“There’s a chance she won’t be in the VIP box. I told her if she was ready to be with me—to give us a real shot—to come to the game. I sent her flowers and a jersey earlier, but it’s been radio silent all day. She might not show.”
“Relax. She’ll show,” Jensen reassures me, and pushes me forward.
I stumble, but only a couple of steps before I straighten to my full height. She has to show. She loves me just as much as I love her. “Yeah. She will,” I say more to myself than either of them, and a rush of confidence settles back through me. I nod, solidifying my words into a decision and shake off the feelings of inadequacy.
As we walk out of the locker room onto the field, my pulse spikes, eyes instinctively lifting to the VIP box. The knot in my chest loosens, relief flooding me when I spot her pink hair in the breeze, and for the first time all day, I finally feel like I can breathe.
The crowd erupts when Jensen, Austin, and I come into view, but I can’t take my eyes off Indy. She stands, hand coming to rest on the rail while she looks around the stadium for the source of the excitement.
Then it’s like she can feel me watching her, and she looks over, her eyes immediately meeting mine. All the noise of the stadium falls away when she looks at me, and I struggle not to stop completely in my tracks to take in this moment.
It’s like everything I’ve worked so hard for is finally happening.
Indy smiles her real, genuine smile she gives only to me, and it threatens to steal my breath.
“Damn, is that her?” Austin jogs back in my direction, eyes trained on Indy as well.
“That’s her.” My chest blooms with pride.
That’s her. My girl.
Mine.
“She’s hot.” He nudges me in the side with his elbow, then runs off to join the rest of the team.
Indy sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. I can’t stop staring—completely caught in her spell. The moment stretches, her eyesflicking back up to mine, making my heart stumble from the heated look she’s giving me.
That’s when I realize what she’s wearing and my mouth goes dry.
My jersey.The one I sent her.
“Fox!” Coach yells from the edge of the dugout. “What the hell are you doing? Get in here!”
With just seconds before the game starts, I toss a wink in Indy’s direction and jog to the dugout, apologizing to Declan on my way in.
He says nothing, but when I head back out to the field, he nods in my direction.
Rolling my shoulders, I hover on the outskirts of third base, waiting for the batter to swing. I flex my fingers inside the glove and let my mind focus. The stadium is loud, but I’ve learned to let the noise wash over me, fading it into a dull hum.
From the pitcher's mound, Austin winds his arm back and lets the ball shoot from his grasp, a perfect pitch down the center so fast the batter barely has time to react. The metal slides through the air, a sharpwhooshingas the bat misses the ball.
Anger washes over the batter’s face, and with more determination, he clenches his teeth so hard I can see the muscle in his jaw contract.
Dropping my stance lower, I prepare for the ball to fly with the next pitch. With Austin, I’ve learned not to blink or you’ll miss the moment the ball leaves his hand. The crack of the bat is sharp when the baseball connects, and my instincts take over.
The ball smacks the leather of my glove, muscle memory kicking into high gear as I twist my foot, positioning my knee toward first while I transfer the ball to my dominant hand and send it sailing.
The move is as easy as breathing, and when it lands perfectly in our first baseman’s glove, I take a deep, steadying breath and look up at the VIP box.
Indy’s grinning down at me, and her smile spurs me on.
Three innings later I’m on deck taking practice swings, getting myself in the mindset to hit a home run. Being the star hitter on the team is a heavy pressure—an unspoken expectation put in place byeveryonethat I need to make the team proud. But it’s hard to focus when my gaze keeps wandering back to where Indy sits, my mind telling me she’s not really there.
My heart skips beats when I feel her eyes on me. I’ve never wished for a game to end early before, but the only thing I can think about is scaling the wall to get up to the VIP box, taking her in my arms, and kissing her.
Stepping up to home plate, I breathe in through my nose.
The pitcher winds his arm back and releases a fastball. With a steady twist, I send it out toward left-center, abandoning the bat as I run.
