Then, I get to work.
The ball pops into Wes’glove as I smirk, waiting for him to toss it back.
I lift my hand across my chest and catch the throw before shifting back onto the mound. Inhaling, I listen to the robotic voice in my ear telling me what pitch Wes wants and stand ready to throw. I keep the ball in my fingers and guarded by my glove. Wes tips his chin, and I line up my body before lifting my knee and lunging forward. The ball rolls from my hand and into the air, soaring straight for the top centre mark before dropping in a sharp downward curve.
Wes reaches down to grab it and grins through his mask, standing. “That’s the fucking one, Finn. It’s nasty.”
I glance at the coach and find him nodding in agreement. The ball stays in Wes’ glove for another few seconds before he sends it back to me. When it’s back in my possession, I stretch out my left fingers in my glove and point it at Coach.
“You think it’s better than the curveball?”
The older man with a full head of greying hair tilts his head slightly, considering my question. “It’s slower, but it has a lot more movement. I say we use it as much as we can for at least a couple of weeks and see. It should be your go-to for the Denver game. We’ll adjust from there.”
“Alright. I want to test it on Kellan,” I say, eyeing up the batter.
Coach smiles crookedly and nods. “Pike! Over here.”
Last season’sbest offensive playeraward winner points his green-and-silver bat at me and cuts a brow up his forehead. “Are you looking to be embarrassed, Avery?”
“Are you?” I counter.
“We’ll see.”
“Settle in, Kellan,” Wes warns, sending the chosen pitch through the speaker tucked into my hat.
I adjust my fingers around the baseball and rest it against my glove, holding both in front of my chest. “Any last words?”
Kellan plants his feet wide at home plate and grins, his eyes buzzing with excitement. I watch Kellan’s gloved fingers wrap around his bat, the first two tapping slightly. He lets it bob over his shoulder and narrows his eyes at me, daring me to try and get a pitch past him. It’s exactly the kind of pressure I need to succeed. Behind him, Wes drops into position and chuckles so softly I hardly hear him.
I take a deep, calming inhale, then lift my leg and pull my hand free of my glove. Loading it back, I take another secondbefore lunging forward. The ball flies from my fingers at a terrifying speed, heading for the upper right corner. Kellan goes still as I stay perched on my front leg and watch the ball soar.
The movement of his bat cuts through the air like a bullet but doesn’t make contact with the ball. Before he’s realized what’s happened, the ball’s cut through the zone and dropped into Wes’ glove.
“Strike!” our catcher shouts, dramatic as all hell.
Kellan stares at me for a beat as he regains his balance and shakes his head. “Again!”
I burst into laughter, stretching my arm behind me and rolling my shoulder. Even Coach lets out a few low chuckles, which does nothing to chill my ego.
“It’s your funeral,” I tell Kellan.
He’s too far into his head now for jokes. The fire that I get to witness from the dugout every time he steps up to bat during a do-or-die moment flares in front of me now. That only makes me more desperate to strike him out. It wouldn’t be the first time, but that doesn’t mean it still won’t feel damn good.
Wes gives his head a shake before throwing me the ball back. I catch it easily and settle in again, prepared to go as many times as it will take to strike out the best hitter in the league.
Only then do I allow myself the chance to step back.
4
My office doorflies open without a single, even half-respectful knock.
Glancing away from my computer screen, I scowl. Spencer’s face is always incredibly punchable, but today, I think it might be kickable, too. Especially when he lifts his bushy brows expectantly and waves at me, like I’ve offended him by not inviting him in already.
I pinch my lips shut and continue to stare at him, letting my inner wrath flare a bit wilder in my gaze. My face muscles don’t so much as twitch while I mentally crack his square glasses in half and chuck them out my office window.
Spencer’s handsome, sure, but his spoiled-milk personality curdled any chance of me being physically attracted to him years ago. I’d rather hump a cactus naked than entertain the idea of willingly getting closer than necessary to him. Even purposefully bumping into his shoulder each time I pass him is enough to have me fighting a retch.
Wearing his usual pressed grey slacks and a matching dress shirt cuffed at the wrists, he stares right back at me, nostrils flaring. I blink once, and he repeats the motion, egging me on.He’s never won a glaring contest with me, so when he finally breaks a minute later, clearing his throat, I smile smugly.
