Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“It’s not.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “It’s sweet. Does she know you keep it in your room?”
I must’ve said the exact wrong thing because his eyes shuttered. “She died when I was ten, so…” His voice held a tinge of bitterness.
Well, fuck. I stepped right into it again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“Hey, you in line for the bathroom?” someone asked from behind us.
I glanced over my shoulder to see one of the newbs standing there.
“No, I’m good.” I motioned toward the open door. “Go right ahead.”
I turned back to Maclain—and was met by a shut bedroom door. I lifted my hand to knock, then thought better of it. Obviously, he was done with the conversation, having given me more than either of us would’ve anticipated. My hand still tingled as I grabbed the handrail and made my way downstairs and out the door to the street.
Fucking Mason Maclain.
5
Maclain
Once the banquet and team practices went off without a hitch, I figured our first home game would’ve followed suit. But as I stood on the mound, I knew I was blowing the lead, and not only with Girard.
After our heart-to-heart, I’d felt a bit more comfortable around him. I’d been taken aback when I heard he’d broken up with his girlfriend, so I’d gone up to my room to take a breather. I’d realized that little detail had always acted as a shield for me, an excuse to suppress my own desires for him. But then he’d tried to reach out, build a bridge, even asked me about that stupid bee I kept in my room. Christ, that was embarrassing, but it was one of the only memories of my mom I had left.
“I think you should name her Honey,” Mom had said, and at the time, I’d bristled because I was trying to act tough even back then. But inside I’d melted because she’d given it to me, and I loved her so much.
Eyes on Girard, I saw him signal for a knuckle ball, and since I hadn’t been successful at predicting the batter’s weaknesses on my own, I nodded, acquiescing. I detected his smirk even behind his face mask, and I wanted to balk, take it back, fight him on it more. God, I was fucked up.
Instead, I drew my mitt behind my back as I angled forward and studied the trajectory line. The batter shifted uncomfortably, which was exactly what I needed to happen. To hopefully throw him off by making him wait. But as soon as I palmed the ball, arranged my fingers around the stitching, then wound up, I knew it was all wrong. I threw it too low, resulting in another ball. Fuck, my pitching was rusty.
Some might’ve said Girard and I weren’t clicking—he kept insisting on certain calls because he was as stubborn as me and thought he knew the lineup better, which was definitely annoying—but really, it was all on me. I couldn’t get my head there, and when Girard tried to help, I only pushed back harder. Coach was trying to recapture the magic from last season, but maybe it was just too much pressure. Or it had been a fluke.
I could hear Donovan offering words of encouragement from his shortstop position, and though he meant well, I wanted to grumble at him too. As soon as I spotted Coach jogging to the mound, I knew I’d be benched.
As I listened to his logic for pulling me, I kicked at a rock on the mound, knowing exactly what was distracting me, and I hated myself for it. I should’ve been glad my stepdad hadn’t made it to this game, even though he’d promised. And I was so gullible, I fell for it again. He’d only agreed because his new girlfriend had put him on the spot, so I figured they’d show. But, of course, they didn’t. Didn’t show for the banquet either. Coach had saved a spot near his wife for me and a couple other players whose families were out of town, but fuck if I still didn’t feel like an outsider.
I walked to the bullpen like a dog with his tail between his legs, and most players gave me a wide berth, which I was grateful for. But God, I hated seeing the pity in their eyes. Coach put in one of the other pitchers—thankfully, not Vickers, who would only be way too eager to show me up—and after that I just felt like shit.
As I glanced toward the stands and noticed Girard’s mom and Donovan’s brother, Ricky, I wished so badly I could finally let it go—let go of the idea of me and Dad being a family. But in a sense, it would also mean letting Mom go, and then I’d really be alone.
That didn’t make any sense because I already was. Fuck.