A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(29)

     



 

North has one of the best pitchers in the state, and she's throwing  hard. I notice a few men in college jackets sitting on the front row of  the bleachers right behind the backstop, all of them with speed guns in  their hands and cell phones in the other. I hope their cameras are  rolling when I'm up to bat, because I plan on disrupting her  seventy-mile-per-hour strike fest.

I step into the box and take two balls before she throws a strike, and I purposely let that one go by. I didn't like it.

Don't swing at just any strike, pumpkin; swing at the right one.

As broken as we are, my father's words run through my head every time I  touch the ball and my feet hit the dirt. I will never get away from him  completely; he and I are woven together in this game I love. It's the  hours together in the back yard of me throwing the ball incorrectly, and  him training my arm to do it the right way. It's the moment I swung the  bat and finally made contact. It's the first home run I had in T-ball  when he carried me from the field on his shoulders. Like listening to  Journey, playing this game reminds me of when everything was good. And  as bad as he turned out to be as a father, he was always one hell of a  coach.

The right pitch comes along next, and I see it before it leaves her  fingertips. I shift my weight and cock my arms, loading my swing so by  the time the ball reaches the plate, I hit it so far I don't even have  to look to know it's gone.

Home run.

I hear the ump say the word, but in my head, it's my father's voice. I  round the bases and let my teammates hug and jump on me once I step on  home plate. I celebrate with them, and I talk shit with Taryn about how I  plan on doing that again.

I only get to bat two more times, thanks to the falling sun and the  absolutely pitiful fielding by my teammates, who seem hell bent on  letting the other team run up the score. But I get on base both  times-two doubles, right up the center, and just low enough that the  pitcher gets scared. I blow a kiss to Taryn after my third hit, and the  ump gives me a warning. I'm used to warnings, though, so when he turns  his back, I blow one to him.

We end up losing twelve to two, but I hold my head high knowing those  two-they're me. The ride home feels lighter, and I don't feel the need  to hide behind my music and headphones. I even give in and let Shelby  loop the bow correctly in my hair. It seems to make her happy, and when  Taryn makes fun of me, I tell her not to shit on my girl Shelby's  bow-tying skills. Shelby smiles and lights up at the fact that I call  her my girl. I love that I seem to matter to these girls-to all of them.  They should hate me, but they don't.

"Looks like the guys are still going," Taryn says, and at first, I'm not  sure what she means. A few girls in front of us push down their windows  and whistle out toward the field, and I turn to look out mine, seeing  Kyle now on the mound.

"He must be closing," I say to Taryn, gesturing to our friend.

"TK is so fucking hot in those pants," she responds, not even hearing  me. I laugh because … yeah, of course, that's what she notices.

We climb from the bus, and Taryn, Shelby, and I walk toward the  bleachers for the baseball field, dumping our stuff on the ground and  climbing up to the seats in the back. We had maybe a dozen fans watching  our game, but the baseball team attracts at least a hundred every game.  I get it; I'd be here too, if I didn't have a game of my own to play.

Kyle is throwing hard, and the score is four to three-us. My dad is in  his lucky spot, crouched down in the catcher's position at the front of  the dugout, hands moving quickly from his ear to his nose to his knee.  He's giving the catcher signs. If I wanted to ruin his day, I could walk  over to the other dugout bleachers and call them all out. They'd know  every pitch Kyle was about to throw.

But I wouldn't do that to Kyle. And this is Levi's first game catching,  so I wouldn't want to screw him over either. If I'm being honest,  there's also still a small part of the little girl I used to be deep  down inside of me-and she likes to see her daddy win … even if I won't be  acknowledged in the celebration.

It's the first batter of the last inning; Kyle lets one slide into the  zone, and the batter rips a line drive to TK. He handles it easily  though for the out, and Taryn squeals like a Pee Wee football  cheerleader.

"Wow, if you're gonna do that, I'm watching from over here," I say,  pointing to the other end of the dugout where the bleachers end. She  rolls her eyes at me and continues to jump up and down.

I leave her with Shelby, but not because I'm embarrassed. I recognized  Wes's form almost immediately, his body leaning in the corner against  the fencing of the dugout wall. I'm dying to know how he did. I'm also  dying to put myself between the view of him and the front row of the  bleachers taken up by his giggling fan club. I walk in front of them on  purpose, and I take special care to give McKenna a tight smile as I pass  by.         

     



 

"Still hoping Daddy will let you play with the boys, Josselyn?" She immediately breaks out into laughter with her friends.

My blood pressure rises from her taunt, but I check it quickly, spinning  on my heels to walk backward and look at her. "I can play with these  boys anytime I want, McKenna," I say, and I move to turn back, feeling  satisfied.

"Not every boy, you can't. Why don't you ask Wes about the beach this weekend?" she says.

The whispers and snickering pick up quickly, but I don't let myself turn  around again. If I weren't already almost to the corner of the dugout  wall, I'd go back to my original seat. But I don't want McKenna to have  any power, to know that her words matter to me. They shouldn't, but they  do.

"Hey," Wes's voice comes out raspy. "I was hoping you guys would get  back in time. I made it six innings. I gave up a home run, though. Seems  they can still see my changeup."

"Ah, so now we're admitting it's a changeup and not a slider, are we?" I  say, linking my fingers through the small bit of chain-link fencing  between us. I can still feel McKenna's eyes on me, and I hate that I'm  letting her get to me.

"I admit nothing," Wes says, wincing when he shifts his weight and moves  the ice pack around his arm. "I threw you a slider. You just hit that  too."

His lip curves on one side as his head tilts up just enough that I can  see his eyes under his hat. Even the red-and-white South High Toro  uniform looks perfect on this boy.

"Looks like Kyle's taking care of business, though," I say, resting my  head against the fence. We both look out to the mound to see Kyle strike  out the second batter. They're one out away from a win-Wes's first win.

"Honestly, I think he's better than me. He should have started," Wes  says, not looking back at me for a reaction. He didn't say that just to  be nice. He said that because he meant it.

"He's not," I say, waiting Wes out until he finally meets my eyes. He  stares at me with a serious look, not believing me. "Really, my dad  wouldn't do you any favors just to make you feel welcome because you're  new or whatever. My dad plays to win-no matter what."

After a few seconds, Wes nods in agreement and slowly takes the ice pack from his arm, hissing as if it's painful.

"You get hurt?" I ask.

"Nah. I could probably throw tomorrow. Honestly? I always hate the icing  down shit we have to do. Cold hurts way worse," he says through a light  laugh, standing and tossing his ice pack in the cooler. He pulls on his  sweatshirt, and I let myself admire the way he runs his fingers through  his messy hair before putting his hat back on.

"You ever really throw out your shoulder or elbow-and I bet you won't  think the ice is so bad," I say, thinking how I should probably heed my  own advice. I never ice my muscles, for the same reason Wes hates doing  it. Cold sucks.

"Yeah, you're probably right," he says, stepping up on the bench and sitting on the seat back, bringing himself closer to me.

I glance back at his fan row on the bleachers, and only McKenna is  watching. She's pretending not to. I recognize it, because that's how I  look at Wes-while pretending not to.

"So … your fan over there mentioned something about taking you to the  beach?" My stomach hurts the second I let the poor excuse for fishing  for information leave my mouth. Since the moment she mentioned it, my  mind worked for a natural way to ask Wes about it, to find out if it's a  date with her or anything remotely like she wants me to believe it is. I  feel stupid asking, and I'm scared to find out his response.

"Oh, yeah … " he says, standing and not finishing his answer. I'm hanging  on his words, but he's on his feet against the other side of the dugout,  watching, because the other team's big hitter just hit a fly ball deep  to right field. Our fielder is tracking it, all the way to the fence,  and at the last minute, he lifts himself up, reaching over the top and  snagging the ball out of the air.