“You’re pushing too hard. BP isn’t showing off for anyone. It’s to get your head right for the game. It counts when the innings start,” she says, her eyes scanning down my torso, hovering around the spot where her hand left off.
“I swear I’m not overdoing it. I’m fine,” I lie.
Like a fucking kid. I fall right into old habits with her, because I’m embarrassed that she caught me feeling something—wantingsomething. When we were young, I dismissed her critiques unfairly. I did it because she was a girl, and it was embarrassing that she was better than me. Smarter. Wiser. More technically sound. Talented. And a part of me was jealous that her dad was there. Mine was . . . who the fuck knows.
She rolls her eyes, just enough for me to see it, then walks away. I drop my chin and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Wait,” I utter.
She slows her steps but continues to move away from me as she glances over her shoulder.
“I’m trying to make you better, Jayden. And part of that is listening to your body when it tells you what your limits are.”
Her lip curls up after a moment, just a hint, and I breathe out a guilty laugh.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just hard to take orders from you.”
However tiny that smirk was, it disappears thanks to my fat mouth, and Colby turns her attention to the next batter stepping into the portable cage.
My gaze meets Jake’s. He didn’t hear our exchange, but his snickering tells me he caught enough of our body language to tease me about it.
“Shut your face. I don’t see you hitting the ball out today,” I scoff. Rather than hurt his feelings, my insult only makes him laugh harder. I flip him off before snagging my gear and hat from the ground and making my way to the back of the hitting cage.
I slide my hat on, then tuck my glove under my arm as I lean against the crossbar a few feet to Colby’s side. A group of rookies clears out the foul-tipped balls from the cage, and the moment they run the filled buckets back to the coach, I lean to my side a few extra inches and utter, “Sorry.”
Colby shrugs at my apology with a sharp laugh, immediately pulling her sunglasses from the back pocket of her pants. She slips them on, taking away any chance I might have at peaking behind the curtain to see how she really feels. Now is probably theworstpossible time to tell her she looks good in baseball pants. I want to, though. I wouldn’t have complimented my old hitting coach. Edgar looked like a clown. There’s nothing funny about Colby’s thighs being hugged by pinstripes.
Those thoughts aren’t fair. She’s your coach. See her as your coach.
“I didn’t mean because you’re a woman. When I said I have a hard time listening to you, I mean,” I say, then keep explaining, even as the guys come rushing back to the cage and sort themselves into a hitting order. “I have a hard time because of our history. Because of how we?—”
“I got it,” she says, turning to face me so I’m hit with my own reflection in her sunglasses.
After a full second, I nod.
“I’m sorry, is all. About how it came out.” I turn my focus to the young hitters, stacking my fists atop my glove and resting my chin on top.
“That’s all you’re sorry about, huh? How the words came out?” she utters after a few minutes.
I take in her words for a beat, deconstructing them. It feels a little like she’s picking a fight, and I have enough history with Colby to know that I don’t want any part of one of those. At least not on top of the ones I’m already deeply embroiled in.
“That’s not all,” I say. Something in my gut tells me that’s the best answer I can give. An entire round of pitches passes without a word from her. I know more are coming, though.
“You want to know what else you’re sorry about?” she finally asks, and I exhale as if I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for permission to breathe.
“God, yes,” I sigh out.
She chuckles softly, and pulls her glasses down her nose just enough to peer at me over the bright orange rims. Her lips pucker into a knowing smirk, but all I see is the deep amber flecks amidst her brown irises.
She huffs. “My God, some things never change, do they?”
“I’m pretty certain the right answer is no, they don’t.”
My nervous laugh seems to break down some of her brick wall, and she pushes her glasses back into place and leans back while holding onto the crossbar, stretching out her arms. She’s fit like I remember her last, solid bicep muscles that could easily gun down a runner trying to steal second. She was one hell of a catcher.
“You should be sorry for not listening, no matter who I am. I’m your coach, regardless of gender, regardless of our history, regardless of . . .” She swirls a finger in the air, and my lips twist in response to the motion.
“What is . . .” I swirl my finger in the same way.
