“On what?”
“Will you be wearing that?”
His smile grew lopsided as he asked, “Do you want me to wear this?”
“Definitely.” Her head nodded.
Their flirting was adorable—and a little uncomfortable to be in the middle of.
“Then, I wouldn’t change for the world,” he said. “So, is that a yes?”
“Hell yes.”
“Good. Hey, Danika.” He waved before walking away.
“Hi,” I mumbled under my breath.
Cassie giggled. “Sorry about that. I can’t help myself sometimes.”
Watching Jack and Cassie together made me realize that true love really could exist. It was easy to forget sometimes, especially when real life crept in and smacked you to your knees. What they had was special and rare, but it was possible. And I wanted it. I wondered if I could be that lucky.
First-Game Nerves
Chance
“Not to freak you out or anything, but I need you to look at your mom, dude,” Mac said, and I wondered what the fuck he was talking about.
I rarely looked in the stands. Maybe a quick glance at my little sister when she screamed my name like a banshee but never any other time. Especially not when Mac suggested I did it. That usually meant he was scoping out chicks.
My mom was not a chick. Well, not one for Mac to be checking out anyway, if he wanted to continue living.
I turned and searched the stands for her usual seat. “Whoa,” I said out loud, my heart leaping into my throat as I noticed that my sister was not the person sitting next to my mom, like I had expected.
Danika sat on the other side of her instead.
“Did you know she was coming?” Mac asked, keeping his voice low.
“I didn’t even know she was back in town,” I responded in the same quiet tone, not wanting to draw attention or have any of my teammates overhear.
“And she’s sitting with your mom?”
“Apparently.”
“Did you start dating Tutor Girl and not tell me?” Mac whined. “I’m hurt, man. I’m supposed to be your best friend.”
“You are my best friend, idiot. We’re not dating. I haven’t talked to her in weeks, and she has a—” I started to say before he cut me off.
“Boyfriend. I know. But we both know he cheated on her, and I’d bet it wasn’t the first time. Maybe she found out and dumped his ass?” He sounded excited at the prospect, and I had to admit that the idea excited me too.
“Maybe.”
I hated not telling Danika what I had seen at the party, but I always fell back on the fact that if I was supposed to be the one to tell her, she would have been home that night. And she wasn’t. So, nothing had changed.
“Chance! Mac! Get your asses over here,” Coach Jackson yelled.
We scrambled down to where he stood in the dugout. The rest of my teammates watched, and I was embarrassed for being so blatantly called out.
“Coach,” we both addressed him at the same time.
“What the hell is so interesting in the stands?” he asked, craning his head to look out toward the half-filled stadium.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head, and Mac responded in kind.
“Then, keep your eyes on the field. Heads in the game,” he demanded even though the game hadn’t started.
The visiting team was still taking infield, but we didn’t dare argue.
“Yes, Coach,” I said before punching Mac in the arm as we headed away.
We stopped about halfway, leaning our arms against the bars that separated the dugout from the field, and watched the opposing team finish up.
“Sorry,” Mac apologized for drawing my attention to the stands in the first place and getting us yelled at by Coach.
“It’s fine,” I said as I moved to grab my catcher’s helmet and glove.
It was our turn to take infield and show these guys who they were up against.
I hated to admit that we were a little rusty. We’d racked up three errors in six innings, and that was something we never did. Our team was typically flawless. It was what we were known for. Coach Jackson was pissed, his face as red as a tomato even though we were still winning by two runs. Our pitchers were off, missing my calls and missing their marks. I had to work extra hard behind the plate to catch their shitty pitches and frame them as strikes, which was fine, but I was keenly aware that Danika was two rows behind my back, watching my every move.
I’d never dealt with that kind of mental distraction before. Girls always looked at me, waited for me after games, yelled out my name, and shit like that, but I never cared before. I cared now. I cared way too much for my own good.
“Let’s go, Chance!” My mom’s cheerful voice met my ears, and I fought back a smile that no one could see behind my mask anyway.
The runner at first base—where Mac stood, waiting for my throw—taunted me after each pitch snapped into my glove. He kept taking two skitter steps toward second before he moved back, looking like an idiot because I knew he wasn’t running. At least, not yet. His body language gave him away. His legs might have been moving toward second base, but nothing else on his body was. When a runner tried to steal, their entire being was aimed in the same direction. He had to get there faster than I could throw the ball, which was hard to accomplish—and I wasn’t being cocky.
The pitch flew across home plate. The batter swung and missed as the runner at first base took off. But he was too slow, and we both knew it. I threw the ball hard, watching as it flew directly into the shortstop’s glove, waiting at second base.
He tagged the runner, and the umpire screamed, “Out!” before making a hand gesture, signaling the same.
Cheers erupted from the crowd in the stands, but only two voices stood out from the rest—my mom’s and Danika’s. Her accent was undeniable, and again, I wondered to myself what she was doing here.
The rest of the game sailed by without much fanfare. We kept our lead and won by two runs, which made Coach Jackson happy, but he was still pissed about the errors, reminding us that we’d be working extra on fielding since we apparently didn’t remember how to do it right.
My dad was pretty mad, too, which didn’t happen all that often. He reminded the pitchers that they were there to do a job, and if they couldn’t do it, there were plenty of other guys who would kill for the chance to try.
That was how Division One baseball went. If you fucked up, you got replaced. There was no shortage of guys waiting in the dugout for their shot to steal your position. It wasn’t theirs to win; it was yours to lose.
I always remembered that line.
Mac and I headed toward the locker room. Considering the fact that I was the only one on the team who wore equipment while playing, I was an absolute sweat show by the end of each game. Showering could not wait until I got home like it could for some of the other guys.
“I’ll be five minutes,” I said to Mac before adding, “But you don’t have to wait.”
Usually, I gave Mac a ride home, but sometimes, he went with our other roommates instead.
“I’ll be outside,” he said as he slung a bag over his shoulder before dumping his dirty uniform into the bin.
Our equipment manager washed all of our clothes, which was a perk that I was grateful for. I couldn’t imagine washing my shit and not shrinking it or screwing it up somehow. The school probably knew that, hence the organized guy who handled all of that stuff for each team.