GREY
The crowd cheers behind me as the game comes to a close, but my stomach is in my throat as Molly practice swings in the on-deck circle.
I've had one hell of a time keeping myself in check with her all night. I didn't want to leave her place early, not after last Saturday night lost in her, Sunday wrapped up in her. Cooking breakfast together, halfheartedly working on the house, too busy stealing kisses between paint strokes to be productive. It was like a fucking dream. And when I finally left Sunday night, it took everything I had to walk out that door.
My house has never felt so empty. My bed has never felt so cold.
The week was torture, each day agonizingly slow, the clock ticking glacially toward the sliver of time when I'd go to Molly's to eat dinner together before heading to whatever practice or game I had to be at. But we made it to Friday, and tonight, a teacher's league game. At least she's here with me. That makes it so much easier to bear.
My schedule never bothered me before. I usually welcome being too busy, so busy I don't have time to think about what I don't have.
This afternoon wasn't enough time with her.You have all weekend.
The thought makes me feel fucking invincible. Like nothing can touch us. Like we figured it out, found a way to do this without consequences.
So, so fucking dumb.
The game is nearly over, the sun long gone. Molly's been getting better but has yet to hit a ball in a game. Bless her, she tries. Tonight has been a close game, and now we're in the bottom of the ninth, two points down. Two outs.
Bases loaded.
And Molly's at bat.
My stomach is twisted up with nerves. She's the last chance to win the game. All she has to do is hit the ball for the first time ever. In front of half the town. No big deal. The team is yelling and cheering their encouragement, but she's pale, her eyes wide, standing in the on-deck circle like she doesn't want to leave it. I know how hard she's worked, how much this means to her.
"Hey, peaches," I say as I approach.
She relaxes at the sight of me, almost smiling. "No pressure, right?"
"No pressure. It's like a game of pepper--easy peasy, swinging at whatever comes your way. Don't think. The more you think the worse it gets. Just breathe. Keep your eye on the ball. And do your best. That's it."
"Just do my best," she echoes, adjusting her helmet, her eyes narrowing in determination. The urge to kiss her is so fierce, I clench my fists so I don't touch her. "Eye on the ball."
"Don't think," I add.
"Got it."
"Good. Batter up, babygirl." I wink at her when she meets my eyes, pleased when she flushes and smiles. "Go get 'em, tiger."
With a resolute little nod, she hustles out, steps in the box, and I watch with my heart in my throat. Cass and everybody's cheering. I take a deep breath.
The pitch comes--she swings. Whiffs it, her bat slicing through empty space. But she put a little heat on it, making me smile. I clap, calling, "That's all right--you've got this Molly."
She doesn't look back, just adjusts her helmet and brings the bat back. Her form's good, her stance right. She's just gotta connect.
I hold my breath through the next pitch. It's high, but she swings anyway, too eager. So eager. Misses again.
Everybody's on their feet, either cheering or silently praying she misses.
"Don't think," I remind her. She doesn't look at me, but she nods small.
I watch the pitch arch in slow motion, watch her take a little step forward and swing, twisting at her hips, putting all her strength in it and--
Crack!
The ball sails toward the outfield, dropping just inside the grass and rolling fast. They're all running for it but it's rolling right in the sweet spot--nobody's close, and the first one who gets to it misses a scoop for the ball.
Everyone's screaming like she just hit a grand slam in the World Series, and Molly's jumping up and down on the plate, yellingI did it! I did it!
