The Ninth Inning Read online

  I heard Lauren on the phone, her high-pitched responses reverberating through the thin walls of our apartment. I knew she was talking to Jason, the drummer, and I didn’t want to interrupt, so I couldn’t ask her for advice. Although I was pretty sure what she’d tell me to text Cole back. And it wouldn’t be pretty. Not that Cole deserved pretty.

  He’d given Logan his blessing. His blessing! And now, he wanted to take it back? He wanted to tell me not to go out with him after he told Logan he didn’t care?

  I wanted to respond to him in a hundred different ways. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, to ask him why he cared, tell him it was none of his business what I did, or say if it bothered him so much, then why weren’t we together? I wanted to remind him he couldn’t have his cake and eat it, too, although that was exactly what I’d been giving him the last three years. But mostly, I wanted him to leave me alone. Since we were not going to be together, I needed him to go away.

  More thoughts raced. Like how had he even found out so fast? Mac, the other baseball player’s face, came to my mind. I remembered seeing him oscillate between watching me and Logan and typing on his phone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Mac had texted Cole. But it did take one to figure out why Cole cared.

  He had no right to ask me not to go. He had no say in my personal life after he decided that he didn’t want to be a part of it. I promised myself that when the time came and Logan decided to ask me out on a real date, I would definitely say yes. I deserved to move on.

  Lauren’s bedroom door opened, and she walked out with an empty glass, surprised to see me still working at the kitchen table. “Oh. I’m glad you’re still up. I got some interesting news,” she said through a yawn.

  “I got an annoying text”—I held up my phone—“but you first.”

  “Apparently, Cole showed up at the bar. And he was looking for you,” she said as she filled her glass up with water.

  “He was there? How do you know?”

  “Jason told me. They’re friends, I guess. Cole was asking him about you. Jason said he looked scary.”

  “Looked scary?” I said with a laugh because it sounded ridiculous. Then again, there were apparently sides to Cole that I hadn’t seen and didn’t know existed, so it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

  “He was asking about you. He was asking about Logan. He was pissed. He and Logan had words. That’s all I know,” she said, sounding completely annoyed, before taking a drink. “Now, show me that text.”

  I held up my phone, and she grabbed it before groaning. “This guy has some nerve.”

  “Right? That’s exactly what I thought.”

  “He’s such an asshole. The biggest game player and mindfuck I’ve ever met. And that’s saying a lot because, hello, we’re in college, and I’m majoring in psychology.” She sounded more wounded than I felt. “Are you going to respond?”

  “No,” I said with finality.

  “Good. Silence hurts more than any words ever could.” She gave me a quick hug. “You okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re sure?” She jutted out her hip and waited.

  “Promise.”

  “Okay then. Night.”

  “Night,” I said as she started walking toward her bedroom. “Wait.” She stopped and turned to face me. “How’s Jason?” I asked.

  A huge smile covered her face, and she tried to hide behind her hand. “He’s so nice. And normal. I thought that since he was in a band, he might be more of a jerk than he originally let on, but he’s not at all.”

  “I really liked him too. All the guys were super chill,” I said, giving her my approval that she hadn’t asked for and didn’t need.

  “Agreed. Get back to work. And don’t forget”—she leveled me with an overly dramatic expression—“silence.”

  I laughed. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not responding. I have nothing to say,” I reassured her, but I meant it. There wasn’t anything left to say to Cole that hadn’t been said a hundred times in a hundred different ways.

  And I didn’t even feel bad about it. I felt sort of good, empowered even. For once, I was in control. Something I had rarely, if ever, felt when it came to me and Cole.

  Get My Head in the Game

  Cole

  Christina never responded to my text. The one where I’d asked her not to go out with Logan. I basically begged her, my heart aching as I willed myself not to puke up my guts in the parking lot where I’d apparently just missed her. I was more vulnerably honest in that single text message than I’d ever allowed myself to be. I wondered if she realized that. Maybe if she knew just how twisted up I was inside, she wouldn’t have ignored it.

  Maybe she wouldn’t have ignored me.

  It had been three days. I knew she’d read the message right after I sent it, but she never said a thing. I’d waited over an hour before I finally let myself fall asleep that night, assuming that when I woke up the next morning, there would be a text waiting.

  But there wasn’t.

  And it fucking killed me. I could text her again. Hell, I’d thought about it a hundred times, but my pride would shut it down every time I got close. If she wanted to talk to me, she would have responded. Or called. Or done any-damn-thing.

  But she didn’t, and so I couldn’t either.

  It was like she’d opened the door just a little by showing up at the baseball party, and now, I couldn’t stop thinking about her or get her out of my head. Wherever I had her compartmentalized had been blown to hell and back. I was going crazy, trying to stay away from her and not talk to her. Or at least, I felt like I was. And once you tossed my nemesis into the mix, I could barely focus on anything else when all I should be focused on was my game.

  After taking infield, I hustled into the locker room to take a piss and lace up my cleats one more time before the game started. Baseball players were superstitious, and apparently, I had some shit with my shoes. There was absolutely no rhyme or reason for it, but every game, you could find me pulling out my laces and tying them back in, nice and tight. Sometimes, I only did it once. Sometimes, I would do it as many as three times. But I always did it.

  As I laced them up, I did my best to keep an eye out for Logan LeDouche. If he knew what was good for him, he would stay outside in the dugout while I was going through my pregame ritual in the locker room. I was afraid that I might snap his scrawny little head off his neck if he showed it around me before game time. And even though it annoyed me to no end, it was probably a damn good thing that Mac knew what was going on. I wasn’t really in the state of mind where I should be left unsupervised even though I refused to admit that fact to anyone other than myself.

  I pushed to a stand, my laces done. “You don’t have to follow me around,” I growled, and Mac shot me a bored look.

  “I’m not,” was all he said in response.

  He hadn’t even tried to come up with a bullshit lie or excuse. Chance suddenly appeared, and they both fell in step behind me like my own personal shadows.

  “Are you two on double duty?” I spat at them both even though they didn’t deserve my anger.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” Chance chided me, and I bristled, wanting to put the sophomore in his place. “Mac filled me in. We can see what Logan’s trying to do to you. And it’s clearly working.”

  “It’s not working. Both of you, shut up.” I swatted my gloved hand through the air in their direction, hoping I’d hit one or both of them as we walked through the underground tunnel toward the dugout, but I missed.

  Chance reached for my shoulder, his grip tight, as he forced me to stop. Leaning close, he spoke quiet enough that no one could overhear but loud enough that I could, “It’s working. It’s written all over your face. He’s in your head. It’s what he wants, Cole. He wants you rattled.”

  I shook Chance’s arm off and snarled at them both. “He won’t beat me. Not on or off the field. I’m not a rookie. I know what’s at stake. Stop trying to babysit me.” r />
  The metal spikes of my cleats echoed in the tunnel as I left them behind and waited to hear the two of them start walking again. I appreciated them looking out for me, but I also meant it; Logan wouldn’t win, and I didn’t need a fucking babysitter.

  The sound of the crowd grew louder as I neared the entrance to the dugout, the music blaring, and I wondered for a split second if Christina was here. She hadn’t attended any games yet this season. And trust me, I knew. Closing my eyes for a breath, I chastised myself and pushed thoughts of her away. My teammates were walking around the dugout, grabbing cups of water and hitting their fists into their gloves, making loud popping sounds. I walked up to the edge and leaned against the railing, watching the other team wrap up their infield practice.

  Spitting onto the dirt, I glanced to my right and caught Logan eying me. He stared at me with a wicked grin on his face like he was moments away from taking away everything I had ever loved. I flipped him off and kept eye contact. His expression morphed into something I couldn’t quite read, and I pretended that I couldn’t care less about it. This team was mine. This game was mine. Center field was mine. Christina was mine.

  Dammit.

  “Let’s go,” Coach yelled, and we ran out onto the field before huddling up in a tight circle.

  The announcer started speaking animatedly into the microphone, but we listened to coach giving us a quick pregame speech.

  As a team, we shouted, “Win!” before sprinting to our positions to await the national anthem.

  I stood in center field, next to the other two outfielders, my hat in my hand and my head bowed as the anthem played. And no matter how hard I tried to sing along in my head or focus on the upcoming game, Christina’s face kept reappearing in my mind. Chance had been right; I was rattled, and I needed to fix it before I fucked it all up.

  The first half of the inning went by quick. Our pitcher was on fire, and he struck out all three batters. Three up, three down. Glancing once more at the lineup, I saw my name in the fifth position. I was half-surprised that Coach hadn’t dropped me down to eighth or ninth in the batting order. I grabbed a helmet and my bat and sat at the end of the bench, mentally giving myself a pep talk.

  After a minute, I stood up and watched the pitcher. I kept track of his pitches and the way he moved depending on the pitch he was about to throw as he warmed up. Reading body language was one of a hitter’s best weapons. That, and learning how a pitcher reacted to a batter and his ability. Nine times out of ten, you knew exactly which pitch was coming for you, but that didn’t mean you would be able to hit it.

  We took an early lead, thanks to a leadoff home run by Chance Carter. That kid was a fucking amazing ballplayer. I high-fived him when he came into the dugout with the rest of the team before focusing my attention back on the opposing team’s pitcher, wondering if he was the type to lose control or pull it together after giving up a home run so early on. Pitchers were notoriously the most mental cases on any baseball team.

  Chance had apparently pissed him off. And the kid threw better when he was angry, not worse.

  Good to know, I thought to myself.

  We had one out and one guy on base as I made my way to the on-deck circle. The crowd was loud, cheering and screaming, and I found myself wanting to do something I never did.

  I wanted to look in the stands.

  It was an unspoken rule among baseball players. You kept your head in the game, and you never looked in the crowd. I’d never even been tempted to do it before this moment. And I had no idea why the pull was so strong, but I gave in to it.

  I looked.

  Christina was here. My eyes went directly to her, and don’t ask me how the hell I knew where she was sitting because I hadn’t even been sure she’d be here at all. Our stadium was huge, sold out for every game, but there she was, behind home plate about twenty rows up with a baseball hat covering her dark hair.

  Why did I know exactly where to find her? Why is she here? Did Logan give her a ticket? My eyes locked on to hers. Even through the shading of my helmet and her hat, I could still see her eyes. She was looking right at me. And she refused to look away.

  Jesus, Cole, get your head out of the stands.

  “Strike three!” the umpire yelled, and I refocused.

  Looking at Coach at third base, I watched him go through the signs, waiting for what he would ask me to do. Hit away. Stepping into the batter’s box, I sucked in a quick breath and readied myself to watch the pitcher’s hand and grip on the ball. My stance felt good, but my head wasn’t in it. I was out of sorts, and I felt it in every part of me. He threw the first pitch, and I watched it pass me by. A perfect fucking fast ball that I should have hit out of this park, and I hadn’t even swung.

  Tossing a hand in the air toward the umpire, I waited for him to shout, “Time!” before I stepped out of the box.

  Coach Jackson stared me down from the third base line, a frown marring his features. I knew he was wondering what the fuck my problem was or what the hell I was doing. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second to clear my damn head. Her blue eyes appeared. Grimacing, I slapped the side of my helmet. Talk about being a mental case.

  What if, all this time, I’d thought the draft and it being my last year were blocking me at the plate, but it was losing her that had messed me up? What if, in making sure I cut her out of my life so I could focus on baseball, I’d ruined my focus instead?

  “Batter?” The umpire walked up next to me. “You okay?”

  “Fine. I’m fine,” I said with attitude before making my way back toward home plate. Each step gave me more clarity until I saw it all so clearly. The realization was like a thousand arrows raining down from the sky, aiming to strike me all at once. Everything suddenly made sense, and the tension that had been present moments ago eased from my body. I felt strong, assured, confident.

  I moved my legs into position in the batter’s box and waited as elation filled my veins. The pitcher knew I had been in a hitting slump, and I’d just watched a perfect fast ball go by without so much as flinching. He was going to give it to me again. And I counted on it.

  He did. Another fast ball right down the middle, and I swung perfectly, the bat connecting with the ball with a TING so loud and so smooth that I knew instantly that it was a no-doubter. Dropping the bat to the ground, I started running to first as I watched to make sure the ball cleared the fences in left field. Once it did, I slowed my pace and jogged around the bases toward my waiting teammates, the cheering stands filling my ears.

  When my foot slapped down on home plate, I took my helmet off and pointed it in Christina’s direction, holding it in the air. I saw her jaw drop slightly, and I grinned before high-fiving and tapping helmets with my teammates, a newfound motivation growing inside me.

  I’d told her that I needed her gone in order to focus, but I couldn’t focus for shit after she left.

  I’d thought I’d be fine without her, but I hadn’t been fine since the day I forced her to go.

  I’d believed that I was doing the right thing, but being without her was wrong.

  I’d been such an idiot. How had I never put it together before now?

  Christina had always been there, by my side, since day one, and I had never struggled at the plate. She wasn’t bad for me or distracting me from my goals. She was the exact opposite. And as soon as the game was over, I was going to find her and tell her.

  Am I in the Twilight Zone?

  Christina

  “Uh,” Lauren stuttered, her shock as apparent as mine, “did he just point his hat thing at you?”

  “It’s a helmet. How many times do I have to tell you, it’s a helmet?” I asked, knowing that no matter how often I tried to explain baseball to Lauren, she would never truly get it. I honestly didn’t care. I was just happy she’d agreed to come with me.

  I’d had no intentions of coming to this game until Logan texted that he had left me two tickets. It felt rude to not show, but if Lauren hadn’t said she’d com
e with me, I would have stayed home, manners be damned.

  “Okay, fine. His helmet,” she enunciated dramatically. “He pointed it at you. I mean”—she looked around us—“who else would he have pointed it at?”

  I shrugged my shoulders because the last thing I wanted to do was assume that Cole had meant that little gesture for me. It could have been for anyone. Maybe his dad was here? Or some other family member? Or some girl he’d screwed last night? I had no idea. But I did know that there was no mistaking the look he had given me when he was on deck earlier.

  Maybe the helmet gesture was meant for me. But if it was, then why? We weren’t even on speaking terms.

  “He was definitely pointing it at you,” a girl chimed in from behind us, her tone not at all happy or pleasant.

  I angled my head to look at her.

  “Although none of us can figure out why.” She flipped her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

  “Oh, Jesus, really? Let us know when you wrap your tiny brain around the answer, okay?” Lauren said, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Hair-Flipper leaned between us and whispered, “You don’t have to be such a bitch.”

  “You’re one to talk,” I said, defending whichever one of us she was trying to offend.

  “Cole can’t commit to you, but he can’t let you go either. Ever wonder why that is, Christina?” she said my name like it disgusted her.

  “No,” I lied with conviction, “but you sure seem to.” I stopped paying attention to the game as I concentrated on the girls behind me. I had no idea who they were, but they all knew me. I wished that I could say I was surprised, but I wasn’t.

  “We do have a theory.” Hair-Flipper leaned back in her stadium seat, and I turned my body to face her and her group of clones.

  They literally all looked exactly the same with blonde hair extensions, fake eyelashes, and filled lips. I felt like I was staring at a group of social media influencers who should be posing up against the pink wall in LA for likes and mentions, not sitting in the stands of a baseball game. And even though I was passionate about social media, this was one facet of it that I didn’t enjoy or want to be a part of. I would never understand the fascination with looking as plastic as possible at such a young age. And honestly, what were all those people influencing anyway? Nothing. I hated the fakeness of it all and the way it perpetuated girls to feel like they weren’t enough if they didn’t look exactly like these three girls did.