“Sure.” I roll my eyes. “Mister let’s get up at five thirty in the morning for a run before I kill myself in the gym room and then on the mound practicing my closing pitches?”
“I’m serious.” He lets go of me and puts some distance between us. “I thought I was going straight to the majors after high school. I mean, Dad did it.” He shrugs. “And then I got hurt.”
“I didn’t even know you got hurt. I mean, I heard about it, but I didn’t realize what that meant.”
“I was out half the season because of my injury and landed in the thirtieth round of the draft, so I opted for college instead.”
“Why?” I frown.
“I knew, everyone knew, I deserved to be in the first round.”
“So you decided to come here instead of the minors?”
“I figured I’d come here, heal, practice, get better, and then see what they offered.”
“I’m still waiting for the part where you explain how it’s not your first love or how you’re no longer blinded by ambition.”
“I love baseball. It’s in my blood. You know.” He shrugs a shoulder. I nod, because I do know. Most Dominicans live and breathe baseball from the moment we’re born, whether we play the sport or not. “My brothers took the easy route. They picked other sports so they wouldn’t have to live in Dad’s shadow, and it’s a fucking big shadow. My entire life I’ve been compared to him, people whisper about me never reaching his grandeur.”
“You can’t let other people’s opinions define you.” I place a hand on his chest.
“You said that to me once. Remember?” He brings his forehead to mine. “I miss you, Misty. I miss having you on my side.”
“I’ve always been on your side,” I whisper. “I don’t have to be with you to be on your side.”
“I want you to be with me and be on my side,” he whispers back. “I’m tired of waiting in the bullpen.”
“You put yourself in the bullpen. You were it for me. In my eyes, you were the starting pitcher and you ruined that.”
“Because I was scared.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t afford getting my heart broken because you’re scared.” I pull away. “I just can’t. I have enough crap on my plate to fill it with yours.”
“I promise you won’t regret it.”
“What do you want, Mitchell?” I cross my arms.
“I want you to be my girlfriend.”
“Why would you even want a girlfriend? I saw all those girls all over you last night.”
“I don’t want any of them.”
“Not even the blonde?” I shoot him a look.
“Especially not the blonde.” His lips twitch. “I didn’t do anything with her. She used our bathroom and then I walked her downstairs to make sure she’d leave.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “The good ol’ bathroom excuse.”
“She used it.” He chuckles. “It didn’t work. How could it? I was watching you all night. I wanted to kill that guy you left with. I wanted to grab you and take you to a corner and pull up that miniskirt you had on and fuck you right there in front of everyone.”
“That would’ve been quite the show.” I feel my face burn up.
He fills the distance between us, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me against him once more. “Be my girlfriend.”
“I really don’t want a boyfriend.”
“Why not?”
I bite my lip. Because you ruined that for me. Because I refuse to let someone hurt me the way you did, especially you. I sigh, not saying any of that. It wouldn’t be fair or make sense. We’re both different people now and I know that.
“I think we’re better off as friends.” I look up at him.
“I disagree.”
“So I’ve heard.” I roll my eyes. “You disagree with this every time I say it.”
“Let me take you out on a date then. At least give me that.”
I sigh. “What’s the point, Mitch?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll manage to convince you we’re good together.”
“Doubtful.” I frown.
The doorbell rings and three loud knocks follow.
“I have practice.” Mitch pulls back with a sigh.
“Yo, hurry up,” one of them screams from the other side of the door. Dylan, I think.
“I guess you should go.” I lean against the counter.
“So, yes on the date thing?” he asks. “I’m going to take it as a yes.”
“I have to think about it.”
“Misty.” He groans. “Come on.”
Another loud pound on the door. “Mitch, bro, we’re leaving.”
“I have to go.”
“Go.”
“Just say yes.” He flashes me one of those panty-dropping grins of his that I’m sure works on every person on the planet.
“I’ll think about it.” I walk toward the door and open it, looking outside. “Hey, guys.”
“Sell out,” Mitch says, brushing past me and walking outside.
“Have fun at practice,” I sing-song as I shut the door and lock it.
I take a deep breath and let it out before getting my ass into gear. I have a shift in like twenty minutes and I want to try to leave early so I can go hang out with my sister at my parents’ house later.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mitch
“Come on, Cruz. Point your fucking goddamn foot,” Coach Wallace yells.
“I am!” I let my arms hit my sides with an exhale.
I’ve been working on my speed all fucking morning and I’m just not feeling it today. My father would call my bluff and tell me it’s bullshit. He’d say that I have to make myself feel it even when I think I don’t. He’d also tell me to get rid of all distractions in order to ensure my ninety-four mile an hour fastball. It’s the reason he’s great. He’s able to fully separate his personal life from his career. When he played professionally, he was able to forget fights with Mom or issues with us and go out there and kill it every single time he had a game. I’m not him though. I would love to say I’m better than him, but that would be a total fucking lie. By my age, he’d been in the Show for three years already. He’d been recruited while he was still living in the Dominican Republic and set up in training camp when he was barely a teenager.
We’ve had a completely different life. A completely different upbringing, and yet, the comparison will always be there. Everyone, from scouts to coaches to journalists on ESPN, forgets about all of that when they compare us. They see numbers and stats. As they should. I set up for another pitch and focus on my movements. It’s this motion that got me from eighty-nine to ninety-two when I was a senior in high school. My goal has been ninety-four for a while now and even though I can throw it, it’s not consistent enough for my liking. Or my coach’s, for that matter. So I try again. I stop thinking about Misty and the possibility that’s so close yet so far. I stop thinking about the scouts who are watching me like hawks. I stop thinking about the draft I’m going to enter after this season is over. I stop wondering if they’re going to pay me more than they originally offered and if I made a grave mistake by not taking it at the time. I just stop. If this was a game, it would be easier. During games, it’s easy for me to shut it all out. When it’s just me and Coach Wallace it’s a little different. Maybe it’s the noise I need. Maybe it’s the smell of sweat, beers, and hot dogs. Maybe it’s the cheers or the boos or the pressure of closing a perfect game. Whatever it is, it doesn’t exist in this moment, but I pretend. I make myself believe all of those things are happening as I set up this mechanic that’s become second nature to me already.