He watches me, so I blow him a kiss to distract him.
He rolls his eyes. “If you’re sure.” He extends a hand, and I take it, letting him haul me out of the water. “Let’s go watch our competition and grab some water before our next match.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
And, you know, no more boners over Jed Stone Jr.
SIX
JED
Michaels sprints to his left,snags the ball off a rogue bounce in the dirt and fires it to first.
“Great Job, Michaels!” our defensive coach yells.
I don’t know what’s gotten into Surfer Boy, but that guy has been out for blood lately. Still all smiles and too-loud laughs, but there’s a glint in his blue eyes, a determination that’s unnerving. Every drill, he’s on top. Fastest sprint, impossible catches, hitting like he’s got a magnet in his bat.
Sanders sidles up to me. “Kid’s impressive,” he murmurs.
“He is.”
“It’s a shame.”
I side-eye Sanders.
“There’s not really room for him here, is there? The kid’s got ridiculous talent, but you’ve got an entire career ahead of you.”
My insides tighten, but I shove down the negative thoughts about my arm before they can surface. Positive only here. I will improve.
“That and Marks and Torres are only a few years in,” Sanders continues. “He’ll either be stuck in the farm system when he should be in the big leagues, or he’ll be traded.”
“Mmm.” He’s got a point.
Marks and Torres are our second and third basemen. Sometimes teams shift a player to a different position so they can get their bat into the big leagues sooner. With how Michaels is swinging, if we had room, I could see the Jetties doing that, but we really don’t have anything open right now. You never know when one will pop up—injuries, trades, something can change—but until then, he’s sitting in the minors, waiting. And in reality, he’s close to ready for The Show. It’s not enough to have talent in this game. You’ve got to be in the right place at the right time.
Coach calls my name, and I jog out to the field, sliding into position between third and second. It’s infield drills today. Some come off a machine, shooting balls at precise angles that force you to react instantly. Others, the coaches hit off a bat, unpredictable both in speed and placement. It’s all about lightning-quick reflexes and trusting your instincts. A heartbeat’s hesitation, and it’s a hit. Get it right, and you’ve got the out.
Right now, Coach has the bat. I bounce on my toes, slight bend at the knee, glove low and ready. The breeze kicks up, bringing with it the smell of dirt and leather. My blood thrums. My element. My home.
The crack of contact snaps through the field. Instinct takes over, and I charge toward home. The ball trickles toward the 6-hole—a slow roller. I scoop it up barehanded, plant hard, and send a laser to first. My assistant coach nods from the bag, but I’m already backpedaling into position, my focus back on Coach.
Before I have a chance to settle, he’s sending anotherone my way. This one’s high and to my left. One step and I push off, full extension, glove cutting through the air. The ball clips the very tip of the webbing, and I squeeze hard, willing it to stay put. It does.
Coach purses his lips, and I recognize the glint in his eyes. Surprise. It’s new—my elevation. When you can’t throw, you train everything else. Plyometric. Reflexes. Core work.
I lob it back to Coach and reset my stance. The next one comes screaming—a rocket heading to my right. I dive for it off the bounce and it lands in my glove, my chest slamming into the ground. The air explodes from my lungs, but it doesn’t stop me. I’m already spinning in the dirt, up on one knee, firing it to first. My chest heaves as I gulp down air. And then it hits me. Every single one of my throws was on target. Accurate.
Fuck yes.Your boy is fucking back.
My eyes cut toward Michaels.Try to top that, kid.His jaw tightens for half a second before he grins, all sun and swagger. He winks at me. Fucking Surfer Boy.
I jog to the sideline as the next guy heads onto the field. Sanders holds out his fist, and I gently bump it. “Just try not to break too many records when you come up, yeah? I don’t want to look too horrible in comparison.”
I shake my head at his exaggeration. But for the first time in a long time, I feel really fucking good.
This is my year.
SEVEN
