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I stand on the pitcher’s mound, except this time I’m in blue jeans and my favorite Reds T-shirt. The early evening sky fades from blue to orange-and-yellow. It’s no longer a million degrees and the breeze shifts from the south to the north. This is my favorite part of the game—the time alone afterward.
The rush of winning and the knowledge I have a scout interested in me still linger in my blood. My lungs expand with clean oxygen and my muscles lose the tension that weighed me down during the game. I feel relaxed, at peace, and alive.
I stare at home plate and in my mind I see Logan crouched in position and the batter taking a practice swing. My fingers curl as if I’m clutching the ball. Logan calls for a curve; I accept, except this time I …
“I knew you’d be here.” In her brown leather cowboy boots and blue dress, Gwen swings around the gate into the dugout.
“How?” I ask.
“You screwed up the curve.” In one smooth motion, Gwen sits on the bench in the dugout and pats the wood beside her. She’s playing a game. One I’ll lose, but damn if my feet don’t move toward her.
She looks good. Better than good. Beautiful. I ease down beside her as she tosses her blond ringlets behind her shoulder. “I remember you explaining the bases to me in this dugout. The best baseball conversation we ever had.”
I lean forward and clasp my hands together. “Maybe you missed part of the conversation, because I wasn’t explaining baseball.”
Gwen flashes her bright smile. “I know, but I still enjoyed the demonstration.”
Our eyes meet for a moment and I glance away when heat crawls along my cheeks. Gwen’s the only girl I’ve had any real experience with. She used to blush when she talked about anything sexual, but she doesn’t today. Nausea rolls through my gut. What new bases has Mike taught her?
“You seemed out of it during the game.” The material of her dress swishes as she crosses her legs and angles her body toward mine. Our thighs touch now, creating heat. I wonder if she notices. “Are you having problems with your dad again?”
Gwen and I spent countless afternoons and evenings in this dugout. She always knew when Dad pushed me too far with the refs or that if I played like crap, I’d come here for clarity. “No.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Everything. Mom and Dad fighting. Mark’s absence. Me and pro ball. My friends/not-friends relationship with Gwen. For a moment, I think about telling her about Mark. Like the rest of the town, she remains blissfully unaware. I stare into her eyes and search for the girl I first met my freshman year. She wouldn’t have messed with me then. Unfortunately, I’ve since become her favorite pastime. “I’m not in the mood to be played, Gwen.”
Gwen raises her hand and twirls her hair around her finger. The glint of a large red-stoned ring strikes me like an ice pick. I shift so that our thighs no longer touch. “Mike gave you his class ring.”
She drops her hand and covers it with the other, as if hiding the ring will make me forget it’s there. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Last night.”
“Congratulations.” If I could have let more anger seep out I would have.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know.” My voice rises with each word. “For starters, not be here screwing with me.”
She ignores my comment as her own voice hardens. “Mike’s a good guy and he’s always around. He’s not gone all the time and doesn’t have a thousand commitments like you.”
In all of our breaks and breakups, we never fought. Never raised our voices at each other. Before, I never considered yelling at Gwen; now it’s the only thing I want to do. “I told you that I loved you. What else could you want?”
“To be first. Baseball always came first with you. God! How much clearer a picture did you need? I broke up with you at the beginning of your seasons.”
I stand up, unable to sit next to her. How much clearer a picture? Obviously I needed detailed drawings with written directions. “You could have told me that’s how you felt.”
“Would it have changed anything? Would you have given up baseball?”
I curl my fingers into the metal of the fence and stare out at the field. How could she ask that type of question? Why would any girl ask a guy to give up something he loves? Gwen’s playing games right now and I’ve decided to throw the pitch that ends the inning. “No.”
I hear her sharp intake of air and the guilt of hurting her punches me in the stomach.
“It’s just baseball,” she rushes out.
How can I make her understand? Beyond the fence is a raised mound, a trail of dirt leading to four bases all surrounded by a groomed green field. It’s the only place where I’ve felt like I belonged.
“Baseball isn’t just a game. It’s the smell of popcorn drifting in the air, the sight of bugs buzzing near the stadium lights, the roughness of the dirt beneath your cleats. It’s the anticipation building in your chest as the anthem plays, the adrenaline rush when your bat cracks against the ball, and the surge of blood when the umpire shouts strike after you pitch. It’s a team full of guys backing your every move, a bleacher full of people cheering you on. It’s … life.”
The clapping of hands to my right causes me to jump out of my skin. In pink hair and a matching swimsuit cover-up, my junior English teacher and soon-to-be senior English teacher stops the annoying sound and raises her hands to her chin as if in prayer. “That was poetry, Ryan.”
Gwen and I share a what-the-hell look before returning our stares to Mrs. Rowe. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
She picks her beach bag up off the ground and swings it. “The pool closed for the night. I saw you and Ms. Gardner and decided to remind the two of you that your first personal essay is due to me on Monday.”
Gwen’s boots stamp on the ground as she switches legs again. A month ago, Mrs. Rowe tried to ruin everyone’s vacation with a summer homework assignment.
“I’m so excited to read them,” she continues. “I’m assuming you’ve completed yours?”
Haven’t even started. “Yeah.”
Gwen stands and readjusts Mike’s ring on her finger. “I’ve gotta go.” And she does. Without another word. I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my feet, waiting for Mrs. Rowe to follow Gwen’s lead. I’ve got a ritual to complete.
Obviously having no intention of leaving, Mrs. Rowe leans her shoulder against the dugout entrance. “I wasn’t kidding about what you said, Ryan. You showed a lot of talent in my class last year. Between that and what I just heard, I’d say you have the voice of a writer.”
I snort a laugh. Sure, that class was more interesting than math, but. “I’m a ballplayer.”
“Yes, and from what I hear, a fine one, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be both.”
Mrs. Rowe is always looking for a book convert. She even started a literary club at school last year. My name isn’t on that roster. “I’ve got a friend waiting for me.”
She glances over her shoulder toward Chris’s truck. “Please tell Mr. Jones that his paper is also due on Monday.”
“Sure.”
Again I wait for her to leave. Again she doesn’t. She just stands there. Uncomfortable, I mumble a goodbye and head for the parking lot.
I try to shake off the irritating itch embedded in my neck, but I can’t. That moment on the mound is hallowed ground. A need. A must. My mother calls it a superstition. I’ll call it whatever she wants, but in order for me to win the next game, I have to stand on that mound again—by myself—and figure out the mistake I made with my curveball.
If not, it means bad mojo. For the team. For my pitch. For my life.
With his head tilted back and eyes closed, Chris sits in his old black Ford. His door hangs wide-open. Chris worked his ass off for that truck. He plowed his granddaddy’s cornfield this summer in return for a leaky truck that rolled off the line when we were seven.
“I told you to head home.”
He keeps his eyes closed. “I told you to let the bad throw go.”
“I did.” We both know I didn’t.
Chris comes to life, closes the door, and turns over the motor. “Hop in. We’ve got a party to go to that will make you forget.”
“I’ve got a ride.” I motion to my Jeep, parked next to his truck.
“My goal is to make sure you ain’t gonna be fit to drive home.” He revs the engine to keep it from stalling out. “Let’s go.”
BETH
OFFICER MONROE PUSHES OFF the wall the moment I slip out of the girls’ bathroom. “Beth.”
I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m not real giddy for the long-lost uncle reunion either. I pause, folding my arms over my chest. “I thought I was free.”
“You are.” Officer Monroe has clearly mastered the Johnny Depp puppy-dog eyes. “When you’re ready to tell me what happened last night, I want you to call.” He holds out a card.
Never going to happen. I would rather die than send Mom to jail. I brush past him and walk into the lobby. Hurting my eyes, the sun glares through the windows and the glass doors. I blink away the brightness and spot Isaiah, Noah, and Echo. Isaiah leaps to his feet, but Noah puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers something to him, nodding to the left. Isaiah stays still. His steely-gray eyes implore me to come to him. I want to. More than anything.
Two people cross in front of Isaiah, and pain slices my chest. It’s my mom. Like some sort of deranged baby monkey, she clings to her asshole boyfriend. Her eyes are desperate. She sucks her cheeks in as if she’s trying to hold back tears. That bastard has engulfed her in his disgusting life. I swear to God, I’m going to drag her back out.
Trent yanks her out the door. It’s not over, asshole. Not even close.
I’m about to step toward Isaiah when I hear it. “Hello, Elisabeth.” A shiver snakes down my spine. That voice reminds me of my father.
I turn to face the man who’s hell-bent on destroying my life. He resembles my father in looks as well: tall, dark brown hair, blue eyes. The main difference is that Scott’s built like an athlete, whereas my father had the body mass of a meth head.
“Leave me alone.”
He gives Isaiah the judgmental once-over. “I think you’ve been left alone for too long.”
“Don’t pretend to care. I know your promises are worth shit.”
“Why don’t we get out of here, now that you’re free to go. We can talk at home.”
Scott puts a hand on my arm and is unmoved when I jerk away. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Yes,” he says in an annoyingly even tone. “You are.”
The muscles in my back tense as if I’m a cat arching its back to hiss. “Did you just tell me what to do?”
Fingers wrap around my wrist and gently pull me to the left. Isaiah hovers over me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Do you need a reminder you’re in a police station?”
I sneak a peek and notice Officer Monroe and another cop watching our dysfunctional family reunion. My uncle regards Isaiah and me with interest, but keeps his distance.
My body is nothing but anger. Rage. It beats at my lungs, wreaks havoc with my blood. And Isaiah is standing here telling me to rein it in? I have to let it go because it’s consuming me. “What do you want me to do?”
Isaiah does something he’s never done sober. He touches his hand to my cheek. His palm feels warm, strong, and safe. I lean into it as the anger drains from his simple touch. Part of me craves that anger. I don’t care for the frightening emptiness left behind.
“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Go with him.”
“But—”
“I swear to God I’m going to take care of you, but I can’t do it right here. Go with him and wait for me. Do you understand?”
I nod as I finally comprehend what he’s attempting to tell me without saying the words. He’s going to come for me. A shimmer of hope breaks through the emptiness and I fall into the safety of Isaiah’s protective arms, our bodies pressed tight to one another.
RYAN
IN THE BACK FIELD that borders three farms, a field party rages without me, Logan, and Chris. Parties are great. They have girls, girls who drink beer, dancing, girls who like dancing, and guys who hate dancing but do it anyway in the hope of laying the girls who drink beer.
Lacy’s in the mood to dance, Chris is in the mood to avoid dancing, I’m still burnt from Skater Girl last night, and Logan’s always game for the stupid and insane. Ten minutes into the party, Lacy was dancing and the three of us took on a dare. Actually, I took on a dare. I lost last night and I don’t lose. Chris and Logan are along for the ride.
“You can’t pull this one off.” Chris walks beside me as we head toward the cars parked neatly in a line. The full moon gives the field a silver glow and the scent of bonfire smoke hangs in the air.
“That’s because you have no imagination.” Thankfully, I have plenty and I know a few guys who get a kick out of screwing with friends.
“This is going to be sweet,” Logan says when I change course and head toward a group of defensive linemen enjoying their own private party.
Tim Richardson owns a mammoth-size, ozone-killing truck, which is good, because the four guys sitting on lawn chairs on the back of it easily weigh 275 pounds each. Tim liberates a can of beer from his cooler and tosses it to me. “What’s going on, Ry?”
“Nothing.” I put the cold can on the tailgate. No drinking for me. I’ve got business to take care of. “Not in the mood for the party?”
His truck is one of the few that can make it over the hill into the back field. “A girl over there is pissed at me,” Tim mutters. “Anytime I go near her, she won’t keep her mouth shut.”
Logan snorts and Chris smacks him on the back of the head. Pissed would be an understatement. Rumor at school said Tim’s ex-girl caught him making out with her twin sister. Tim throws a warning glare at Logan before focusing on me. “How’s your brother? The team’s ticked at him. He promised he’d help with summer practice while he was home from college.”
Hating these kinds of questions, I shift my stance and shove my hands in my pockets. Dad made it clear that we tell no one what happened with Mark. “He’s been busy.” Before Tim has a chance to probe further, I switch to the problem at hand. “How would you guys like to help me with a … situation?”
Tim leans forward as his fellow linemen snicker. “What dare did you sign up for this time?”
I bob my head back and forth like what I’m preparing to ask isn’t a big deal. “Nothing fancy. Rick dared me to move his car.”
Tim shrugs because it doesn’t sound like a big deal.
“Without the keys,” says Chris.
Tim lowers his head, and deep chuckles resonate from his chest. “You three are the definition of insane. You know that, right?”
“Says the guy that tackles other dudes for fun,” I say. “Are you in or out?”
Tim’s lawn chair moves with him as he stands. As he reaches his full height, the chair plunges onto the bed of the truck with a loud clank. “In.”
Curled fingers miserably clutch metal and my back and thighs burn with pain. Seven guys, one 2,400-pound car, and one more inch to go.
“On three,” I say through clenched teeth. “One …”
“Three,” yells Logan and I barely unwedge my fingers from the bumper of the two-door Chevy Aveo when the six other guys drop the car to the ground. The frame of the blue car bounces like a Slinky before coming to a rest.
“Sweet shocks,” says Logan.
Sweat soaks my shirt. Gasping for air, I bend over and place my hands on my knees. The rush of the win races through my veins and I laugh out loud.
Logan admires our handiwork. “Six feet over and nicely parallel parked between two trees.” Nicely meaning the front and rear bumpers currently kiss bark.
