She glanced down. “But you’re not a pitcher.”
Dustin laughed because he was happy—like caught-the-pop-fly-to-end-the-game happy. “I pitched in high school and a year of college before I was drafted.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes.” He took five big steps backward. “Okay, the glove should be an extension of your arm. Don’t think of it as separate.”
“Got it.” Her lips pursed in concentration.
Dustin thought about jogging the five steps back and tugging on her chin with his thumb to loosen them. “And you want to keep your mitt between you and the ball.” He moved his mitt in front of his face, palm forward, and then his chest. She mirrored his movements.
“Okay, I’m going to toss this one real easy. When it hits your glove, squeeze to keep it in there.” He’d given her his old mitt, the one that was out of shape and flat as a pancake. He had to work harder to keep it open than to close it because the leather was worn out.
“I’m ready.” She spread her feet slightly and poked her behind out in the sexiest ready stance he’d ever seen.
Grinning, he tossed the ball. It flew through the air in slow motion, smacking the leather with hardly a sound. Clover jumped back as if he’d thrown a line drive, but she managed to hang on to the ball.
“I caught it.” She turned the glove over to verify that the ball was still in there.
“Okay, send it back.” Dustin hunkered down like he was a catcher. He didn’t need to—there was no way she would kill him with a throw—but he liked the way her eyes lit up when she noticed what he was doing.
They went back and forth for a few minutes, throwing easy tosses. Dustin took a couple steps back every few throws until they were a respectable distance apart. Even though they weren’t standing together, he felt close to Clover. “I haven’t thrown a ball with anyone outside of the Redrocks in ages.”
Clover smacked her fist into the mitt. “No one?”
He shrugged as he threw, aiming for her right hip so she would have to adjust to catch. She did fine, and he nodded his approval. “My nieces and nephews think soccer is the world’s only sport. My brother stopped playing when he didn’t make the high school team, and my dad thought baseball was a waste of time. Try to step as you throw; it will save your elbow.”
“What does he think now?” She thought about the movement as she threw.
Dustin had to jump to catch the ball. “The same.”
“But you made it.” She tipped her head. “You are one of the top five percent to get drafted.”
Dustin twisted the ball around in his fingers, feeling the laces bump against his palm. “Someone has to be the black sheep in the family.” Maybe there was a spin of resentment on the ball as he threw, because it sailed past Clover and hit Brayden’s back door. Dustin jogged forward to retrieve the ball. Clover headed that way too.
Brayden’s floodlights came on and his back door slid open. “You trying to break my window?”
“She should have had that one.” He tapped Clover’s back with his mitt.
“He threw too hard,” Clover shot back.
“He doesn’t throw hard enough,” Brayden teased as he stepped out onto the patio.
Clover glanced at him, concerned.
Dustin hurried to belay her worries. “Brayden has a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball. No one throws hard enough for him.”
Brayden was followed out by Tilly, the rock climbing instructor he’d been dating for a couple months.
“Oh, hey, it’s you.” Brayden reached out his hand. “Clover, right?”
“Yeah.” Clover shook his hand and gave a small wave to Tilly.
“We met at the club in Vegas,” Brayden continued, as if that night hadn’t been one of Dustin’s biggest mistakes. “This is my girlfriend, Tilly.” Tilly returned Clover’s wave before threading her fingers through Brayden’s. They exchanged pleasantries and chatted about the game.
Clover didn’t say much. Instead, she soaked in the verbiage and slang. Her enthusiasm was like a puff in Dustin’s baseball balloon. He loved the game. Loved it more than anything on this earth, with the grand exception of his family. Having the two things he loved the most at odds had taken a toll on him, dragged him down to where he wasn’t playing his best.
Clover had given him back that drive, the desire to prove them—and especially her—wrong. He had—or so it seemed. She no longer treated him like a Peter Pan and had a sincere interest in his sport. That was major progress.
