Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
He spits, lifting his glove up to cover his mouth, so no dickheads can read his lips while he bitches me out. “Bro, what the fuck are you doin’?” he hisses. “That’s the third motherfucker you’ve hit.”
“He’s talking shit.”
“Newsflash asshole, they all do. Don’t forget who’s got their dick swinging in his face every at bat.” If the cameras weren’t on him, he’d be glaring at me right now. “I don’t know what’s going on, but suck it up, bitch. You want to be pissed at something, be pissed at the fucker who hit a double off you and leave his ass stuck on that base.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s right, fuck me.” He punches his glove with his closed fist. “Right here, baby. Hard and fast, just the way I like it.”
I can’t help but laugh and Echo’s grin slips.
He hits my left arm with his glove, pointing my way as he gets in position behind the plate. Echo tugs his catcher’s mask back in place, and the umpire gives us the go.
So, I force my anger back into its true form, a burning sense of disappointment, and do what my boy asks, what my team needs.
I do my fucking job and strike out the next two batters, allowing the third to hit out of spite, knowing Coop will make the out in center. And he does.
In my peripheral, Coach crosses his arms, spitting to the side as he eyes me, but mine move to the seat two spaces left of home plate, still empty two innings in.
It fucking stings.
Thankfully, I’m the next at bat, so when Coach tries to approach me, I have an excuse to push past him, grab my shit and get right back onto the field.
‘Cause I’m a glutton for punishment, my eyes cut right back to the seat, the one my girls are supposed to be sitting in, and my heart drops to my feet, nearly knocking me over on its way back up.
The seats are no longer empty, but my girls, they aren’t sitting there … my mom is.
My mom is at my game.
I walk to the fence, slapping my palm against the warm metal, and I couldn’t stop the smile on my face if I tried.
My mom smiles sheepishly, slipping Bailey’s bow into her hair.
Tutor Girl.
Fuck me, that girl. She wanted me to know she sent her.
With the confidence of a shark in a fishpond, I step up to the plate, spinning to point at my mom before I get into my stance.
I wiggle my fingers, wrapping them tightly around the grip and lift my hands high above my right ear.
I know what he’s about to serve me, and I’ll let him have his glory ... ‘cause after that I’m going to make a fool out of him.
I take the strike, and then I nail his slider, taking first base.
When I look up in the stands, my mom’s on her feet, her hands folded in front of her and I see it. For the first time in a long time I feel it, my mother’s pride.
My lungs inflate and I clench my teeth together, ‘cause goddamn, it’s a lot.
She’s here, at my game in our hometown. It’s more than I’d ever expected and until this fucking moment, I had no idea how much I wanted this.
I have one person to thank for it, and I’ve got a feeling she’s watching me right now from her hotel room, so I look into the camera along the first base line, knowing they’ll zoom in as I do and say something only she’ll understand.
“No lie.”
From there, I rock the fuck out of the rest of the game, showing my mom exactly what I’m capable of.
And when I get back to the girl waiting on me, I might just beg her to let me do the same.
q
After the game, I try to talk to my mom, but the bus is set to head back to Avix in an hour and to keep up my charade of being on it, I have to stick with the team.
My mom asks me to call her when I get in so we can chat, and after a quick promise to her, I run into the locker room.
I take a hurried shower and bag my shit up to make the equipment manager’s life easier, and make my way toward the exit, but as I step from the locker room and into the hall, Coach is there.
He’s leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. Turning his head my way, he grabs the toothpick between his lips. “First out, as always.”
“Yes, Coach.” I nod, mentally noting it’s a quarter to three, and the hotel’s latest checkout time is four o’clock.
“What happened out there today, son? You wasted pitches, added to your count, that’s two fewer batters I can give you at Friday’s game.”