Lynch won’t call a splitter, the one I’m most well-known for delivering with perfection every time. The hitter’s expecting a splitter, but I know how to work that to my advantage, and Lynch is with me when he calls for a sinker. I nod and deliver with more side spin than the batter expected. When I told Dundee I knew these players, I meant it.
Strike one.
I throw a changeup on the second toss, and he fouls it away before I deliver a clean strike with the third throw.
Yes. I knew I was back, but this proves it. Glancing around the stadium, I absorb the sea of blue, fans on their feet cheering me on—not my father, me. And I wrap up the top of the first after three more pitches, striking out the third batter. One-two-three inning. Let’s go.
Making my way off the field, I take in the enthusiasm of the crowd around me and the announcer’s booming voice. Damn, I missed this. I scan the stadium rows in front of me, seeing fans on their feet. Clapping, cheering, whistling. Well, all except one. Bafflingly, a brunette sits in the first row behind the dugout, catching my attention only because hers is focused on the book she holds, ass firmly planted in her seat, completely oblivious to the chaos and shouting around her.
Squinting and shaking my head, I step down into the dugout, and plop onto the hard bench. One inning down, hopefully six or seven more tonight, and many additional games to go. A few of my teammates give me an encouraging word as they pass, pounding my fist, but Dundee doesn’t bypass me and instead parks his ass on the bench next to me.
“How’s the arm?”
“No complaints.”
“Well, I have one,” Dundee stands and leans over. “That ego of yours is gonna get bigger.” His annoyance contradicts the supportive slap he gives my knee as he walks away. He has faith in me and my abilities, but he also knows our bodies don’t always follow through.
I spend the bottom of the inning mentally reviewing Dundee’s analysis of the Hawks lineup and strategizing with Lynch on one particular hitter, then I’m back on the mound. Three batters up, three batters struck out. Boom. A hitless inning. Doing my job, motherfuckers.
Keeping cool on the surface, I mind my gait on the way off the mound. Like it’s easy. No sweat. It’s all part of the mind game. But I’m on fire on the inside, burning up with a satisfied adrenaline as I walk off the field to the cheers and chants of everyone—except that same brunette who still has her nose in a book.
I’m unsettled suddenly that it’s bothering me. Why do I care that her attention isn’t on me? Stepping onto the dugout’s top step, I lean against the rail, looking over the roof of the dugout to where the crowd has retaken their seats, heads swiveled to home where Gunner steps up to the plate. My only consolation is she still hasn’t looked up. So it’s not just one of my most important pitching days of my entire career that she’s uninterested in. All I can say is it must be a damn good book.
3
AVERY
“Now would be a good time to take a peek at the game,” Bodie informs me.
“Nah. I’m good.”
I flip the page of my paperback as Bodie leans in closer. “Really, you should take a peek because Carter Barlowe keeps looking this way.”
Lowering the book, I glance straight ahead to find a pair of deep-brown eyes staring back over the dugout’s roof. It takes a second for me to break the contact, looking back at my book. “He probably has family sitting around us. Your dad really did get you some good seats.”
“Yep. They’re Dad’s friend’s seats, but they’re out of town this weekend.”
“Lucky us,” I mumble returning my focus to the romance that is much more interesting than the sporting event in front of me. “What quarter is it?”
“‘Quarter,’ seriously?” Bodie asks in frustration. “I really hope you’re messing with me.”
Unable to hide my smirk, I glance over at him. “Just let me know when it’s halftime.” I focus back on my book as he drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me in for a friendly kiss on the cheek.
“I’m gonna grab us something to drink.” Bodie takes off, and I get lost in the pages. Only a few chants and shouts pull me out of the story here and there. One of the good things about growing up with three siblings and now teaching a swarm of teenagers is I’ve learned to block out distractions and concentrate on the task at hand.
Bodie returns with sodas and snacks in hand, bending down to hand me fries and a Dr. Pepper. He remains standing, I notice, joining in with the crowd whooping and hollering. It’s either been two minutes or two innings when he finally plops back in his chair, I don’t care because this book has gotten hot, and I’ve lost all track of time.