Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“I got drunk with Queenie and Marge once.” Pam O’Neal chuckles. “That hangover lasted a week. Don’t envy you, girl.”
You know who’s not feeling hungover? Charlotte. She’s in her full glory this morning. She’s accessorized her red and white uniform with all the pink she could manage: pink Nikes, pink jewel-studded headband, tiny pink diamond studs in her ears. She’s perky and upbeat, leading everyone in a chant as Sawyer goes out to bat.
“I just love watching him hit!” she squeals to Lindsey with an obvious sparkle of love in her eyes. Looking at her makes me feel like I’m staring at a Disney princess. Which makes me…what? The ogre? The troll? The Pixar lamp?
As if on cue, my stomach roils, solidifying my non-princess casting in this fairy tale. Princesses aren’t hungover at softball. I really should have tried to eat something before I got here.
Sawyer hits a triple and then David sends him home when he whacks one over the shortstop’s head. As Sawyer runs back into the dugout, everyone holds out a hand for a high five, congratulating him on the first run of the game. He accidentally misses my hand, but to be fair, there’s a lot going on in here.
“Great job, Sawyer!”
“Let’s do this, Heatwave!”
I lean forward just enough to watch Sawyer take a seat beside Charlotte.
She bumps her shoulder against his with a girlish laugh. “Nice job, captain.”
“You going to hit a good one today?” he asks her with a shadow of a smile.
“How could I not with how much you helped me practice before the game? I think I’ve really got it now.”
A twist of jealousy makes my stomach hurt more than it already does. While I appreciate that Sawyer’s moved me up in the batting order, it has the unintended consequence of putting Charlotte right beside him; whenever we’re in the dugout, she’ll be wedged between us, occupying his time.
It’s fine though; not like I’d be the best conversationalist today. I’m lucky I can even manage to get up and bat when it’s my turn. Of course I strike out. There was no chance in hell I was going to connect bat to ball in my current state. Frankly just standing is an accomplishment.
Everyone consoles me as I make my way back to my seat.
“You’ll get ’em next time, Madison!”
“You nearly had that last one, Madi!”
I peer over at Sawyer, waiting to see what helpful thing he’ll say, but he’s focused down on his clipboard.
When it’s her turn at bat, Charlotte gets a hit and makes it to first base in the nick of time, and though the inning ends before she can make it all the way home, Sawyer congratulates her like she’s just singlehandedly won the game for us.
“I did everything just like you said!” she says excitedly. “I kept my eye on the ball and I didn’t swing too early!”
“It was a great hit,” he tells her with a playful hair tussle.
I stare with a twisted expression on my face. Am I still drunk? Is that why none of this is making sense?
It only gets worse when Sawyer changes the field positions on us. I figured I’d be in the outfield again, left to sit in the grass and cry by myself.
“—Lindsey, third base. Charlotte, left field. Jimmy, center field. Madison, catcher.”
“That’s my position!” Jimmy O’Neal argues.
“Not today. I need you as center. These guys look like they can hit.”
Jimmy accepts this argument and my quiet protest goes totally ignored, so I’m left to put on all the catcher’s equipment with the help of Lindsey. It’s bulky and oversized, perfect for Jimmy, who’s at least a foot taller than me. There’s a chest plate and helmet, leg guards that go from my groin all the way down to my toes. I was already sweating—and reeking of rum—but all this heavy gear has the horrible effect of cranking up the earth’s thermostat. Sweat drips down my forehead, and I blink it out of my eyes.
The worst part is that I can’t easily walk or move once I have the gear on. I have to waddle out from the dugout comedically slowly. If Sawyer thought he was doing me a favor by putting me here rather than in the outfield for this inning, he was wrong. I know I had to do a lot of running last game, but at least I could feel fresh air on my face.
When I reach home plate—two hours later—I turn and see the batter from the other team is already there, smiling at me.
“You okay in there?” The guy chuckles.
“Not really.”
I look down trying to determine where to stand, but I can’t see much through the helmet because it keeps slipping around on my head. Obviously, I’ve watched baseball before, so I know the catcher kind of hovers behind home plate, but the logistics are fuzzy at the moment.