Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“I know exactly what you said, Maclain,” I countered, and his eyes widened. Apparently, I’d surprised him.
Good. I liked keeping him on his toes.
“So, you trying to kill me with your honey candy?”
“Holy shit, wait. Are you also allergic to honey if you’re allergic to bees?”
He looked highly amused that he’d alarmed me, the dickhead.
“Nah, but some people are if it’s raw and there’s a high concentration of the allergen.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure that candy’s mostly corn syrup.”
“Right up my junk-food alley.” Despite his initial protest, he opened the wrapper and popped the morsel in his mouth. “If I die eating this, it’s all your fault.”
“At least we wouldn’t miss you bitching about stuff.”
He narrowed his eyes as his jaw worked to chew the taffy-like candy, so I thought I’d unintentionally hit a nerve. Lucky me.
“Do you carry an EpiPen?” I asked, and I heard his intake of air.
“How would you know—” His eyebrows scrunched together. “Suppose it’s common knowledge.”
Actually, I looked it up after our hallway conversation.
“Eh, I’m just smart,” I replied, and he rolled his eyes. “So…do you?”
“Yeah, I have to, even if it’s been years.” He motioned toward his feet. “It’s in my bag, which is always with me. No way I want to go through that shit again.”
“What does it feel like—the reaction to getting stung?”
He looked off in the distance as if considering it. “Like everything is swollen and you’re suffocating because your throat closes up.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
When I handed him another candy over the seat, he took it willingly.
“Do you realize how wild it is that you’ve decided to play an outdoor sport where there are bees all around you?”
He laughed humorlessly. “Don’t jinx me, Girard.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I replied, and we stared each other down for a long second.
“Makes no sense, really.” He entwined his fingers to make the luck symbol. “But I’ve been playing for years, and so far, so good.”
“Maybe they’re repelled by your personality.”
“Probably,” he muttered, and I liked that he owned his grumpy attitude. Maybe I was giving him too much credit, but he didn’t put on any airs, and that was refreshing. Mostly.
“Jasmine says good luck, by the way.”
His head whipped back. “Jasmine? How did you—”
“I had to buy the candy somewhere. Duh.”
He breathed out like he was relieved, which was surprising in itself, but what was it that I detected right before? Jealousy? Protectiveness? Interesting… Did he think I was chummy with her or hooking up?
When Vickers scooted by us down the aisle and thumped me on the shoulder as he passed, I noticed Maclain’s eyes tracking him.
“You know he looks up to you, right?”
“Doubtful,” he said, and I wondered if he thought less of himself than he pretended to. He could be arrogant, but maybe that was only a defense mechanism. Look at me being all pseudo psychologist.
“Why wouldn’t he? You’re a hell of a pitcher.”
He scoffed. “He just wants my job.”
“That such a bad thing?” I tilted my head, studying him. “Didn’t you want someone’s when you were a newb?”
“True. Coach no doubt thought I was a pain in the ass sophomore year.” He motioned in Vickers’s direction, where he’d gone to sit with a couple of the other newbs. “So maybe your new guy will actually live up to his reputation.”
“My new guy, huh?” I cracked a smile and leaned in. “Does that mean you’re relegated to being my old guy?”
He gasped softly and looked around like someone might’ve overheard us. “What the fuck, Girard?”
Jesus Christ, he was uptight. “You’re terrible about taking a joke.”
“Whatever,” he griped.
When Fischer slid in the seat beside me, Maclain clammed up and turned away. Except when I casually dropped another candy onto his seat, then he shook his head, a hint of a smile pulling at his cheeks. It made my stomach dip whenever I could drag another one out of him.
Once we arrived, Maclain went to sit with the other pitchers in the so-called bullpen, which was really only the far end of the benches. No way could most of these teams—us included—afford to do it like the big leagues.
Throughout the game, I could feel his eyes on me, and I needed to tune him out or I’d mess up big-time. Jones was way more agreeable about my calls, but somehow, I missed Maclain making me work for it and giving me a hard time.
The bus ride home was quiet because we lost by three runs, and Coach Crawford was sitting up front with Coach Adams and Kellan, their heads bent together, discussing strategy. Kellan was damned good at stats, and I could see him working for a professional team someday.
This time, I was a distance away from Maclain, and I could only see his profile as he leaned his head against the window, likely trying to nap. I had the urge to slide onto the empty seat beside him and just sit in comfortable silence or maybe ask him more questions about his life, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be welcome.