Colby presses the remote button for the pitching machine, and I swing at the inside curveball it delivers, engaging my tired core muscles one more time. It’s a shit swing, and we both know it.
“Again.”
I sigh, but I don’t dare look my coach in the eyes. I know she will simply glare at me and tell me to dig deeper. If you want it in this game, you have to earn it. Names and legacies only get you so far. I mean, hell, look at Jake. His dad’s a legend, and he can’t get a start in Sweetwater. What’s nuts is he puts in the work too. The grind is fucking brutal. It wears a man down.
“Close it up,” Colby orders, and I adjust my front foot before she sends the next pitch my way. I hit this one solid. At least, solid enough for her to grant me a break.
“Clean up,” she says, pulling her phone from her back pocket and sifting through emails or texts or some shit. I’m not evencertain what she’s looking at is real. I just know she makes herself busy any time the two of us have a chance to talk.
I’ve always been a bit in awe of Colby and her drive. But damn, the way she flipped that switch two days ago and put the wall up again the second she told me Coach was looking to send me to Texas soon . . . I wish my switch was as certain as hers, is all.
Sure, I sat back and really listened. My chest swelled with anticipation, with a taste of the dream. Colby’s right—I want this. But I also want her. And damn if I didn’t go right back to dreaming of her with my eyes open.
The way I’ve replayed our kiss from years ago every few minutes since my tongue tasted her neck is insane. It’s on this constant loop, and I can’t fucking let go of the thought that she wanted me to kiss her. She moved into me, her head tilling slightly when my lips grazed her neck. Her breath stopped.
I gather my hit balls into a bucket and then into the machine. I’m relieved when the whir of the motor shuts off.
“Oh, thank God!” I say as I meander toward Colby. I undo the Velcro on my gloves and yank them from my sweaty palms, turning them inside out while I’m at it. I toss them on my gear bag then grab my Gatorade, guzzling down the remaining twenty ounces of orange liquid. I want more.
“You did good work. I told Coach you’re ready, not that my word carries all the weight.” Her eyes are still on her phone screen, so I strain my neck in an attempt to peek at it. I see a text string with Coach, and I’m not sure whether I’m glad to see she’s truly talking with him, or disappointed that she isn’t faking as an excuse to avoid me.
The sun went down an hour ago. I put in the extra work for this. I spent most of the day reviewing pitching film and stats on the guys I’ll face in Little Rock, then working through pitching sequences for my at-bats out here with Colby. My hands are raw,the leather of my batting gloves wearing thin from all the reps I’ve taken. I’ll grab a new pair from our equipment manager before we take off tomorrow.
“You should try to get some good sleep tonight. If memory serves me correctly, you don’t sleep well on road trips,” Colby says, a faint smirk playing at her lips. She still won’t look at me directly.
“You would know. I think we shared a back seat for every game until you ditched me for softball,” I say with a sneer.
“Hey, don’t diss my sport,” she says, glancing in my direction for a beat.
I manage to catch her gaze, and while brief, our connection levels me enough that I can’t help but open my fucking big mouth.
“What are we doing?”
Her attention drops to the ground, but I see enough of her face to notice the furrow in her brow.
“I don’t know what you mean. We’re packing up for the night, Jayden. I’m going home. Then we’re heading to Arkansas on a bus in the morning.” She flashes me a forced smile that I don’t buy for a second.
“Stop it.” I lean my weight against the hitting tunnel gate, essentially blocking her way out. Her eyes dim. “Tell me to move, and I’ll move. Or . . . stay here and talk to me. Not about baseball, but about us.” My pulse speeds up as her eyes flit around the tight space we’re in, our quiet surroundings, the lack of any other player or coach on the field or in the tunnels. I think I saw Coach Shuster pack up and leave an hour ago.
“Fine. Move.”
I do as she asks because I would never actually hold her hostage. That’s the kind of shit my brother pulls with people. It’s the stuff my dad did when he was drunk and cornered my brother in the kitchen after a bad at-bat during Little League.
Colby jerks the gate open the second I step out of the way, so I drop my head and shuffle back a few steps to collect my gear bag. I’m bent with it halfway zipped when the gate flings open again and Colby’s feet are in my periphery.
“What happened back then? When we were eighteen. When you kissed me. What did my dad say to you? Why did you leave me, like, completely?” Her voice breaks, and it stabs at my heart to hear how hurt she was. How hurt she still is.
“Colby, I was young. We were both leaving for college. It was a stupid time to start something, and?—”
“Stop lying!” Her hands ball into fists at her sides. My gaze drops to her hips, my attention caught by her sway as she rocks side to side, her body working off the angry buzz brewing in her belly.
I lick my lips and take a deep breath before lifting my gaze back to hers. My head tilts, and her mouth quivers into a frown.
“Colby, please don’t . . .”
She laughs, but not in a joyful way. It’s the sort of laugh that seeps out through heartbreak. She shakes her head.
“I have held this in for too long, Jayden. Too long. And I just can’t anymore. I . . . can’t.” She flattens a palm on her chest.
