I’m dashing in snowshoes like the game depends on me throwing this guy out.
And it might.
We’re up by one. We can’t let them on base.
Also, I have to blow this.
Shit.
“Look! I’m doing it!” Lola shrieks. “I’m running in snowshoes!”
“Let me get this!” I shriek back. “You can’t throw!”
I’m there.
I’m there.
And so is Lola, which isso freaking perfect.
My heart is pounding so hard I might be having a heart attack.
I bend and reach for the ball, and thenLola’sthere, and I’m still running forward, except now I’m not.
Now, I’m tumbling head over ass in the sawdust all over the field.
Can they tell?
Can they tell I fell on purpose?
“My ankle,”I cry out, and then I choke on the sawdust cloud swirling around me.
Something lands on top of me, and I get an elbow to the kidney—undoubtedly deserve that—and another lungful of sawdust.
“I got it,” Lola cries.
The weight lifts, and I manage to twist my face in time to see Lola lob the ball nowhere near first base as I cough and cry out in fake pain again.
Mostly, I’m just coughing.
And wincing.
I have no idea if this is believable or not, but I need to be injured enough to lie low for the next three days.
This is the plan.
And the next part of the plan hinges on the performance of my life.
Dylan’s dashing over to me, concern etched in his handsome face, those warm brown eyes wide and worried.
Guilt stabs me in the spleen. And a lung. And definitely in my heart.
I shouldn’t do this.
Not to him.
But just like he told me he couldn’t burden Hannah with the secret of how he felt about her, I can’t burden him with this secret either.
The fewer people who know, the better.
