Ten minutes and counting.
What was I thinking?
Fact: I wasn’t.
I wasn’t thinking in the slightest. I reacted. Crap.
He was so sure I had no clue what I was talking about, as if I was a liar, an instigator, trying to get under his skin. But I wasn’t. I’ve been watching his swing for a while now and I know how to fix it, and after hearing the doubt in his voice, I couldn’t hold back.
Now I’m regretting it big time.
“Mills, what’s up?”
“Oh my God, Cory. I did the stupidest thing.”
“That’s a way to start a conversation. Okay, what happened?”
I twist my finger in my shirt and keep my eyes on the parking lot, looking out for Carson.
“I don’t have much time to explain.”
“Then give me the condensed version.”
I chew on the side of my mouth. “I told Carson Stone I could teach him how to hit, and he’s on his way to field six right now.”
“Wait . . . Carson Stone, as in the second baseman for Brentwood?”
I cringe. “Yup, that Carson Stone.”
“Damn, Mills. I . . . hell”—he laughs—“I’m proud of you.”
“What? No, Cory, that’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to tell me I’m insane and to get in the car you bought me and drive away as quickly as possible. Big mistake, horrible mistake.”
“Why is that a mistake? Do you not know how to help him?”
“Well . . . no, I mean, I do know how to help him.”
“So what’s the big deal? Unless . . .” More chuckling. “Mildred Potter, do you have a crush on this boy?”
I groan out loud and bury my head in my hand. “No. Jesus. What is with everyone? I do not have a crush on him, he’s just . . . I don’t know . . . intimidating. He’s so cocky and confident, so I trip over my words and NOT because I have a crush on him.”
“If he’s cocky and confident then you’ll have no problem handling him. You’ve handled me and your other two idiots for brothers for over twenty years, so you have plenty of experience. Stop looking at this as a bad thing and think of it as a step in the right direction. You want to get into men’s sports, here’s your opportunity. If Carson Stone is giving you a chance to work on his swing, you need to seize it and show that coaching staff everything you know.”
“I don’t know.” I twist my shirt even tighter. “The knowledge is there, I have no problem identifying problems and finding solutions, it’s just having the confidence to say it out loud.”
“You’ve never shied away from telling me when I’m doing something wrong.”
“That’s because you’re my brother. It’s completely different with a human I’m not related to, someone my age.”
“Well, here’s how I see it.” A black sedan pulls into the parking spot right next to my car, and I immediately know it’s Carson. My stomach feels like it flips inside out from the mere sight of him through the windshield. “You can either tuck your tail between your legs and sulk away, or you can take this moment and make something of it. You want a chance? Here it is, Mills. Take it.”
I swallow hard. “He’s here,” I whisper.
“Then go for it, because if anyone can get Carson Stone hitting again, it’s you. Good luck, Mills. I love you.”
“I love you too.” The words slip out of my mouth just as Carson steps up to the dugout gate. I quickly hang up and set my phone on my small backpack on the bench next to me.
Changed into mesh shorts and a Brentwood baseball shirt, Carson stands tall, hat backward on his head, with his fist clutched around his bat. I quickly stand and try not to fidget under his stare.
“You didn’t change?” I glance down at my clothes and then back up at him. That’s an odd question.
“Did I need to?”
“I don’t know. Thought that shirt might be too baggy to pitch in.”
“Oh, I won’t be pitching to you.” I shake my head, and he exhales loudly and leans against the fence of the little league dugout.
This is where I practice with my eight-year-olds, and I’ve always thought the field seemed large, that was until Carson stepped onto it. The dugout feels miniature now, like it’s meant for four people and we’re taking up half of it.
“Then what the hell am I doing here?”
An attitude already and I haven’t even said anything. For a second, I consider leaving . . . until Cory’s words seep into my consciousness.
Seize the moment.
Steadying myself, I try to stand tall. Here goes. “Yo-you’re here because you . . . ne-need my help.”
Good grief, Milly. Stop stuttering, and for the love of God, stop shaking.
Steady, calm breaths.
He’s not going to bite, at least I don’t think he will.
“Yes,” he says gruffly. “I’m desperate, so I’ll try anything at this point.” How pleasant. “But how the hell do you expect to help me if you can’t pitch to me?”
“I didn’t say I can’t pi-pitch to you.” Deep breath. Unclench your fists. Relax. “I said I wasn’t going to pitch to you. I’m here to assess you, and then we can move forward.”
His brows shoot up. “Are you trying to tell me this is more than a one-time thing?”
“Th-the Sistine Chapel wasn’t painted in a day, and likewise, your swing won’t magically reappear.”
He pushes off against the wire fencing and grows taller than I thought possible. The expanse of his chest, the size of his biceps, it’s all so intimidating. “If you didn’t notice, I don’t have a lot of time to figure this shit out.”
“Th-then, best you st-stop arguing with me.” I push my glasses up on my nose. “And you start listening.”
Groaning, he drags his hand down his face and finally says, “Fine, where do we start?”
A little shocked that he gave in so easily—I thought he had at least a few more minutes of fight left in him—I walk over to my backpack, grab my trusty notebook, and I nod at him to follow me.
“Stand at home plate.”
“If you make me visualize my swing, I’m out of here.”
“Ju-just stand at the plate.”
“Do I need my bat?”
“No.”
Groaning some more, he tosses the bat to the side and stands at home plate, as I stand three quarters of the way from the mound to him.
Arms crossed over his chest, he stands in the batter’s box but by no means is in his position. He’s annoyed, he clearly doesn’t want to be here, and is most likely counting down the seconds until he can take off.
Which means only one thing: I need to school him.
Steeling myself, I think back to the many lectures I’ve given my brothers in the past. I dig deep for that inner voice, and start talking about what I know best—baseball.
“As a batter, how much time do you have to hit a baseball?”
“I don’t know, a few seconds?”
“Try four milliseconds.”
He straightens slightly.
“The hardest thing to do in sports is hit a baseball. It’s so hard that if you fail seven out of ten times, you’re considered a cream-of-the-crop hitter.”