moving.
"He ran league administration from 1974 to 1996," she continued.
"I'd like to know what happened to a formal recommendation submitted by Dorian Barrett in August of 1983, recommending a pitcher named Isaiah Mason for a professional tryout."
The silence that followed lasted exactly four seconds.
She counted.
"I have no idea what you're referring to," Pruitt said.
"Then it shouldn't be difficult to let us see the historical committee records."
"Historical records from that era are archived," Pruitt said.
"Access requires a formal request."
"I'll submit one," she said.
"Today."
Cole hadn't moved during this exchange.
He was standing slightly to the side, and Coach Carter could not tell which direction he was leaning.
She didn't need to tell yet.
She needed him to stay uncertain long enough for the other pieces to land.
"Cole," Pruitt said, "we should continue this conversation privately."
"In a moment," Cole said.
Pruitt's phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen, and for the first time, his controlled expression showed something genuine.
Not fear exactly.
More like the feeling of a man who has just realized the clock moved faster than he planned.
"The video," he said quietly, "has been picked up by a sports news aggregator."
Cole closed his eyes for one second.
"How many shares?" he asked.
"They're not counting shares anymore," Pruitt said.
"They're counting views."
Marcus Webb appeared at the edge of the infield.
He caught Coach Carter's eye and tilted his head toward the corridor beneath the bleachers — the same quiet gesture he'd used in his text.
Coach Carter looked at Cole.
"I think you need to decide something," she said.
"Not in six weeks.
Right now."
Cole looked at the dugout where Tariq was sitting beside Raymond, the old letter held carefully in the boy's hands.
"What is that letter?" Cole said.
"Something your father wrote," she said.
"Something he probably should have sent a long time ago."
Cole's gold chain caught the afternoon light as he turned toward the dugout.
His immaculate white gear looked different now than it had an hour ago.
Not dirty.
Just less convincing.
He took two steps toward the dugout and stopped.
"Pruitt," he said, without turning around.
"Go back to the tent."
A pause.
"Cole, we need to coordinate our—"
"Go back to the tent," Cole said again.
Still not turning.
Coach Carter watched Pruitt's face.
The smooth door held.
But she heard the lock engage behind it.
Pruitt walked back toward the white tent.
Cole walked toward the dugout.
May you like
And Marcus Webb, from the corridor beneath the bleachers, was already on his phone — and from thirty feet away, Coach Carter could see he was not sending a text.
He was recording.
