“Uh . . . okay. Do you have videos of me or something on your phone?” I laugh, but when she bites her bottom lip . . . “Wait, do you?”
“Listen, before you think I’m a psycho, I have videos of all the guys. I analyze them, slow them down, so I can concentrate on what makes a swing great. And I might use some of the videos to show my eight-year-olds what they should and shouldn’t be doing.”
“Eight-year-olds?”
“I coach a little league team with my two best friends, Jerry and Shane.”
I work my jaw to the side. “Is Shane the guy who was sitting next to you at the dining hall?”
“Yeah.”
Interesting, okay, so he’s just a friend. Not that I care, but just a nice side note, something to file away as good information to have.
“That’s cool.” I nod at her phone. “Let me see the videos.”
“You don’t think I’m weird?” She cringes.
“I never said that.” Her face falls. I lean forward and whisper, “But I like weird. Now show me what the hell I’m doing wrong.”
The smile that pulls at the ends of her lips does something funny to my stomach, like a lot of butterflies were set off inside.
Fucking weird shit.
Surprising shit.
Saddling up next to me, she goes to her videos, and then to a file where there are tons of videos of Brentwood baseball players.
Wanting to see the screen better, I close the space between us so my chest is touching her back and I’m leaning over her for a better view. She sucks in a quick breath and then looks up at me.
“Don’t worry, I’m just trying to get a better view.”
“Oh yeah, of course,” she says, her voice flat. “Uh, I know . . . just the video.” She clicks on one and clears her throat, her voice slightly shaking. “This was from last year, before your injury. It was a home run against Springfield.” She pulls up a video and presses play. A decent image comes up on the screen and I watch as she slows down the video by using the scroll option with her finger.
The shot is head-on, so you can see my hands and how they drive through the strike zone.
“This pitcher had no idea you could attack a high fastball like that,” she says, her voice neutralizing again. “Let’s start at the beginning. See where your hands are positioned? Your right thumb is almost even with your right ear and your swing drives straight through the strike zone when you spot the ball. It’s a beautifully smooth swing with nothing fancy about it, pure power behind your hips, and solid contact with your hands not peeling away until they’re fully pushed through the strike zone. Stunning.”
“I’ve never heard anyone talk about a swing like that, let alone mine. I like it.”
She smiles up at me quickly before turning back to her phone and scrolling through the videos until she reaches the bottom where there are two videos from what look like this year. The only reason I can tell is because of our new jerseys; they’re changed every year.
“This video was from the game you had three strike outs in.”
“Fantastic. Can’t relive that enough.”
She presses play but pauses it with her finger and slows it down. “I love comparing these two videos because they’re both high fastballs. I’m going to let you see if you can identify the difference.”
This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve reviewed videos of my swing. I feel like it’s all I ever do, review videos. I’m so sick of seeing myself swing a damn bat, and that might be one of the reasons why I’m irritated most days. I never see the issue, but I’ll give this one a go.
I lean in even closer and catch a brief waft of her perfume, a smell I wasn’t quite expecting. It’s flowery and quite feminine, smells amazing, almost too amazing that I’m distracted.
Chastising myself, I focus and watch the video, seeing the same position of my hands, the same swing, but this time, I miss the ball by a few inches.
“Did you see it?” she asks, excited.
“Uh . . . did something change?”
“Gah, okay, hold on.” She plays around on her phone pulling up a different app and then opens a file. In no time, both videos are stacked on top of each other and playing at the same time. Okay, this girl is legit, and I really fucking like it. “Watch carefully. Your eyes are trained on the pitcher, your hands are both in the same exact position and then . . . bam, right there, did you see it?”
I blink a few times and then rub my eyes. Did I see it?
See what?
“You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Milly.”
Chuckling, she says, “Okay. Watch your hands when you pick up your foot.” She slows down the videos again. “In the home run picture, your hands are solid as stone, stuck in place until they’re unleashed. Now watch in the strike-out picture. Right about . . . now, see how they drop down to your shoulder and then back up right before you power through the strike zone?”
I step in closer, bringing the phone closer to my face. “Wait, show me again.”
She plays it over a few more times, and she’s right. Plain as day. My hands are dipping down and then up right before I swing.
“Shit, and you think that’s it?”
“I know that’s it. Remember what I said. You have four hundred milliseconds from when the pitch is released to when your brain recognizes the pitch and signals your hands to swing. You don’t have much time to waste. You’re wasting time with a hitch in your swing, making you late on almost every pitch, or you’re jamming yourself, not letting your hands fully extend through the strike zone, which leads to grounders to the pitcher.”
Holy.
Shit.
I step back and wrap my bat behind my neck where I hold on to it with both hands. She could not be more right. It’s so obvious now. The hitch in my swing is causing me to get behind on every single pitch and no one has pointed it out. How the fuck did this girl see that?
“Are you okay?” she asks, startled. “You look like you’re about to beat the crap out of someone with that bat.”
My grip grows tighter as I look up at the sky. “Just irritated.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “That’s something the coaching staff should have picked up on. Hell, it’s something I should have picked up on.”
“It’s a small movement, and it took slowing it down and pointing it out for you to actually see it. And honestly, I studied these two videos side by side for a while.” Her cheeks redden. “I hate admitting that, but it’s the truth.”
“I guess that makes me feel a little better.” Lowering my bat, I hand it to her. It’s huge in her grip and almost comical, but instead of letting it fall to the ground, she holds it up and gets into position, showing me her batting stance. And fuck if it’s not one of the hottest things I’ve seen . . . minus the stupid hat.
“Ready to learn?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
Hell yeah, I am.
“Hello?”
I flop on my bed naked and happily stare at the ceiling. “Dude, I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a really long time.”
“It disturbs me knowing that it’s your bedtime, you’re most likely naked, and you’re talking to me, telling me how happy you are. Just be honest, are you stroking yourself?”