The pitcher sets his hands, winds up, and throws the ball. In a snap decision, my hands start moving and my bat connects with the ball. My eyes adjust to where I hit it . . . a pitiful grounder to the pitcher. I’m barely out of the batter’s box by the time he picks it up and throws me out at first.
Fuck.
Me.
Because I don’t want to get yelled at again, I run through the bag, making sure to show hustle the entire time. On my return, I pull on the bridge of my helmet and glance at the crowd . . . who is dead quiet now. Great. Just add it to the “magical” things I’ve done this season.
Jammed by the goddamn cutter, and I even knew it was coming.
While chastising myself and jogging to the dugout, my wandering eyes catch a glimpse of something familiar over the disappointed crowd. A muscular blond. How do I know . . . and then I see her, Milly, sitting behind the dugout, wearing a Brentwood fisherman’s hat and a frown.
I don’t even know the girl, I’ve barely spoken to her, but for some reason, seeing her in the stands with a frown on her face does something to my pride. Pokes a few holes through it, deflating any ego I have left.
Fucking great.
When I hit the dugout, I jog down the steps and shove my helmet back in its cubby, and don’t bother to put my hat back on as I yank my batting gloves off my hands. Jason comes up to my side and says, “Hey, at least you didn’t strike out.”
“Thanks. That’s really helpful,” I say sarcastically and then take off toward the water cooler where I pour myself a cup of water, as if the run to first base really took it out of me.
In the blink of an eye, Romeo is put out as well, the game is called, and we’re left to head back to the locker room without a glance from Disik. We’ll hear about it tomorrow. We always do. When he’s this angry and storms off, we’re left to think about the game by ourselves, analyze every out, and be prepared for his attack tomorrow when he throws the inquisition at us.
My teammates scamper off, but instead of following suit and heading into the locker room, I walk back out on the field where the stands are clearing out.
I stare at the field, observing the perfectly trimmed turf and raked clay, my second home, one that doesn’t feel so welcoming at the moment.
What the fuck is my problem? Hitting the ball never used to be complicated. It felt like second nature to me, but ever since my injury, something is off in my body and I can’t figure out what the hell it is.
Both hands pulling on the back of my neck, I tip my head back and take in a deep breath. It’s just the beginning of the season, and there’s still time to turn things around. I just need to figure out how to do so.
The only thing I’m hoping for at this moment is that Disik decides to play me again. A part of me thinks I’ll be starting tomorrow because of the poor performance Badcock had, but you never know with Disik.
On another deep breath, I turn around and stop abruptly when I spot the same green fisherman’s hat. She’s the only one left in the stands, and she’s just sitting there, staring into the outfield . . . until she faces forward and spots me staring at her.
Nervously, she pulls on the brim of her hat, apparently trying to hide herself. I already know it’s Milly, the girl I can’t seem to stop “running” into.
I step up to the dugout, putting only a short distance between us. There’s an edge to my voice when I say, “What are you still doing here?”
“I, uh . . . I was thinking. But I’m leaving now.” She stands and slings a small backpack over her shoulders. Decked out in a Brentwood baseball jersey and jean shorts, she’s clearly a fan. Is that where she always sits? How have I never noticed her before?
“Did you come to watch me fail?” I ask, taking my anger out on her, because why not at this point. I’m sure I’ll run into her at the dining hall where I’ll apologize later.
She pauses in her rush to leave and looks over her shoulder at me. “No, I come to every home game, but thanks for thinking the best about me.”
Yup, see, right there. Immediate guilt consumes me. For some reason, I can’t seem to say the right thing around this girl.
“Fuck . . . I’m—”
“And I’ll have you know”—she holds up a finger, interrupting me. Will this girl ever let me finish a goddamn sentence?—“you’re never going to hit the ball like that.” Without another word, she turns on her heel and starts walking up the stairs.
Excuse me? What the fuck does that mean?
Getting right up against the netting that protects the close seats, I call out, “What the hell do you mean by that?”
She barely turns when she says, “Your swing. You’re never going to hit anything worth a damn when you’re swinging like that.”
Scoffing, I say, “And you think you saw my problem from one attempt to make contact? Please.”
“I know a lot more than you think,” she says, still walking up the stairs.
Not giving it a second thought, I toss open the small door that connects the dugout to the stands and take the stairs two at a time until I reach her at the concession level.
“Hold on,” I say, startling her.
She leaps in the air and turns around, backing into a brick wall where she clutches her large jersey to her chest.
“How did you get up here so quick?” She looks me up and down, her chest rising and falling fast.
“We run the stairs for conditioning.” I could run these stairs in my sleep at this point. But, let’s get back to the topic at hand. “You really think you know what I’m doing wrong?”
“I . . . I don’t think I do,” she says, her voice shaky. She pushes up her glasses and tries to exude confidence, but her shoulders are slumped and her body language screams nervous. “I . . . I”—she swallows hard—“I know what you’re doing wrong.”
My tongue slides over my teeth as I cross my arms. “Okay, tell me.”
She shakes her head, which makes me laugh in anger.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You know nothing.”
Rolling my eyes, I head back down the stairs. What a waste of fucking time. Everyone likes to pretend like they know what the hell they’re talking about until they’re actually questioned. That’s when they clam up and—
“Do you know where Acacia Park is?”
I pause on the steps and look over my shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Field six, meet me in the dugout in an hour, and bring your bat.” Before I can question her, she takes off, moving faster than before.
Did she just tell me to meet her on the field?
Am I about to get a batting lesson?
From a girl named Milly?
Who wears a fisherman’s hat to a baseball game?
I think back to my pitiful groundout to the pitcher and to my even more devastating batting average.
At this point, I’m past desperate, so I’ll do about anything. Looks like I’m about to meet Milly in the dugout.
Chapter Forty-Three
MILLY
“Pick up. Pick up. Pick up,” I mutter while the phone rings in my ear. A light breeze kicks up, rustling the leaves of the giant oak trees that are sprinkled throughout the beautiful park, a normally relaxing sound now grating on my nerves as the clock ticks down.