Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 69(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 69(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)
“I’ll take it as a good sign that I’m making you forget.” He kisses me on the forehead and pulls me toward the batter’s box. “Come on, Pippa, you can’t be all that bad.”
“Oh yeah? I hold a record, too. For letting go of the bat after a swing and giving the pitcher a concussion. It happened three times before I finally quit little league.”
To his credit, he manages to hide his smile. “You just didn’t have the right coach.”
“Tommy Lasorda himself couldn’t help me.”
“Goddamn, baby,” he groans, reaching over to pick a bat out of the holder. “You’re making me so hard with these baseball references.”
A quick glance down confirms his statement. “I’m…sorry. I can’t help it.”
“Baseball is as big a part of your life as it is mine, huh?”
Distracted by his question, I barely notice I’m being turned around beside home plate, the bat placed in my hands. “My father brought me to an Astros game when I was a kid. I thought I was in heaven. Everyone in the stands was so…happy. The sport makes people happy. There is something uplifting about winning, yes, but even mourning a loss is magical. It’s…”
“It’s an escape.”
“Yes.” He tugs my butt back into his lap, tilts my upper half forward slightly and starts to position my arms. I’m so stuck on our conversation that I don’t bother trying to stop him. “You might hate your job or have a relative in the hospital. But as soon as the game comes on, anything is possible. If magic can happen on the field, maybe it can happen in real life, too. There’s hope in every play.”
Cort has gone still behind me, but after a moment, his lips climb the side of my neck. “You are hope and magic, Pippa.”
My heart does a dizzy little dance in my chest and I become more aware of the athletic, muscular body molded to mine. Neither one of us is wearing shoes, which puts the crown of my head in the vicinity of Cort’s chin. My backside is curved into his lap, that hard bulge nestled between my cheeks intimately. His heart raps swiftly between my shoulder blades, his breath coming faster and faster above me. “Well…” I wet my lips. “If you manage to help me hit a pitch, I’ll know magic really does exist somewhere.”
His chuckle is jagged. “We’re already making magic. You don’t feel that?”
“Oh, I feel it,” I whisper, shifting my hips and making him groan.
The exhale he lets out moves my hair. “I need you to choke up.”
My spine straightens slightly. “Excuse me?”
“On the bat, baby.”
“Oh.” My face flames, but I do as I’m told, repositioning my grip higher. “Like this?”
“Yes. Now lift your left elbow. When I tell you, that left foot is going to step forward into the pitch.”
My pulse is going a hundred miles an hour. “I can’t believe the greatest pitcher of our time—arguably—is going to witness my humiliation.”
“Arguably?”
“Everything is arguable in sports.”
“True. Okay.” I sense him digging around in his pocket and a moment later, his phone is in his hand, thumb tapping on an app. It must connect to the pitching machine. I want to ask him a million questions about it, but I’m too nervous about the upcoming test of my athleticism. What athleticism? You have none. “I’ve slowed it way down. No ninety mile an hour fastballs for you. Yet. Don’t worry about this first pitch. Just watch the way it travels.”
“You should really be wearing a helmet, Cort.” My fingers flex anxiously. “I don’t want to be responsible for concussing you. You’re pitching tomorrow.”
“Stop worrying.” He breathes a laugh. “I have quick reflexes.”
A nervous whine slips out of my mouth.
The pitch sails by, nice and slow, and I do my best to watch the trajectory, the invisible path it leaves behind in the air before it smacks the rubber wall behind me.
“Okay, Pippa. This time you swing,” Cort says. “Remember what you said. If magic can happen on the field, maybe it can happen in real life, too.”
Taking a deep breath, I renew my grip on the bat and wait for the pitch. I have nightmarish flashbacks to little league, the bat flying out of my hands and clocking unsuspecting children on the head. But I banish those memories and focus, ordering my pulse to slow down. There’s a click and the ball is lobbed from the machine in my direction. I pick up my left foot and step into the pitch, close my eyes and swing the bat, forcing myself to hold on to it.
There’s a cracking sound, a vibration through my wrists and forearms.
I open my eyes to find the ball sailing into the net.
Shock grips me first, followed by a flood of satisfaction. Joy so powerful, tears form in my eyes. And I don’t even hesitate to turn, toss down the bat and throw myself into Cort’s arms, because there’s no one else I want to celebrate with.