I sidestepped a folded treadmill and opened a box marked CDs. “Because there are more girls who want the same thing than there are team spots to go around.” I held up a CD. “Please tell me you’re the Cher fan.”
“My mom’s. But back to softball. You don’t think you’d make a team? Haven’t you been playing your whole life?”
“Do you know how many pro softball teams there are in this country? Six.” I let that number sink in. It was a far cry from the NFL. “Each team has a max of 23 players, which means that there are only 138 girls playing at a time. That’s it. And to really sweeten the pot, the average player makes between five and six thousand dollars a season. It’s not exactly a lucrative career.”
“That sucks.”
“It does, but there are still way more than 138 girls who want exactly what I want. They’ve been playing their whole lives too. I’m good, one of the better players on my team, but I’m not the best, not even in my own family. Sometimes I get too caught up in winning and what my dad is thinking—my dad, not my coach—and I don’t always play as smart as I need to.” I gave Chase a quick smile from over my shoulder so he wouldn’t ask any follow-up questions about my dad. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, but I need to focus on getting my team to state this year first.”
A flicker of resentment hit me when I turned back to the CDs. Selena had had interest from colleges long before she graduated, all wanting her to play for them. Dad hadn’t been the only one dumbfounded when she’d turned them all down. He’d been crushed by disappointment—I’d just been mad. She was so good, and she didn’t even want to play; it didn’t mean anything to her. I supposed she’d already been flirting with the idea of singing, even then, but I still had moments when I couldn’t help hating her a little—sometimes a lot—for caring so little about something I’d kill to be as good at.
“Hey, I’ve seen you hit,” Chase said. “I think you’re better than good.”
“Yeah, well, you should see my sister. She’s insane. She could’ve played anywhere and been one of the best, if notthebest, players in the country.”
“Yeah?”
“Which is why it kills me that she wants to sing. It’s like…” I turned again and rested my forearms on the box of CDs I’d reclosed. “Remember when Michael Jordan decided he wanted to play baseball instead of basketball? He could have been a decent baseball player, but he was never going to be anything close to what he was on a basketball court.”
“So she’s the Michael Jordan of softball?”
“See, that’s just it—she could have been the Selena Fields of softball, and she didn’t want it. It pisses me off so much sometimes.”
“I can see that.” Chase shifted another box in front of him. “Have you heard her sing?”
“Not really. She’s sung in church before, but always with other people. If she’s really awful, the softball thing will just kill me all over again.”
“And if she’s good?”
I moved next to Chase, who was sorting through a box of fake flowers. “It’ll still kill me.” I smiled to let him know I wasn’t overly morose about the subject.
“Remind me again when you need to leave for your game?”
Without looking up from the newspaper-wrapped china I was going through, I said, “I have a few minutes.”
Chase laughed. “Home or away?”
“Home.”
“Cutting it pretty close, aren’t you?”
I was. More than close. But despite the speech I’d just given Chase about wanting to play softball, I felt only a little of the urgency that usually flooded me before a game. “I’ll make it.” And I would. I’d be there on time and not a second sooner. Mycoachcould worry all he wanted.
CHAPTER 25
Having a roommate again for the first time since I was fourteen wasn’t as bad as I remembered. Selena didn’t leave her stuff everywhere or hog the covers, and thanks to her new job at Lava Java, my room perpetually smelled like coffee, which had its perks. It also helped that she was working most evenings or prepping for her next “gig.” That was the actual word she used.
“Why can’t you just say open mic at the coffee shop?” I asked as we were trying to make two people’s worth of clothing fit into my one-person-sized closet.
“Because I’m in denial. So are you coming to the next one or not?”
“Of course I’m coming.”
“You’re not going to show up at the last possible second?”
I ignored her dig about my last game. She’d already told me exactly what she thought of my “abominably disrespectful attitude and shameful disregard for my teammates and coach.” The teammate remark had stung, because they’d all been a little to a lot annoyed with me. Jessalyn and I were pretty much back to our pre-not-fight-but-still-mostly-a-fight dynamic after that day at her house, but even she’d been a little frosty for the first couple innings. If we’d lost, she’d have really laid into me.
“I said I’ll be there. On time. When is it?”
