Don't flip the ball like that. Nobody needs showboating. Just do your job.
Our first two batters get on easily with walks, and I pull my helmet from the ground and put it on, spitting out the sunflower seeds I stuffed into my mouth seconds before.
"I don't know how you eat those things. They're gross. It's like chewing on pencils," Taryn says, kicking dirt over my pile of wet seed shells. I glare at her. "Don't take your shakes out on me. You're pissy because you quit smoking."
I scowl at her.
"No, I'm not," I say, pulling the small bag of seeds from my back pocket and pouring five or six more into my mouth. "And fuck off."
Truth is, I don't really miss cigarettes at all. I didn't like the way they made me feel. I liked the distraction of them, the fact that they made people think twice about me and leave me alone. I liked that they were one more thing that pissed my dad off.
The girl at bat before me is named Bria. Her ribbon is enormous. I'd make fun of it, but she's actually a decent hitter. And now that I'm the only player not wearing a ribbon, I don't really have much to stand on. Bria gets ahold of a pitch and sends a ball into deep center field, and the Trinity player somehow puts a glove on it. I swear her eyes were closed for the catch. I walk toward the plate feeling the swagger of knowing anything I put out there won't be touched. Bria hit the ball well, but she doesn't hit as hard as I do. I won't give anyone time to react. My ball will be gone before they know what to do with it. My father won't have anything to say. And I won't be wearing a dress Friday for some stupid dance.
Even though that's all I want in the world.
I spit my last round of seeds out in the grass before I get to the batter's box. The umpire glares at me, and I stare back at him, feeling around my mouth for the one shell left inside. I spit that out too, this time on the dirt, and I cover it with a small kick of my cleat.
"Bacon-flavored," I say, raising my eyebrows in a flash. He grumbles and points a finger at the Trinity pitcher, done with me.
I load my weight and let the bat rest on my shoulder until I know she's ready to throw. She winds and grunts, and the ball flies by me, a little above my waist. I let it go.
"Strike!"
I hear everyone cheering in the background. Some of the guys are chanting my name, and my teammates are yelling a string of "Come on, Joss, let's go, Joss, you got this, Joss. Let's go, number thirty-four!"
It's all noise. All of it. None of it matters. I don't let it in my head. That pitch didn't matter. It wasn't my pitch. I tune it all out. I don't hear a thing. Only the sound of my pulse and my breath as it comes in and leaves through my nose.
And then I hear his voice.
"Thata girl. You don't hit those. You hit winners."
My father doesn't yell like everyone else. He speaks. His voice cuts through the bullshit and moves right for my ears. It's all I hear, and suddenly my legs shift, my hands adjust and my muscles flex.
I'm a fighter waiting to strike, and when the pitcher delivers her next try, I hit the ball so hard it not only clears the outfield fence, it bounces into the parking lot.
My feet carry me at an easy pace around the bases, my eyes watching the dirt clouds that puff beneath the heels of every step of the girl running in front of me. As I round third, my team is walking from the dugout to greet me at home plate. I don't look at them. I look right through the backstop, to the back row of bleachers, to the older man standing behind them-smiling.
I'm hugged and high-fived the second I pass the plate, but my eyes never leave my father's. His smile is brief, and if I hadn't looked right away, I probably would have missed it. But I did look. It was there.
It was real.
The rest of the game passes with much of the same. We end up scoring fifteen runs to their two-and the game is called after the bottom of the fourth for time. Our field isn't lighted, and the sun is on its last few minutes of gold.
Taryn packs up quickly and yells that she'll call me later, passing her things to TK, who carries them on one side of his body while he holds her close on the other side. I watch them walk away while I tug my batting gloves from my hand and take my time packing up. I'm the last one in the dugout when Wes steps in behind me.
"So, I guess I owe you this," he says, holding out a ten-dollar bill. I smirk at it and shrug. I don't want it anymore.
"Bet's a bet, right?" I say, taking the ten from him and pushing it into my back pocket. I bend down and pull my cleats from my feet, then zip them into the bottom pouch of my bag, my back to him. I drop my flip-flops on the ground and stuff my feet in, scrunching the socks between my toes.
"Yeah … bet's a bet," Wes says behind me. I sigh and turn to look at him, instantly guilty because I can't seem to just give in and tell him yes, I want to go to the dance. He's already left the dugout.
I look out to the home plate area and notice my father talking with our coach. He isn't yelling. In fact, at the moment, they're both laughing, my father with his hand placed on my coach's back, leaning forward and smiling. They both turn to look at me, and the laughing stops, so I step from the dugout and follow Wes's steps toward the bleachers.
"Nice hitting today, Winters. Your dad was just telling me we should get you some work on the left side of the plate. I didn't know you switched," coach says.
"I don't," I answer quickly. I notice my father's response-he leans back with a silent chuckle and folds his arms over his chest.
"She does. She's just rusty. It's been a while," he says, his eyes dancing over me with a familiar fire.
Pride.
I pause my steps and look at them both. I'm expressionless because this feels like a trick. I'm waiting for things to turn.
"We'll work on it," my father says.
My eyes go right to his, expecting something different. I expect a dig or criticism. But instead, I think he might just be making plans.
"Sounds good to me," coach says, patting my father on the back once and moving toward the dugout to grab his things. He spins on his heels and walks backward, looking at us both. "Oh, and you might want to have that ready to go next week. Chico State has a guy coming out to our road game to take a look at you."
"She'll be ready," my father says. He's holding a glove in his hand, and he slaps it once in his other palm before letting it drop to his side. It's something he's always done-he's always thrown with the boys, always done every drill he expects them to do.
It's something he used to do with me.
I feel Wes step closer behind me, but he stops as my father approaches. I'm caught in the middle, like a cat lost in the rain, and every muscle in my body wants to run. My heart wants to stay right here though.
"Whaddaya say you get up early with Wes and me, come out here to the field, and we work on some things this weekend? I mean, you've been getting up early and running on your own anyhow," my father says with a light laugh that turns into a cough. He's nervous. "You're not as quiet and sneaky as you think you are. I hear you in the morning."
"I didn't think you were aware of anything in the morning," I say. I hear Wes's breath change behind me, like he wants to interject. I'm attacking, and I know Wes doesn't want me to blow this moment, but I've waited so long to say some of these things with my father in a state-of-mind that was willing to hear them. I have to get them off my chest.
"You're right. And that's fair." My father's words shock me.
I wait for him to give me the but portion of the statement; instead, he brings his arms up, his trusty glove still in one hand, and shrugs, admitting his guilt.
"I have work," I say, my chin raised as I deliver my next excuse-the next hurdle to overcome in this Hallmark moment.
"We'll work around your schedule, so you don't have to get up too early after coming in late," he says.
"Ohhh, yeah. For me, right? Not you and your coming in late. This is about me," I say, turning back to gather my things. I run into Wes, who has moved closer and is already holding them.
"Joss, just give him this. Just listen," he says.
I pause and study Wes's expression. His eyes are begging me to take this leap, to trust that my father is doing something kind right now. This olive branch is real, and Wes wants me to take it.
I spin back to face my father, but his eyes are on Wes's. He's biting his bottom lip, and he stands there motionless, in thought, for several seconds before speaking.
"She has a lot of reasons not to listen, Wes. I know. I have not been … present. I haven't been there," my father says.
"You haven't been anything but a drunk, abusive ass!" I interrupt, my voice caught between laugh and cry.
My father swallows hard, his eyes shifting to me as he passes the glove between his hands. He slowly begins to nod, then leans his head slightly to one side, his eyes frosting over with something I don't recognize. It's not quite regret, but it's close.