"Keep it," Cameron said. "I have others. This one already likes you."
Noah's mouth opened. Closed. Denise looked from the bat to the player as if checking for a catch that had not been spoken.
"That's too much," she said.
"It's wood and tape," Cameron answered. "What happened out there wasn't." He crouched again to Noah's height. "You come to the next home stand? Ask for me at the player gate. We can work on that swing before they make you famous for the wrong reasons."
Frank Callahan passed them in the corridor, still in black gear, mask swinging from his hand. He glanced at the bat in Noah's grip, at Cameron's calm face, at the boy who had refused to become a joke. He did not apologize. Men like Frank often mistook apology for surrender. But he nodded once, small and reluctant, as if his neck disagreed with the motion even while his honesty insisted on it.
"Kid," he said. "Don't get cocky."
Noah, still shaking a little with leftover adrenaline, managed the only answer that felt true. "I won't. I'll just keep watching the ball."