Chapter 3
I stared at the letters until they blurred.
COLE.
The same name printed across the back of Ryan's white baseball jersey.
My grandfather had carved that name into his bat years before I was born.
And nobody could explain why.
Coach Harris carefully turned the handle toward the light.
The message was hidden beneath several layers of black athletic tape.
Some letters had worn away.
Others were deep enough to remain visible.
I read them slowly.
TRUST NO COLE.
My mouth went dry.
“What does that mean?”
My mother covered her face.
Coach Harris looked as though he had aged ten years.
“Denise,” he whispered, “did Raymond ever explain this?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Did he mention anyone named Cole?”
My mother hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Arthur Cole.”
The coach's expression changed instantly.
I looked between them.
“Who's Arthur?”
Harris sat down heavily.
“He used to be an executive with the baseball organization.”
“Used to?”
“He retired years ago.”
My mother looked at him.
“Is he still alive?”
Harris nodded.
“Yes.”
I frowned.
“Is he related to Ryan?”
The coach closed his eyes.
“He's Ryan's grandfather.”
I stared at him.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Ryan Cole had humiliated me in front of hundreds of people.
Now I was discovering that his grandfather might have been connected to something terrible that happened to mine.
It didn't make sense.
It felt like two different stories had crashed into each other.
My mother took my hand.
“Malik, listen carefully. We don't know what that message means.”
“But Grandpa wrote it.”
“Yes.”
“He was scared of someone named Cole.”
She looked down.
“We believe he was.”
I pulled my hand away.
“Then why didn't he tell me?”
My mother didn't answer.
Coach Harris leaned forward.
“Raymond must have had a reason.”
I looked at him.
“Then I want to find out.”
The coach studied me.
“You remind me of him.”
I almost laughed.
“Because I hit a baseball?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Because even when you're frightened, you ask the question everyone else avoids.”
My eyes burned.
I missed Grandpa so much that hearing someone speak about him made my chest ache.
I remembered the last afternoon we spent together.
He had been sitting on our apartment balcony.
His breathing was weak.
He had been sick for months, but he insisted on watching me practice my swing.
“Again,” he said.
I swung.
“Again.”
I complained that my arms hurt.
He laughed.
“Good. That means you're working.”
Then he called me closer.
He handed me the old bat.
“Whatever happens, don't let anybody convince you this is worthless.”
I thought he was talking about baseball.
Now I wasn't sure.
Coach Harris stood.
“I need to make a phone call.”
My mother immediately shook her head.
“Walter, don't.”
He looked at her.
“I need to know whether Arthur was involved.”
“We don't know who we can trust.”
The coach stopped.
He stared at the bat.
Then he slowly returned his phone to his pocket.
“You're right.”
I looked at him.
“What do we do?”
He thought for a moment.
“First, we protect that bat.”
I hugged it tighter.
“I'm not giving it away.”
“Good.”
He glanced at the stadium door.
“Second, we find out what Raymond was trying to tell me.”
My mother looked alarmed.
“He's been gone for thirty years. What if someone still wants this hidden?”
The coach's expression hardened.
“Then it's time they stopped hiding.”
A knock interrupted us.
A stadium security officer stood outside.
“Coach Harris, there's a gentleman asking to speak with you.”
“Who?”
The officer hesitated.
“Arthur Cole.”
Nobody moved.
I felt my heartbeat in my ears.
Coach Harris slowly approached the door.
“Where is he?”
“Outside the family entrance.”
My mother gripped my shoulder.
“He knows.”
Harris turned toward her.
“Maybe he saw the broadcast.”
The officer nodded.
“The video of the home run is already everywhere.”
I stared at him.
“People are posting it?”
“Yes, kid. Millions of views.”
I should have felt excited.
Instead, I felt sick.
My most important moment in baseball had turned into something I couldn't control.
Coach Harris told the officer to keep Arthur away from our room.
Then he called stadium security management.
I heard him ask them to preserve every recording from the field and hallway.
He also requested that they document Arthur's arrival.
My mother looked relieved.
“Thank you.”
Harris nodded.
“I won't make the same mistake twice.”
I wanted to ask what mistake he meant.
But before I could, the door opened again.
Ryan Cole stepped inside.
His usual smile was gone.
He looked confused.
“Coach, what's going on? My grandfather's outside.”
Harris moved between Ryan and my mother.
“Ryan, did Arthur send you?”
Ryan frowned.
“No. He called me after the video went viral.”
“What did he say?”
Ryan looked at me.
“He wanted to know about the kid's bat.”
I tightened my grip.
“What about it?”
Ryan hesitated.
“He told me to get it.”
My mother stood.
“Get it?”
Ryan nodded.
“He said it belonged to our family.”
I stared at him.
“It belonged to my grandfather.”
Ryan folded his arms.
“Look, I don't know what's happening. Grandpa said somebody stole a bat from him years ago.”
Coach Harris's face darkened.
“Arthur told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Did he explain why he wanted it?”
Ryan shook his head.
“He sounded upset.”
My mother whispered, “Of course he did.”
Ryan looked offended.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
I stepped forward.
“It means you don't get to take my grandfather's bat.”
Ryan stared at me.
For the first time, he didn't laugh.
Coach Harris pointed toward the door.
“Ryan, leave us.”
“But—”
“Please.”
Ryan hesitated.
Then he walked out.
The moment the door closed, my mother turned toward Harris.
“We can't stay here.”
He nodded.
“I'll arrange a secure exit.”
We left the stadium through a service corridor.
A staff member drove us to a guarded parking area.
Coach Harris promised to call the next morning.
Before we separated, he placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Malik, whatever happens, don't forget something.”
“What?”
“That home run was yours.”
I looked down.
“You mean even if all this is true?”
He nodded.
“Especially then.”
My mother drove us home in silence.
When we reached our apartment, the sun was beginning to set.
I carried the bat into my room.
Then I sat on my bed.
For the first time, I looked at it not as a baseball bat but as a secret someone had been carrying for decades.
I removed the remaining loose tape.
There were more marks underneath.
Not words this time.
Numbers.
A date.
A series of four digits.
And a tiny symbol shaped like a star.
I took a photograph.
Then I searched through Grandpa's old baseball belongings.
His glove.
A faded team cap.
A small box of newspaper clippings.
At the bottom, I found a yellowed photograph.
Grandpa stood beside a younger Coach Harris.
Both were smiling.
A third man stood behind them.
He wore a dark suit.
His face looked familiar.
I turned the picture over.
Three names were written on the back.
Walter Harris.
Raymond Harris.
Arthur Cole.
Below them was the same date carved into my bat.
Then I noticed something that made my hands tremble.
Someone had crossed out Arthur's name in red ink.
And underneath, Grandpa had written:
"He knows what happened to the money."
I stared at those words.
I had thought this mystery was about a bus accident.
But my grandfather had left behind evidence of something else.
Something involving money.
And possibly betrayal.
Before I could call my mother, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered cautiously.
“Hello?”
An older man's voice spoke.
“Malik Thompson?”
I froze.
“Yes?”
“My name is Arthur Cole.”
I couldn't breathe.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
I looked at the bat.
“No, sir.”
His voice became colder.
“Listen carefully, boy.”
I sat perfectly still.
“That bat has caused enough trouble.”
I swallowed.
“What trouble?”
There was a pause.
May you like
Then he said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
“Your grandfather should have stayed dead.”
