I give him a weak smile before packing up.
What would he think if he knew Jake and I were dating for show? Would he thank me? Or fire me?
And what would he think if he found out Lucas and I are sneaking around because of that exact same show?
Would he tell me to break up with Jake? Or to stay away from Lucas?
I don’t know what I’d do either way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lucas
The air’s drier in Arizona, and the ball doesn’t stick the same. I rub it against my pants, blow into my hand, reset my grip. Sweat slides down my back and forearms, baking into my skin instead of leaving me tacky.
I barely notice, though.
“Good finish,” Mel says.
Mel Turner is older than dirt and looks like he’s been sunburned since before I was born. If he says something’s good, it’s good. He doesn’t waste syllables, and he definitely doesn’t waste praise.
I dig my toe into the clay, settle my back foot, lift, drive.
Thwap.
The mitt pops sharp and loud. A couple guys down the row glance over.
We’re on the bullpen strip along the first-base line—four mounds in a row with chain-link behind us and coaches drifting from one to the next like they’re browsing aisles in Costco. Twobig-league starters are a couple lanes down, and the closer’s on the other side of me, working through a clean inning simulation.
“I like that high-leverage mindset,” Mel tells me.
I nod and blow into my hand. Logan could write a paper on what a high-leverage mindset is. Liesel could whip up some new stat to capture it.
I just know it’s me. And just to prove it, I throw another ninety-eight mile per hour fastball, hitting my spot perfectly. Easy.
“You don’t see guys this consistent coming out of Triple-A every day,” another coach mutters to Mel.
I smooth the dirt with my cleat like I didn’t hear him.
Logan and I are twenty-six. Two years older than the average call-up. Two years of watching other guys bounce up and down while we keep stacking.
Last year was big.
This year has to be bigger.
The catcher flashes fastball, so I give him a fastball, painting the edge of the strike zone with a solid ninety-eight. Two mounds down, the closer hits ninety-nine and someone behind the fence gives a low whistle.
Pfft. Ninety-nine?
Next pitch, I let my arm go a little. Not all the way, but enough. I’m not trying to embarrass the guy, but my stuff’s better than ninety-nine, and I want someone to know it.
My shoulder opens up; my fingers rip clean across the seams.
Thwap.
The catcher jerks his mitt down and glances at the radar gun.
“Hundred,” he mutters.
