"We've been replaced," Kyle says, pushing my feet off balance. They fall to the ground from the wall I've propped myself up on. He straddles the wall next to me, lying back and tossing a ball above his face into his glove.
"It's a wonder you have teeth," I tease.
"Ha ha," he says, not missing a beat and continuing to toss the ball while kicking me gently with his right foot.
I'm waiting on Taryn to get out of the locker room so she can give me a ride home, and I'm also watching my dad and Wes out on the field.
"You've been replaced. I'm still just the girl who plays this silly little sport they have for girls, in between partying and throwing her life down the drain." My voice is monotone, my attention devoted to watching Wes stand tall on the mound and go through his motions slowly, my father tweaking and adjusting inches along the way.
"You're better than all of us," Kyle says, sitting up and leaning into me. The funny thing is, I know he means it. He would never say it in front of others, but with me-alone-he's always been my biggest fan.
I let my head fall to the side to look at him and give him a lopsided, closed smile. "Thanks," I say, glancing down at my nails, the dirt wedged underneath, scratches on my hands from sliding practice today. "You know, he's never seen a single one of my high school games."
"Who, your pops?" Kyle asks, leaning back on his hands, spitting sunflower seed shells off to the sidewalk.
"Not a single one," I answer. It's quiet between us for a few minutes, and we both watch my dad shake Wes's hand and pat him on the back. My dad makes the slow climb up the hill to where we are, but Wes stays out there, working alone, the sun barely up and dark clouds closing in on what little light is left.
My father gets closer, and our posture shifts into that of two grade school kids sent to sit along the wall after getting in trouble on the playground. In an act of defiance, Kyle spits one more shell out toward my father's feet as he nears us. It makes me chuckle.
"Wes is starting Monday," my dad says. I look down, wishing I could disappear and give Kyle privacy. I can feel disappointment radiate from him without looking. He knew he wouldn't start, but my dad is rubbing it in by saying it in front of me.
"Okay," Kyle says, his voice even, despite the rage I know is brewing underneath.
"Joss," my dad says, not moving, waiting for me to look up. I take my time, because the only thing I can do to show Kyle support is make my father wait. After a few seconds, I flutter my eyes open on his and sigh. "You had a pack of cigarettes in your jeans. I found them in the laundry. You said you were quitting."
"I did quit," I say. I glance to Kyle, who smirks at me because I gave him shit for quitting a week ago. I shrug then look back to my dad.
"I'll believe that when I see it. You have a pattern of not following through with things," he says, pulling his phone from his pocket and checking a message, no longer looking at me while insulting me. He walks away without another word, but before he rounds the corner, I fire off something brave.
"I'll quit when you quit," I say, just loud enough that he pauses at the edge of the building, rolling his shoulders and pulling one hand from his pocket to make a fist. I hold my breath and wait for him to turn around, but he doesn't. I hit him with his own flaws, and there's no comeback for that.
"You didn't have to do that," Kyle says, leaning forward with his hands on the handles of his gym bag. "I knew Wes was going to start and not me. Really, I'm fine with it."
"He was still being an ass," I say, rolling my head to face him. He gives me a quick grin and leans his head in my direction. "And no offense, but that was more for me than you. Last weekend … got ugly."
Kyle nods slowly, standing and walking over to me, resting one hand on my knee while leaning forward slowly to kiss my head. "I'm sorry, Joss," he says, letting his forehead fall to the top of mine. He means it. When nobody is watching, Kyle is incredibly sweet.
"Thanks," I sniff out. "Wes … he was there. He … helped."
Kyle steps away, and I know it's because I mentioned Wes's name. I didn't want him to find out from anyone other than me. If Wes were the one to tell him first, he would think I was hiding it from him for other reasons. I haven't mentioned it, because I've wanted to forget. But my dad just brought the memory roaring back to the forefront of everything.
"Glad you weren't alone," he says, his back to me as he picks up his bag, tucking his towel inside before zipping it closed. "Hey, I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? We're still on for Slasher Saturday?"
Kyle, Conner, Taryn, and I have gone to the Bakersfield Nine Drive-Ins for slasher films every February first since we were old enough to pedal our bikes that far. When we were younger, we had to sneak in under the fencing near the projector building and pretend we were with our parents when ushers would ask, pointing at random cars and lying, saying that was our family. Last year, Kyle drove us there, and I fell asleep next to him to the sounds of chainsaws and screaming. He woke me when we got to my house, and he looked at me like he wanted to kiss me-really kiss me, the kind of kiss that meant something, different from the other times we'd hooked up just for fun. I haven't kissed him again since.
"Wouldn't miss it," I say. I feel a strange sense of guilt from the way he turns his body, careful not to look at me while he walks away. His words are guarded, and he's hiding how he feels, but I still see it. I leaned on Wes instead of him. He holds up a few fingers and walks a little faster to the back parking lot, his gaze never lifting to me until his engine roars and he's ready to pull away. He holds up a hand one more time to wave goodbye, but he doesn't smile.
When his car pulls out of sight, I let my eyes drift back to the field, where Wes is throwing balls to nobody, letting them hit the backstop. I push from the wall and throw my bag over my back, my cleats untied and loose around my feet as I trudge through the outfield toward him.
"I can catch for you … if you want," I say. He turns quickly at the sound of my voice, startled.
"Oh … uh, thanks, but it's okay, I was almost done " he says, jiggling his arm against his side as if it's sore and tired. He hasn't thrown many pitches at all today, though. I know, because I've been watching.
"You know, eventually you're going to have to give in to the fact that I can handle you," I say, my eyes leveling him with a challenge. He laughs lightly to himself, his lip held between his teeth as he tugs down on the bill of his hat, shadowing his face, until he finally nods at me.
"A'right," he relents, shrugging to home plate.
I step over to the backstop and throw the dozen or so balls he pitched on his own back to him, and he drops them in his bag near his feet one at a time. I brush the dirt from home plate with my glove, then crouch down. I hold the pose for a few seconds while Wes stares at me, and eventually he shakes his head with a quiet laugh.
"What?" I yell, dropping my arms to my knees. I hate catching; it's miserable. I only did it because it was him-he needed help. No … I wanted to help. And now he's laughing at me?
He jogs toward me in long, slow strides, and I stand, leaning with my glove against my hip. He's wearing dark blue shorts over black compression pants, and unlike the other boys on my dad's team, he actually looks good in them-like a real ballplayer. I look away and take a step or two back when he gets closer, but he reaches for my arm, catching my elbow with his fingers. My eyes go right to his hold and then to his face where he's waiting for me with the same expression I have.
"Sorry," he says, letting go of me quickly. I feel the loss of his touch.
Kneeling down, he urges me to do the same next to him, shirking his glove from his hand and holding his palms on the insides of his thighs. "You are sitting like this. It's unsteady, and you're going to get tired … fast," he says, his eyes gliding over to my legs. He licks his lips, and sucks in a slow but heavy breath, before putting one knee down and bringing his hand to my leg, glancing at me quickly for permission before resting his fingertips on my kneecap. His touch is cautious and purposeful. It's also powerful, and I feel it.
"If you just turn … like this, and then shift your weight," he says, tugging my knee out gently before clearing his throat slightly as his eyes run up my thigh. He stands abruptly, and I let down one knee to rest my legs. "Anyhow, I just figured maybe you never caught before, and I could show you something. You probably already knew that though, so-"
"Thanks," I interrupt him before he steps away. I'm not warm and fuzzy. I make him nervous. And I regret that. "Really," I add, as he tilts his head sideways over his shoulder, glancing back at me. "My dad use to show me stuff like that, but … it's been a while."