A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(57)

"I'm sorry, Joss," Kyle says, stepping up behind me, his hand on my shoulder.

"Thanks," I whisper. "Hey, you should go get ready. I have practice too."

Kyle slides around me, and takes a few steps backward, his eyes  searching mine to make sure I'm really okay. I'm not. He knows I'm not.  But I've also been worse. I shake his worry off, and he eventually turns  to jog to the locker room and I cut around the back of the gym to go  into mine.

The girls are all mostly ready, except Taryn, who's manically trying to  pull on her sliding pants over her cleats as she dresses in the wrong  order. Even with her mad dash to get ready, the locker room is eerily  quiet. My teammates are all sitting, waiting, with their gloves and bags  in their hands, and there are a few whispers while I line my things up  and get ready at my own pace. The way I see it, Coach is lucky I'm  showing up to practice today.

I straddle the bench to put on my cleats, and my eyes lock with Bria's  across the room. She smiles at me quickly, the kind of smile filled with  condolences. Shit. They all know about my mom.

I drop my gaze back to my hands and feet, tying my laces and shoving my  regular clothes into my locker, dumping my equipment bag on the ground.  The clanging sound when my bat bounces on the floor makes a few girls  near me flinch.

"Sorry," I say, to no one in particular. I pick my bag up and sling it  over my shoulder, clicking the lock on my door with my right hand and  walking with purposeful steps until I'm outside and away from the stares  and uninvited sympathy.

I get all the way out to the field and begin my jogging, stretching, and  warm-ups on my own. Several minutes pass before Taryn begins to make  the long walk through the outfield. I notice Wes has already made it to  the baseball field, and the boys are all circled with the assistant  coaches-no doubt trying to figure out how they could possibly move  forward without the genius that is Coach Winters.

The rest of the girls finally make it to the field, and Taryn and I  begin throwing along the baseline. The quiet is still there. It doesn't  belong, but I don't know how to end it.

"I wish people would understand that I'm fine," I say to my friend. She  holds the ball, tucking it in her glove and resting it at her hip.  "What? I am. I am fine."

Taryn looks down the line of girls throwing next to us and shakes her head, jogging over to me. I sigh as she gets closer.

"Stop it," she says.

I flinch.

"I'm … sorry?" I begin to laugh, but I'm not that amused.

"Stop pretending you're fine. Your mom died, Joss. And your dad just  quit the baseball team. So clearly he's not fine," she says.

"I hardly knew her," I say quickly. The power of that statement hits my  chest, stripping my breath away a little. My eyes sting, so I look down  and sniff. I won't cry over her anymore.

"But she was your mom. And the fact that you hardly knew her has sort of  been a big deal in your life for a long time," Taryn says. I keep my  eyes at the ground, because I can feel the others start to look our  direction. The throwing sounds have stopped.

I do not want a group hug.

"Fine, all right? Whatever. I'm messed up about it. But I also don't  want to deal with it, and now that my dad quit the one thing he loved,  I've probably got bigger problems on my-"

Taryn stops me mid-sentence, her hand wrapping around my arm. I look up into her confused face, her eyes over my shoulder.

"Hey, Joss? I think maybe … you … maybe do have bigger problems … " Taryn's  voice trails off, and I turn slowly, my face into the sun, to see my  father standing next to Coach Adams. He's dressed for practice.

"Motherfuck-" I breathe.

Taryn laughs once, the sound like a rim shot to the punch line of my joke of a life.

Coach Adams blows his whistle, but I don't hear it. I only see him pull  the small piece to his lips and watch as everyone else reacts, jogging  over, whispering, nervous. These girls should be nervous. I am only  sick.

I'm the last to join the circle around them, and everyone sits down, but  me. I'll stand in the back, ready to leave. I want to leave. This can't  happen. This field is mine. He can't have it.

"Joss, mind taking a seat?" Coach Adams asks.

"I do," I say, clearing my throat. "If it's all right with you … I'll just stand."         

     



 

"Joss, sit your ass down," my father says.

This is why this won't work. I straighten my posture and shift my glove against my body, narrowing my gaze on my father.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

His chest puffs slowly with the intake of breath, and his eyes shift to  Coach Adams. His voice is low, but we all still hear him.

"I didn't get to talk to her today. She was … out," he says. He says it  like I was out doing some illegal activity, like I didn't have a good  reason to leave the school, like I'm a disappointment.

"Sorry, finding out your estranged mother died sort of makes you act up.  Guess it's the same when it's your estranged wife," I bite.

"Josselyn!" My father's nostrils flair, and I blink rapidly from his  tone. This scolding is different. It's full of authority. I crossed a  line. I keep my stare on him, my eyes slits, because I'm still so angry I  could punch him, but he's right-that was a low blow. I don't regret  saying any of it, but I regret saying it in front of the team. I shake  my head and kneel down under the scrutiny of everyone's stare.

Coach Adams coughs a few times, moving the clipboard in his hands to  rest against his chest as he straddles his legs out wider to stand in  front of us. "Ladies, I'm sure some of you know Coach Winters," he says,  his eyes scanning over us, stopping on mine. I feel trapped by it, so I  look away.

"Coach Winters is joining us for the rest of the season. I've had some  things come up, personally. Nothing bad. Good things, actually. My wife  and I are expecting twins, but the pregnancy is a risky one, so she's on  bed rest. I just want to be there, in case she needs something," he  says, and I can't stop the laugh that escapes my lips, amused by the  irony that one dad is stepping away to be there for his family while the  other-mine-is doing anything he can to hide from his. I cup my mouth  and hold up a hand in apology.

"Thank you for the introduction, Dave," my father says, his lips pursed,  and smile tight. He talks to our real coach as if they have some  special respect or connection, as if my father hasn't torn apart every  single coaching decision Coach Adams ever made.

"Ladies, I see a lot of potential out here," my father starts, and I  tune him out, my eyes wandering over to the baseball field where the  boys are now running. I catch a glance from Wes, and I shrug, not sure  if he can see my small movement. His eyes stay on me for the first few  steps when he turns to run the other way.

"Joss!"

My neck snaps. I'm sitting here alone. Seriously, Taryn? Couldn't, like,  nudge me or something. I stand and brush the dead grass clippings from  my legs and socks and begin to run to join the rest of the team.

"You're with me," my father says. I halt and roll my eyes before turning to face him.

"Is this funny to you?" I fold my arms.

He stares at me, his eyes unwavering, his expression unchanged.

"Why are you doing this? I mean you're taking things pretty far just to  prove a point, that you can teach me how to hit lefty. You didn't need  to go and quit the baseball team just to prove you're right. Could have  saved us both some torture."

He continues to stare. I hold his gaze, trying to outmatch him, but  eventually I break and look to the ground, kicking my cleat into the  dried grass.

"Fine, whatever. I'll get a bat," I say, stepping toward the dugout.

"No," my father says.

I sigh and spin around with my arms out to the side, tossing my glove  onto the ground. My head tilted up to the sky, I laugh in exasperation.

"No, he says," I chuckle. "What is this, some test? What are we doing? Why are you here? What's the point of this?"

My head falls forward, my eyes expecting to take in the same hard man  looking at me seconds ago, but my father's face has softened. It catches  me by surprise.

"We're going to talk," my dad says.

I blink at him. Talking is not one of our strong points. Yelling-we  yell. That's what the tiny Winters family does. We don't share. We don't  care. And we never talk.

"Fine. How was your day? Oh, wait … you quit the job you love just so you  could ruin the only thing I love. Oh me? I'm fine. Or … I was fine. Now  I'm not. You're right, Dad. This talking thing-it's awesome."

"I made you this way," he says, shaking his head.

My breath pauses while I think about his reaction. He's right. He did.  He made me this way. He fucked me up. My mom fucked us both up. Wes  saved me, but only what's left of me.         

     



 

"Are you trying to go back? Is that what this is about for you, Dad?  Making up for lost time? All those games you missed?" I ask, my voice  lower. I'm not trying to be difficult with this line of questioning  anymore. I genuinely want to know. Because there's too much for him to  make up for; there's no rewriting our history.