He exhales, pitching a fastball, but it’s too far out, nowhere near the box.
The umpire calls, “Ball.”
He pitches another, still using a fastball, but couples it with a slider. The ball moves in a way to trick you, pulling downward as it spins quickly my way. They’re tricky but all you have to do is…swing…just…right.
The contact is loud, the crack of the ball against my bat resonating throughout the stadium. Despite how loud the fans are, the slam still beautifully echoes in my ear. I don’t watch it fly out of the field, but I do glance up at the sky briefly before the knot forms in the middle of my throat.
Noah, Kai, and Gray wait for me at home plate. We remove our helmets and bump them against each other. My teammates are all out of the dugout, gathered around, creating a tunnel. They slap my shoulder, butt, and back as I jog down it, and they shout enthusiastically at me as I make my way into the dugout.
The knot only grows, my eyes mist, and my chest squeezes painfully. I barely manage to pull myself together and hand my helmet to one of the student athletic trainers.
I stand next to Angel on the padded railing, watching Jamie, our third baseman, walk up to the bat. He goes on about something, but it’s hard to pay attention to him.
First games are always the hardest for me and I know it’s only a matter of time before the feeling wanes. In the meantime, I scan the stadium, trying to distract my mind from my dark, destructive thoughts. I don’t search for my parents—I know they’re here, but Pen isn’t. She’s in North Carolina at an away game with the basketball team.
I know Josie’s not here either. I asked if she was going to come, but she said she was meeting up with a potential new client. I know it’s her job, but I wish she was here instead.
34
JOSEFINE
I sworeI was never going to watch a baseball game, but here I am, at Salty Rims Bar & Grill, along with many other MCU students. There are a handful of TVs playing different sports, but the only one that has my attention is baseball.
Anything revolving Bryson repulsed me and that included baseball. Or it did until a certain six-foot-five guy with a golden smile changed my mind.
All my attention gravitates to Daniel, and Bryson’s existence is forgotten. The only time I remember he’s playing or part of the team is when the camera pans to him, but even then, it hardly does because the cameraman knows he’s not what the people want.
It’s Daniel Garcia, with his quirky stance and the finesse that exudes him.
I shouldn’t call it quirky, but it’s the only way to describe the way he stands on the point of his cleat, pulling his right knee inward. He stands almost awkwardly, at an angle that doesn’t look comfortable, at least to anyone watching it. But Daniel doesn’t look uneasy; he looks placid, blithe, confident, and hot.
I never really paid attention to the sport, only tolerated it because of Bryson. After him, it was the last thing on my mind, and I made sure to stay away from it.
But now it’s different. Watching Daniel, seeing him in his uniform, how it sinfully molds to his body, especially his thick thighs, watching him dive to the base and adeptly rise, cockily flashing a crooked grin, dusting his pants off as if that’ll do anything to clean off the orange dirt staining them—it does things to me. Things that I can’t explain, but I swear I’ve never found anything hotter or more interesting until now.
I semi understand the stats and half of what the commentators are saying, but I wholly comprehend that Daniel is wickedly talented. I understand why they fawn over him, praise him, boast about him like he’s already in the majors.
I get it, I really do.
The girls crowding the bar next to me feel the same way.
I should’ve gone home after my meeting, but the game had started shortly after I got done. So I stumbled into Salty Rims because I didn’t want to miss a second of watching him play.
They’re at the bottom of the eighth inning. I should go home now—they’re at the advantage and winning 9-3—but the conversation the girls are having next to me stops me from moving from my stool.
“Daniel and I had fun last time. Of course he’s going to reply to me,” the brunette brags.
“I know because I was there,” her blonde friend adds, drunkenly giggling. “But that was months ago. We haven’t talked to him in a while.”
“I still can’t believe you two and Daniel…” Their other friend trails off. “What was he like?”
I shouldn’t be eavesdropping or discreetly side-eyeing to find Daniel’s Instagram popped up on her screen or see her go to messages. She’s so close and the screen’s brightness is high, Ican make out their conversation and see a nude picture she sent him.
His response makes me look away and green colors my vision. My stomach twists and dips painfully fast.
“I messaged him. You wanna tag along, Brenda?” the brunette asks the blonde who joined them.
“He hasn’t even replied. How do you know he’s not already going to be busy?” the blonde questions.
