“JT and Patrick gonna be there?”
“Truth and Brisa are.” She scowls at him.
Zandor looks a bit uneasy but nods. “I trust you, Tris.”
Tris nods then looks at the field as she whispers, “Men are so stupid.”
I look toward the field again and see Tobias is looking back at me now. He winks.
He. Freaking. Winks.
I’m not sure if I’m pissed off or … turned on.
When the boys take the field, Brisa yells out, “Number 27 on three!”
Amias keeps his head down but smirks.
Three batters, one on base. The next batter hits it toward left field. Amias jumps, and I swear it’s fifty feet in the air, probably more like eight, but he catches the ball —basically midair— then guns it to first.
The pitcher drops to the ground as it flies over his head, and Justice does a fucking split to tag first base.
Double play.
We’re all on our feet, screaming and cheering, and Zandor yelling, “That’s my boy! That’s my boy!” in a crowd that is otherwise glued to their seats, theater clapping.
Next batter hits it directly toward Amias, and again, he catches it.
Three outs, and our team runs in.
Three of our batters have hits, no outs, bases loaded. Justice is up, and Amias is on deck.
“Show ’em what you got, JT!” Dad yells.
Justice looks back at us, holds the bat up, and winks.
The first pitch, he lets go by and is called a strike.
Dad, Zandor, Jase, Xavier, Patrick, and Max are all on their feet, cheering him on.
When he hits the ball, it soars through the air and drops right before it goes over the fence.
I watch Justice mouth, “Fuck,” and then he begins to kick up the dust.
Three runners in, and Justice is feet from home base when the ball comes whizzing in.
“Down! Down! Down!” we all scream, and again, I see him mouth “fuck” as he hits the dirt and slides into home base, taking out the catcher in the process.
The announcer isn’t even as loud as our section, and all eyes are on us.
I can’t help but laugh at some of the parents and their pinched faces as they look at us.
We calm down just in time to see Amias swing on his first pitch, and it’s called a strike.
“That’s okay, A! Wait for yours, bud, wait for yours.” Zandor claps.
The next pitch is thrown, and Amias doesn’t swing.
Another strike.
“That’s okay. You got this. You got this.” Zandor claps.
Justice whistles, and Amias looks back, steps out of the box, and then catches the bat that Justice throws to him. He tosses the other back.
Justice looks up toward us and lifts his chin.
Zandor whistles loudly.
“Holy shit!” I gasp when Amias hits the ball and the bat splits in half. “Holy shit!”
“T, you’re at school.” Dad tries to scold me but is grinning from ear to ear as the ball flies over the fence.
“That’s my boy!” Zandor yells, whistles, cheers, and I swear to God he’s on the verge of tears.
Amias doesn’t run; he jogs. He’s hotdogging, and the girlies are eating it up, as he rounds third.
Justice whistles as he claps his hands.
Amias points to Justice, and then himself. He picks up speed, and then slides into home.
After the game, we all wait outside the school for Justice and Amias to get done showering and doing whatever boys do to celebrate a win in the locker room.
Note to self: find out.
We aren’t alone waiting. There are a group of girls giggling next to their Teslas, dressed in clothes I’d wear to a dance, not a ball game.
When the boys walk out with some of their teammates, Amias holds the bat he split in one hand and an unbroken one in the other. He lifts his chin to Zandor. “Got something for you.”
“Proud of you, son.” Zandor beams.
Amias hands him the unbroken bat. “Well aware of that, Dad, so is the entire Seashore ball-field.”
Zandor looks over the bat, still smiling when he then looks at him. “This a thing here?”
“Nope.” Amias laughs. “Just figured you may need this for the next game.”
“Why’s that?” Zandor chuckles.
“As over the top as you were, you might as well join the team.”
Everyone laughs, everyone except Zandor, who arches a brow.
“Don’t think I won’t, kid.”
Amias rolls his eyes as he smiles. “We going for pizza, or do I need to walk over there and allow one of the ladies in waiting to take out the star?”
“Oh my God, Truth, the first four outfits were fine,” Brisa calls from my room.
“Yeah, come on, T; we’re already an hour late,” Tris says with obvious excitement.
“Fine,” I grumble, walking out and tugging on the black skater dress with the rounded neckline and sleeveless bodice.
“Damn, girl.” Brisa grins.
I turn in a circle. “Tell me the truth; does this make my boot look big?”
“Looks great. And your ass is popping, T. Jesus, I need an ass like that.”
Tris looks down at her cute, little wine-colored romper as she pushes her boobs together. “Question?”
“Shoot,” I say, touching up my makeup.
“Does the ass and titty fairy come on the same day?”
“You’re younger than me, so chill out.” Brisa pushes her away from in front of the mirror and turns to look at her ass in her black and white striped, wide-leg pants, then turns back and adjusts her halter, ensuring it shows part of her belly.
“You two look freaking amazing,” I say, turning away from the mirror.
“Let’s go,” Tris says excitedly.
“Wait,” I call from behind them. “Jackets.”
“Really?” Tris whines.
“You wanna get out of this house, then yeah.” I laugh and toss her a leather jacket.
“Hey, wait. What about me?” Brisa pouts.
I walk into my closet and grab a black, cropped cardigan and my cropped jean jacket.
“Jesus, do these people ever let you park less than a mile away?” I grumble.
“I’d offer to give you a piggyback ride, but we’d probably make The Sound tomorrow,” Patrick says with a slight laugh.
“You can give me one.” Max hops on his back without warning, and Patrick almost falls.
“Get your boney ass off me,” he jokes.
“Chill, Max,” Amias grumbles.
“Leave him alone.” Brisa elbows Amias. “Superstar.”
“That’s fucking right, and since JT decided to hang back, that superstar status is gonna gain me some extra lovin’ tonight.”
“Better chill yourself, man.” Max turns, walking backward, and points at Amias. “You know which one of us is gonna get the most attention.”
“Turn around, smart ass, before you end up busting your ass and walking in there looking like you shit your pants,” Patrick says, looking down at his phone for the hundredth time.
“She’s not coming, man,” Amias pokes fun at Patrick.
“Who?” Max asks.