The Ninth Inning Page 4

  Taking one of the cold cans from her hand, I hopped up onto the counter and opened it with a loud fizz and pop before taking a gulp. She hopped up on the adjacent counter, opening her own and taking a long drink. It seemed funny, two girls drinking beer when all the other girls seemed to drink straight alcohol or mixed drinks.

  Cole had always said he liked that I drank beer. It made me different, not typical or basic. I’d considered it a compliment at the time. Now, I didn’t give a shit what he’d meant by it.

  “So,” Lauren started as she wrapped her blonde hair up in a twisted knot on top of her head. It stayed there, nothing holding it, except other hair, and it had always fascinated me that she could pull that off.

  Whenever I tried to tie my long hair in a knot, it would undo itself right away, the dark pieces unraveling and falling slowly until it hung straight across my back once more.

  Stupid hair.

  “Stop cursing my hair.” She shot me a look, and I laughed, hating the fact that she could read my mind so well sometimes.

  I’d told her on more than one occasion how unfair it was that her hair followed directions when mine always laughed in my face. It was so fine, the strands so ridiculously soft, that I found myself filling it with dry shampoo daily just to give it some volume and texture.

  “I wasn’t,” I lied with a smirk, and she shook her head, waving me off.

  “Whatever. How are you feeling? What are you thinking?”

  I offered a one-shouldered shrug because, really, what more could be said at this point? Hadn’t I talked myself to death over the topic that was Cole Anders for the past three years? What could I possibly say that I hadn’t already said a hundred times before?

  “I don’t know what to say. I’m pissed. I’m hurt. But mostly, I’m just sick of it. I promised myself I’d never give him the time of day after what happened in August. I shouldn’t have gone tonight. I knew it was a mistake.”

  “I shouldn’t have pushed you.” She sounded truly apologetic. “I really did think that you’d see him and not feel anything. Or at least, I hoped. But honestly, I should have known better. You two are ...” She stopped, clearly searching for a word before not finding it and giving up. “Anyway, it wasn’t my place or my call to make you do that.”

  I had been pissed at Lauren for all of two seconds before placing blame where it was due.

  “You don’t control me. I have free will. I could have said no. You suggested it, and obviously, a part of me wanted to go. And I know it’s because I wanted you to be right. I wanted to feel nothing when I looked at him,” I admitted before taking another sip. “But mostly, I wanted him to feel something when he looked at me.”

  “He did,” she said with determination as her eyes locked on to mine. “I saw the way he was looking at you tonight. He wants you.”

  “He’s wanted me since freshman year,” I said.

  Cole physically wanting me wasn’t the issue. The issue was all the rest of it—the relationship parts he refused to give, all the things I wanted beyond us constantly making out and sometimes having sex. I needed to stop giving my body to a guy who refused to give me anything more than his. And I definitely needed to stop giving my heart to a guy who didn’t deserve it.

  “He doesn’t want me in public though. He doesn’t want me after the games or in the stands, where everyone can see us. He doesn’t want me at the fundraisers or the awards dinners. He sure as shit doesn’t want to take me on a date since he’s never once asked. And to be kept in the shadows, it’s not enough for me. Not anymore.”

  “You know he brings his dad to all those stupid baseball dinners,” she said.

  It was true. Cole had brought his dad to every baseball banquet and fundraiser since he started on the team, but I expected that. His dad would, and should, be there with him.

  “All the players bring their parents. But they bring their girlfriends too.”

  Silence.

  I knew exactly what Lauren was thinking but didn’t want to say out loud, so I said it for the both of us, “See? I’m not his girlfriend. If you like someone, you want to be with them. In public.” I added for emphasis, “Around other people.”

  “He likes you. I don’t care what he says, Chris. Cole likes you. It’s obvious. And not only to me,” Lauren tried to reinforce her opinion, but it was too late.

  Cole had inadvertently confessed his truth tonight, whether he had meant to or not, whether he even realized it or not. And I’d heard him loud and clear.

  “He doesn’t like me, Laur. He just doesn’t want anyone else to have me. And that’s not the same thing.”

  I was one hundred percent done with him. For good this time.

  Play Hard, Practice Harder

  Cole

  I got to practice early, like I always did. Chance was already here, which was no surprise. So was Mac Davies, our first baseman. For as big of a Jack Carter-in-training as Mac was off the field, he was serious about the game, our team, and his performance on it. It was why I liked him. He worked hard. And if things weren’t going well, he worked even harder. Which was exactly why the three of us, give or take a pitcher or two, were in the locker room and on the field before anyone else on the team.

  “You can’t let go of something you never had in the first place.” Christina’s words had been tormenting me since the moment she delivered them, playing in a loop in my head.

  I’d watched her inhale a single breath before walking away, and I wondered if that would be the last breath I’d ever watch her take. I would deserve it. I considered the fact that maybe, this time, I’d actually pushed her too far. Everyone had a breaking point, and I was pretty sure I’d found Christina’s.

  In August, I’d been especially cruel. I wasn’t proud of the things I’d said to her, but it was all done out of necessity. Hell, I hadn’t even meant any of it, but if I didn’t make her go away, I was afraid that I’d prioritize her over baseball, and that scared the hell out of me. How could I have both? It didn’t seem like a possibility, so she had to go. Baseball wasn’t expendable, but the girl was. How fucked up was that? And even after all this time, making her go away hadn’t made me stop thinking about her. I still wanted her. I still missed her. And I hated myself for it.

  I’d thought I’d put her away ... shoved her in some box in my mind where I compartmentalized the other parts of my life, but seeing her last night had ripped it all wide open. She had been locked away tight, and now, she was out, ruining my nights and distracting my days. The very thing I’d been so desperately trying to avoid, and it was all happening anyway.

  Some would call that ironic.

  Lacing up my cleats, I pushed to a stand as Mac laughed from around the corner, suddenly appearing in my line of sight.

  “How’s your face feel?” he asked, his surfer-looking blond hair flopping in front of his eyes before he moved it back and put on his hat.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “My face?” I asked before remembering that Christina had slapped me in front of everyone at the party last night. “Oh, it’s fine. Barely even stung,” I lied, rubbing a hand down my cheek where she’d struck me.

  “Surprised you even noticed, considering the fact that you were glued to”—I paused, searching for the name of the girl I’d never seen before in my life—“some chick’s face.”

  Chance laughed at that. “Mac sees everything,” he added.

  “It’s true.” Mac nodded. “I do. Even if I’m making out with Bambi.” He stopped and shot us each a look. “Real name. Swear. I still see everything that’s going on around us. And I hear everything too.”

  Mac was hinting at something, but I wasn’t sure what.

  “You have something to say?” I figured I’d get straight to the point instead of beating around the bush. We weren’t a bunch of chicks here, leaving hints for one another to decipher.

  “I’m not sure,” Mac started, taking a single step closer to me and lowering his voice in case anyone else came in. “I just ove
rheard Logan talking about the girl who hit you. Christina, right? And I heard your name.” He paused. “More than once. Just sounded like he was up to something, is all,” he warned, and my skin prickled.

  Logan LeDeoux. Grade A douche bag and bad-attitude extraordinaire.

  We were both seniors this year, beginning together on the team as freshmen. But when I had gotten to start in the outfield over him, our friendship had quickly disintegrated. He hated me and made sure I knew it every chance he got, reminding me that he should be the one playing center field and not me. He celebrated my failures with a golf clap and a wicked grin and pouted over my successes. It was one of the worst feelings to know that a teammate, someone who was supposed to have your back, was secretly—or not so secretly—hoping for your demise.

  “Who was he talking to?” Chance asked, and I knew that he hated Logan just as much as I did.

  Chance had zero tolerance for guys who tore teams apart. We both considered him a cancer, but Coach Jackson obviously didn’t see it the same way; otherwise, he would cut him from the team.

  Mac grabbed his glove and motioned for us to head out toward the field. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it was anyone on our team. Maybe some frat guy? I really don’t know.”

  The air around me buzzed, my anger simmering just below the surface. I hated that Logan had been talking about Christina, even breathing her name. I couldn’t have cared less about whatever he was saying about me, but him talking about her made me uneasy.

  “What are you thinking?” Chance asked as we stepped upstairs and into the daylight.

  “I don’t want him anywhere near her,” I growled. “But there’s no time for that now. We need to focus.”

  Chance and Mac both nodded as we picked up our bats and made our way toward the outdoor batting cages. Chance’s dad and our pitching coach was already there, setting up the machines.

  “Rough night last night?” he asked, and the three of us shot each other looks like we were somehow about to be in trouble.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Chance said before we could blame him.

  “Oh, please. Like we didn’t do the exact same shit when I was here. Sunday nights after a home series? Yeah, we partied. Don’t act like that’s changed.” Coach Carter gave me a pat on the back. “Just don’t”—he stopped short and looked directly at Mac—“get anyone pregnant.”

  Mac practically choked.

  “Jesus, Dad,” Chance said.

  Coach Carter threw his hands in the air. “Just a little friendly advice, is all. You still on a girl strike?” he asked, directing his question at me.

  I wondered how he knew so many personal details about us. I realized that he must listen in whenever we traveled on the bus and whenever he sat in the dugout. Or who knew what the pitching staff confessed to him back in the bullpen during practices and games? Jack obviously knew way more than any of us realized.

  “I am. At least, I’m trying,” I said, deciding to be honest.

  His brows shot up, and a sly grin appeared. “Ah. You met a girl then,” he said.

  “I’ve always known her,” I started to explain before feeling frustrated. “It doesn’t matter, sir—Coach. I can’t focus on that right now. I need to fix my swing.” My tone came out almost pleading.

  Every at bat felt like it might be my last. If I couldn’t pull myself out of the hitting slump I had been in, there was a good chance that Coach Jackson would start putting Logan in instead of me. I knew Logan was waiting for it, chomping at the bit to take my position.

  And I couldn’t let that happen regardless of how I personally felt about Logan. It wasn’t only that I hated him, but I was also terrified that if he, or anyone, got to start over me, what would happen if they went on a hitting streak? There was no way that Coach Jackson would pull a player whose bat was on fire and replace him with someone whose stick was lukewarm. I could very well spend the rest of the season warming the bench, never to see the outfield grass again.

  That meant I wouldn’t get drafted.

  And there weren’t any more chances after this one. It was my last.

  So, like I’d said, I couldn’t let anyone get a chance at playing over me. I had to fix my broken swing. You see, it wasn’t enough that I was the best center fielder in the league. I had to be able to hit at the plate. The only people with an allowance to fuck up their at bats were pitchers and the occasional infielder who was too valuable to replace. But even that was rare. When you were up to bat, you had to perform. It was part of your job. And I was currently failing at mine.

  Coach Carter turned serious. “Then, get in the cages,” he directed before grabbing a bucket of balls and arranging a small L-shaped screen for him to sit behind as he threw me some live pitches.

  Even though Jack was technically the pitching coach, he was so knowledgeable about baseball in general that if he offered extra help, you would be a fool to not take him up on it. He had hit the shit out of the ball when he was here at Fullton State. As far as we’d all heard, Jack struggled with nothing on the field and excelled at everything. We all wanted to be just like him in that regard.

  I took a bunch of hacks with him in the cages, and Coach Carter shook his head as he stood up.

  “Stop,” he said, walking over to me, and I suddenly got anxious.

  “How bad is it?” I asked, hoping he could tell me exactly where I was going wrong in my mechanics so that we could fix it. A swing was made up of a million different facets, and any one of them could throw the whole thing off.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your swing, Cole,” he said, throwing the ball into his glove with a pop over and over again.

  Say what? “Coach?”

  “There’s nothing wrong. Your swing looks good. You’re balanced. You’re centered. All your mechanics are tight.”

  Dammit. “So, why can’t I hit the ball then?” I asked as my hand holding the bat dropped to my side. I tapped the end of it into the dirt, gripping it tight, knowing what he was going to say next.

  If there was nothing wrong with my mechanics and everything technically looked good, then there was only one other explanation. My approach at the plate. Also known as a hitter’s mentality when walking up to bat.

  Mechanics could be adjusted and fixed with a few swings on the tee and live pitching, but your mental state? That was another issue altogether. There was no cure for being in your own dome. And the more you thought about it, the worse you made it.

  I waited for him to say what I already knew but didn’t want to be true.

  “It’s your approach.”

  Annnnnd ... there it is.

  I exhaled a loud, frustrated breath, my head shaking, as Coach Carter added, “You’re in your own head. You’re overthinking.”

  Tossing the bat onto the ground, I walked over to the three-foot concrete wall and hopped up on it, the heels of my cleats kicking against it like I was a five-year-old kid. Coach Carter hopped up next to me.

  “Is there anything going on? I mean, I know it’s your senior year, so that alone is enough to make a batter choke at the plate sometimes.”

  He said the words, and I winced. Visibly fucking winced. I wasn’t choking at the plate. I just couldn’t hit anything other than easily fielded ground balls to second base. Shit. Maybe I am choking at the plate.

  “Cole?” he said, pulling my attention to him.

  “Sorry, Coach. I appreciate you working with me and helping. It’s just the worst-case scenario, you know?”

  He nodded because he did know. Jack fucking Carter knew how important a baseball player’s mentality was and how it affected everything. There was no other sport that was as superstitious as baseball.

  “I know this sucks. And I should probably yell at you and tell you to stop being a fucking pussy and fix your shit, but I know that’s not really helpful.”

  “Do you think it’s because I’m worried about getting drafted?” I asked and watched him take off his hat and fuck with his hair.

&n
bsp; “Do you think it’s because you’re worried about getting drafted?” He tossed my words back at me.

  I shrugged with both shoulders, holding them up for a breath or two before dropping them. “I’m not, not worried about it.”

  “I know it’s hard. And it sucks being one of the few seniors still here on the team after a draft year. I wish I could fix this for you, but I can’t. You have to get out of your own head and stop trying so hard. You know it doesn’t work like that. Keep swinging for the fences, and you’re going to keep striking out or hitting fly balls. Whatever it is that’s going on in there”—he tapped a finger against the side of my head—“figure it out and shut it up.”

  Jack pushed off the wall and hopped down right as Coach Jackson yelled, “Hey, Anders. Plan on joining us on the field today, or do you want to run till you puke?”

  Jumping down, I extended my hand toward Coach Carter and gave it a firm shake. “Thanks again, Coach.”

  “Anytime. You got this,” he said, and I wanted so badly to believe him, but I’d been struggling since fall ball. “Coach Jackson might still call you a pussy though,” he added with a laugh, and I took off running toward the field and the rest of my teammates.

  “Get out there.” Coach Jackson pointed toward center field where Logan stood with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  We rotated players during practice, each person taking grounders and fly balls respectively at their shared position, but I went first since I was the starting center fielder.

  “How nice of you to join us,” he said when I got onto the grass. Even something as simple as Logan going first in practice felt like I was losing my grip on the position, but I pretended to not give a shit until he added, “You can stand behind me. You should probably get used to it.”

  My anger simmered, threatening to explode. Logan was a cocky asshole who barely deserved to cast a shadow on the grass we stepped on.