Free Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) by Kyell Gold Page A

practice, too. Sol stopped to watch him.
    The coyote really did have a great swing. All the things Sol’s coaches had given up trying to teach him in the past year were made physical and real in Taric. He planted on his back foot—Sol could see the shift in weight—and his muzzle stayed pointed straight at the pitching machine. He never took his eye from the ball, and he turned his whole torso into the swing. And he followed through, sometimes sending the bat all the way to the back of the cage. Sol had watched his coaches demonstrate this, but he’d never felt the fire in his gut to get it right; he’d been good enough to have fun, and better than any other second baseman for years. His swing had always been adequate, enough to get him at least one hit a game. But he wasn’t going to be better than Taric anytime soon.
    Taric turned, unexpectedly. Yellow eyes bored into Sol’s. “If you’re gonna stare at my ass, I’ll come over there and take batting practice on your skull.”
    You used to watch me take batting practice. But Sol just ducked his head and triggered the pitching machine again, missing three balls in a row before he hit a weak dribbler back out to the machine. He wanted to outlast Taric, but the coyote showed no signs of stopping, nor even slowing down. Sol kept count of the hits from a certain arbitrary point. He got four, Taric five. Then he hit three in a row and briefly tied the ’yote’s total, until Taric unleashed a powerful swing and launched a pitch into the stands. It would’ve been foul, but then, so were some of Sol’s, so the wolf counted it.
    The hour dragged on, and though Sol did reasonably well, Taric’s score kept climbing. When it reached twenty to thirteen in the ’yote’s favor, Sol stopped counting. Taric was better than he was; he knew that. But he could at least stay as long as Taric did. They’d both reloaded their machines twice so far, and this last load of pitches would have to be the last one. Orange was blossoming in the sky, pink glowing on the bottom of the clouds, and Sol’s arms were tiring. He started missing more and more of the pitches. Coach had said that when you got too tired, practice didn’t do you good any more, but Sol just had to finish the pitches in his machine. Taric’s was going to run out first, and the ’yote would head in then.
    Only he didn’t. His machine buzzed, but rather than carrying the bat into the locker room, the ’yote dropped the bat in the cage and trotted out, as though practice had just started, to collect balls from the fence.
    Sol dropped his bat. Only then did the fatigue in his shoulders make itself felt, so much so that it was an effort for him to reach down and retrieve the bat from the ground. As he left the batting cages, he caught Taric’s eye, and had to turn away from the ’yote’s triumphant smile. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d stay longer. He’d done well to stay as long as he had today.
    It was easier for Taric; he lived walking distance from the school, or at least not the ten miles Sol did, so Sol had to call his mother to pick him up. She told him his father would be leaving the office in ten minutes and would swing by the school to get him, which was not was Sol wanted to hear. “I don’t want to bother Dad,” he said, still panting from the workout. “Can’t you come get me?”
    His mother sighed. “Your father’s not angry still.”
    Sol very much doubted that, but he didn’t argue. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Spaghetti.”
    He waited. “And…?”
    “Green beans.”
    “Thanks, Mom.” It didn’t erase the sting of his failure, the ache that came from knowing that Taric was still, somehow, out there smacking baseballs across the field. But it helped a little, enough to give his tail a little life, his step a little spring.
    His fur was dirty and grassy, and he felt pretty warm even after gulping down about half a gallon of water. The showers were empty, so he washed