“Then what do you want?”
Miguel looked away, then back. “I want to pitch in the majors.”
“Say it again.”
“I want to pitch in the majors.”
“Then you have to start acting like it. Major leaguers don’t skip class. They don’t give coaches reasons to bench them. They show up, do the work, and earn their shot.” Torres softened his tone. “You’ve got something special, son. Please don’t waste it because sitting in history class is boring.”
“What if I’m not good enough, dad?”
“Then you fail trying, not because you were too lazy to show up. But, Miguel? You are good enough. I’ve watched you pitch since you were eight. You’ve got the arm. You’ve got the focus. You just need the discipline.”
Miguel nodded slowly. “Coach says there might be scouts at the regional tournament.”
“Oh, wow! That’s amazing, Miguel! When is it?”
“It’s in six weeks,” Miguel explained, excitement returning in his voice.
Torres looked off screen for a moment before returning to face his son. “OK, Miguel. Then you’ve got six weeks to fix your grades and show those scouts you’re worth investing in. Do you think you can you do that? Turn your grades around to show ’em you’ve got brains to go with that arm?”
“Yeah, I think I can do that,” Miguel confirmed.
“You think, or you know?”
“I know I can.”
“Good. Because if you make the majors, you’re buying me season tickets.”
Miguel cracked a smile — the first real one Torres had seen. “Let me guess… behind home plate?”
“Ah come on. I’m your father, not your agent. I’ll take the bleachers. I just want to see my boy play, and live the baseball career I never had vicariously,” Torres joked.
Maria reappeared as Miguel left. “Thank you, Ramon. I’ve been trying to get through to him for weeks.”
“It’s OK, Maria. He just needed to hear it different. How are you holding up?”
“I’m OK. Tired. The hospital’s been crazy with all this flu going around. The auto shop said the transmission should be repaired in a couple of days. What luck, the damn warranty running out when it did,” She paused. “Are you really not worried? About the situation there?”
“Eh, not really. The Russians talk big, but they know better. They got their asses kicked in Ukraine. I doubt they’re looking for a repeat.” He felt bad about lying to her, but protecting her was more important.
She smiled. “Good. I sleep better thinking you’re just doing training over there.”
“That’s all this is. Big, expensive training,” he replied.
They talked for a few more minutes — Carlos’s preschool adventures, Sophia’s science fair project. Normal life continuing an ocean away.
“I should go,” Maria finally said. “Early shift tomorrow.”
“Maria—”
“Come home safe, OK? Even if it is just training.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The connection ended. Torres stared at the blank screen, then tossed the tablet aside. Down the hall, someone laughed. Polish voices mixed with American — the two forces had started mingling more naturally.
His phone buzzed. Text from Burke: “Pub run. You in?”
Torres considered. He should sleep. Tomorrow brought more training, more preparation. But his mind was racing — Miguel’s future, Munoz’s struggles, the growing weight of keeping everyone ready.
“Give me five,” he typed back.
The pub reeked of sweat and spilled beer — a universal constant in military watering holes. Torres pushed through a crowd of Polish tankers to find Burke holding court at a corner table.
“—so there we are, in Latvia, six clicks off the railhead, knee-deep in mud, and my driver locks up the steering system trying to drift an Abrams like he’s in
The Poles roared with laughter. One of them — a sergeant from the K2 company — wiped tears from his eyes as he leaned in. “During Iron Spear last year, our crew ran over our own drone on day one. Commander screamed, ‘That was twenty thousand euros!’ Then blamed the Americans for making it too quiet.”
“But did you finish the lane?” Burke asked, raising his glass.
“Tak! Drone was gone, but gunner hit every target. Even the ones we weren’t assigned!”
“Combat effective,” Torres said dryly, sliding into the seat beside Burke. “That’s all that matters.”
Another round arrived. Laughter thickened. No politics, no doctrine — just soldiers telling stories from training rotations that had started to feel more like a prelude than preparation.
“Sarge!” PFC Sellers waved from across the table. “Settle a bet. Can the Ripsaw really engage twelve targets simultaneously?”
“Theoretically,” Torres said carefully, noting the mixed company. “Never seen it tested.”
“Because it’s fantasy,” declared a Polish corporal. “Machine cannot think like gunner. Cannot feel battlefield.”
“Doesn’t need to feel,” Marrick’s voice cut through. The warrant officer sat at the bar, nursing something clear. “It just needs to calculate faster than you can blink.”
