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)
As the bus pulled away, I shifted to look out the window, nearly forgetting about the package resting on my thigh. But now I wanted the candy, hadn’t even realized I was sort of craving it. Stupid Girard. I carefully opened the bag, unwrapped the sticky confection, and popped it in my mouth. Girard would probably make fun if he spotted me enjoying his stupid candy.
Still ticked at his boldness, I lifted my cell and scrolled to a group chat I was in with a bunch of players over winter break. Locating Girard’s number, I sent off a snippy text without thinking it through.
Stop doing nice things. You’re getting on my last nerve.
Fine, jackass. I’ll do shitty things instead. Maybe the reverse psychology will work, and you’ll be begging for my company by the end of the week.
Doubtful. I can barely stand looking at you.
So not true. In fact, just the opposite. Then why was I saying stupid shit I didn’t even mean?
Too bad you have to throw fastballs directly into my glove, genius.
Too bad you miss plenty of them.
Too bad you can’t aim better. I can go all day.
I forced the stupid smile from my face.
Screw off. I’m surprised you didn’t make any pitcher & catcher jokes yet.
No doubt someone else would before the end of the season, maybe even the end of the week. Why it mattered, well, that was a lot to unpack, but it had to do with deep-seated fears linked to my stepdad and how our relationship played into all my vulnerabilities. It didn’t help that he’d rescheduled our dinner at the Mexican restaurant this week and asked if he could introduce me to his new girlfriend next time. Not sure why it bothered me so much; he’d just pretend to be a decent father to impress her. Still, I’d likely take any morsel he’d throw my way. What else did I have in my life besides baseball, and soon that would be ending as well.
Just wait, there’s still time, Girard texted back. I like catching you off guard.
Why?
Why the hell had I asked Girard that? What did I care what he thought? But I held my breath as I saw those dots moving, indicating he was responding.
Because you’re more real that way. Before you put up all your ridiculous defenses.
I had no response to that. My pulse was going crazy because he was right. I did put up defenses, and the whole damned team knew it. It was the reason why I didn’t like to show anyone my weak spots. They were tender if poked too often.
Fine, you won. Thanks for the candy, asshole.
Music to my ears.
A smile tugged at my lips. Ugh. Why did I have to like him so much?
After stopping to eat at a diner, where the team practically devoured the entire menu of soup and sandwiches, we were back on the road again with a couple hours of travel to spare. My head rested against the window, and I startled when I felt the seat dip next to me. I jerked open my eyes to see Vickers sitting there.
I immediately tensed, but I didn’t really know why. Vickers was driven, focused, and would make a great starting pitcher someday. Not that I’d tell him that. He no doubt got enough praise from his proud and boisterous family that showed up at every game. Yep, I was a jackass, so sue me.
“What’s up, Vickers?”
“Sorry to bother you,” he said in a hesitant voice. “Just wanted to ask if you’d show me your curveball. It’s my weakest pitch.”
“Sure. When do you want to—”
He produced a ball from his coat pocket and handed it to me. He looked so earnest that I gave in, wishing someone had done the same for me early on. I certainly wasn’t some sort of role model—likely the exact opposite.
“Just show me how you place your fingers on the stitches,” Vickers said.
“Like this.” I held the ball and placed my index and middle finger on the top seam and my thumb on the bottom. “My thumb stays here, and then the ball rotates when I put a little wrist action into it. I can show you better at the field.”
He reached for the ball and placed his fingers where mine had been, then twisted his wrist in the same motion. “Okay, cool. Thanks.”
“No problem.” And I meant it. It felt good to help him. Not sure what that said about me. I must’ve been having a sentimental moment.
When he returned to his seat, my phone lit up with a text.
Told you he admires you.
Told you your guy was gonna try and move in to steal my starter job.
Nah, my old guy is too good—when he finally gets his head out of his ass.
I gasped, but resisted looking around to make sure no one was reading over my shoulder. Ridiculous.