A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(5)

She sends me back the thumbs-up emoticon and says she's two minutes  away. I push my phone into my back pocket and twist the cap from my  water bottle to take a drink, giving me a good cover to stare at my  approaching company a little longer. The wind is picking up, so I take  the hair tie from my wrist and pull my hair back in a ponytail then pull  the sleeves of my flannel shirt into my palms to keep my hands warm. It  doesn't really get cold in Bakersfield, but in January, with the wind,  the sixty degrees feels colder than normal.

I can tell the guys are talking about me as they cross into the infield  area and step up on the mound, setting the bucket down and dropping  their bats in the grass. The tall one pulls his hat from his head and  smooths his hair back before sliding his hat on backward. He looks right  at me when he does, and I dare myself not to look away or change my  expression for his benefit at all, even though his blue eyes are  freaking unbelievable.

He's unbelievable. He pushes up his sleeves and stretches one arm over  his chest as he talks to his two friends, but he keeps glancing at me  between his words. I don't give in, and I watch him the entire time. I  won't smile. He doesn't. We're both being stubborn. It's like I'm  invisible, and he doesn't even acknowledge the fact that he's looking at  me. His expression is blank.

"What'd I miss?" Taryn asks, sliding in next to me on the bleachers. She  hands me her lighter, and I grab it without looking away.

"Nothing," I say. "They just got here. They parked over there."

I nod across the field to their truck, my eyes still on him as he bends  down for a ball, swinging his arm around a few times in the throwing  motion to warm up-still looking at me.         

     



 

"Huh," Taryn responds. "Well, at least they're cute."

Yeah. They're cute. The shortest one seems to have the biggest arms, his  biceps completely filling the sleeves of his shirt. He's blond … I think.  I don't look at him long, because I don't want to lose this staring  contest with Mr. Backward Hat. I was right about the other guy being  African American, and Taryn claims him as hers the second he pushes up  the legs of his sweat pants, revealing the dark, strong muscles of his  calves while he takes a bat in his hands and sways it side to side.

"Damn, girl. I hope he's new. I'm totally gettin' on that welcoming  committee," she says, her eyes locked on his broad-shouldered figure,  the bat now stretched across his back.

I don't speak, instead bringing my fist up to my mouth, my elbow rested  on my knee while I chew at my knuckle and concentrate on the boy on the  mound. He quit looking at me when his friend crouched behind the plate,  pounding his glove for a few warm-up throws. Now that he's not watching  me, I can study him more closely.

He tosses the ball up a few times in his bare hand, then readies himself  along the rubber on the mound, kicking his foot in a few times to  loosen up the hard dirt. The junior high field is old and small, so  they've used one of the bucket lids as home plate, moving it back a good  fifteen feet from where the younger kids' one is. Finally satisfied  with the ground under him, the pitcher stands perfectly still for a few  seconds before stepping into his windup motion, his arm taking a long  path from far behind his head and around his body, the ball hitting the  glove with a crisp snap.

"Shooooooooot," Taryn hums next to me. "That was fast."

"Yeah," I say, my lips still pressed along my knuckles. I'm grinning  against my hand, but I don't want anyone to see that I'm impressed-not  Taryn, and not the guy throwing the ball.

He repeats his motion six or seven times before his friend finally steps  up to the plate. There's no way in hell he's hitting him.

I lean back, letting my legs drape forward along the bleachers, the  shoestrings from my Vans dangling along the sides, my skinny jeans  hugging my ankles over my socks. I click the lighter a few times in my  palm next to me, holding the flame on until I feel the heat as I watch  Hat Boy pull up his knee and stretch the length of the mound, firing off  a pitch a good ten miles per hour faster than his warm-up throws. His  friend swings and misses.

"Jeeee-zussss," Taryn says, leaning back next to me. She hands me a  cigarette, but I shake my head. I don't feel like smoking. I hand her  the lighter and she puts hers to her lips, burning the tip and puffing  once while we watch the catcher throw the ball back to Hat Boy, who  shakes out his arm and lines himself up on the rubber again.

"So that's how it's gonna be, huh?" the batter says, shrugging his  shoulders a few times and tapping his bat on the edge of the plate.

The catcher chuckles, mumbling something that makes them all laugh, and I  wish I could hear whatever it was he said because Hat Boy is leaning  forward now, looking in for a sign with one side of his lip raised in  the cockiest fucking smile I've ever seen.

I was smitten with his eyes. They're pretty to look at, a unique blue,  bright enough that I can tell their color from fifty feet away. His  smile, though-well … as Taryn said-jeeee-zussss.

He pulls his arms together and presents for his next pitch, and I sit  forward again, watching the details of his movement. He turns the ball  in his glove, the lines of muscles along his forearms ticking with each  twist until his fingers are gripping the ball just right.

He's going to throw a curve.

As the ball releases, I stand and jump down over the two rows of  bleachers to the ground, walking closer to the backstop while his friend  swings and misses again, the curve sailing low and away. He never had a  chance.

"That fucking dickhead," his friend who's batting mutters through a  laugh to the catcher. The blond guy scoops the ball low, throws it back  to Hat Boy then pounds his fist in his glove to knock away the dirt.

"It was a good pitch, man. Good swing, he just got ya-that's all," he says, tapping his glove on his friend's leg.

"You call that pitch?" the batter asks.

"Nah, man … you know better than that. He never throws what I call. That  was all him," he says, pounding his glove one more time and adjusting  his body on his heels. "Come on, dub. Give him something to hit!"

The pitcher adjusts his hat again; pulling it forward now, low on his  brow-the brim casts a dark shadow that obliterates the blue in his eyes.  I hate that I can't see his eyes-it makes me feel uneasy. He runs the  side of his arm along his brow before twisting his neck, the same smirk  from before the curveball sliding across his lips. I watch him pull his  hands together and work the ball in his glove, his lip ticking just a  hint higher when he settles on his grip.         

     



 

"Watch the changeup," I say, my fingers now curled through the chain link and my forehead resting against the backstop.

The batter glances at me quickly, his brow low. He makes the typical who  the fuck are you? face, then turns back toward Hat Boy, digging his  feet into the batter's box a little harder and tsking at my suggestion  as he rolls his shoulders. His leg is twitching to step already, and his  bat is wiggling up and down his shoulder.

He's going to miss.

Hat Boy winds up the same way he did the first two times. His body is  impressive-not just in a hot guy sort of way, but like an athlete. My  father would love him. His control is ridiculous. And he wears the game  face my dad's always telling his guys to have. Intimidation, he says, is  fifty percent of the game. For me, it's always been ninety percent.

If I were to overlap video of all three pitches, his release point would  be exactly the same. His gift, though, is his ability to make the ball  move anywhere he wants it to-at any speed. The batter anticipates, just  like I knew he would, and his swing is done by the time the ball sails  by, landing softly in the catcher's mitt.

"That's at least fifteen slower," I whisper to myself.

The batter hears me, though, and looks up with one eyebrow cocked.

"Dude, Wes, that was killer. Throw that again, man. Lovin' it … lovin'  it!" the catcher says, pulling his mask off and tossing it on the  ground. He throws the ball back to the pitcher.

His name is Wes.

"Hold up," the batter says, flashing a hand to Wes and the catcher. He  walks over to me, and I feel my stomach clench. I used to think I hated  confrontation. I don't. I love it. And I'm good at it.

I wear my game face.

"You were late," I shrug, one lip pulling up to the side as I kick the  toe of my shoe into the bottom of the backstop. I feel Taryn walk up  next to me. She drops her cigarette in the dirt, stepping on it to put  it out before grabbing hold of the fence too.

"You called a changeup," the guy says, his mouth a hard line and his  eyes looking at me with suspicion. He thinks I made a lucky guess, and  he's a little pissed I made fun of him. I probably shouldn't have, but  there's something about these three that makes me want to bring out my  snarky side.