Then at me.
I was going to look back at the sign. This had to be a joke. I had to have misread it.
But apparently, I was the only one in the game who had been totally distracted.
The pitcher launched the ball at me.
I was supposed to hit it with my bat, but I learned my lesson really fast. When you’re up to bat, even if the girl of your dreams suddenly declares her feelings for you on the scoreboard of a freaking Jumbotron? Don’t pay attention to it. Your face will thank you.
Because my face wasn’t feeling much gratitude when the baseball collided with my nose and left cheek.
I went down hard.
The crowd stood up fast.
I tasted blood.
I’d always thought I’d take a ball to the face for someone I cared about. I’d never intended to make that literal.
Brielle
I couldn’t help it. I screamed. I saw the pitcher release the ball, my declaration of love designed by Lia and Reece framing him in the background, and then I watched the white ball of ferocity collide with Brooks’s face.
He’d been frozen in place—very obviously because of the message of endearment emblazoned for the world to see—and then he was on the ground.
So I screamed.
Because baseballs to the face were a very bad thing.
I sprinted toward the dugout.
I wasn’t the only one.
I saw Brooks’s mom fly out of the bleachers as if she’d suddenly grown wings. His dad wasn’t far behind, and to my amazement, I saw his book flip into a puddle on the ground.
Coach raced from the dugout, followed closely by Reece. Suddenly, there was a circle—or a mob; I don’t know which, hiding Brooks from my line of sight.
I made it to the field, with Lia’s voice in my back pocket.
“What’s happening! What’s going on! I hate being stuck in Canada!”
I was about ready to dash onto the field when Dad caught me.
“Stay here, Bri.”
I fought against him. “I need to see if Brooks is okay!”
“Brielle.” Dad’s voice was sharp. I stilled and met my dad’s eyes. “Let them handle it.”
It seemed like a year or two later—probably only a minute or two—when the crowd started clapping. Brooks stumbled to his feet, pressing a bloodied towel against his nose.
Reece and Coach were hovering close. Reece looked like he was going to be sick—heshouldbe!—but he also looked relieved.
Evelyn, Brooks’s mom, was leaning into Brook’s dad in an uncustomary display of reliance. The umpire was saying something to the coach from the opposing team. A few of the players stood by waiting to see what would happen.
Brooks was looking to his left and to his right. He seemed dazed. His dad reached for him. He shrugged his dad off, still pressing the towel against his nose.
He turned, and his eyes locked with mine.
