Page 2 of The Sweet Spot

Is Tate worried that I’m going to throttle him with my throw?

I glance back at my father for comfort.

Wait, what the—

Blue eyes. Blond hair. Extremely tall.

There is no one in this world who looks like Tate Sorenson, let alone any player on this team. So, why’s he standing next to my dad and watching instead of participating?

“We’ve got to start the game before it gets dark.” It’s another muttering from the batboy, which I ignore.

So who’s this guy in front of me?

The catcher is already crouched in position with his cage mask down. He punches his glove a few times, then holds out the mitt in my direction.

Oh. He wants me to toss the ball, just like that? I haven't even had time to center myself.

The jumbotron is showing my face at roughly the size of a billboard, and I look calm, which is a testament to years of being perceived while internally screaming.

In all honesty, I'm sweating. A lot. Thankfully, it's mostly hidden by the stinky ball cap so the crowd can't see it.

Bash. Bash. Bash.

The catcher punches his glove, and I swear it echoes across the ballpark.

All right, dude. I get it.

Then, without really thinking about it, I throw the ball.

And—

Let’s just say, the ball leaves my hand with ambition but arrives at home plate apologizing. Somewhere in between, my wrist stages a mutiny, the release point goes to a place that can only be described as wrong, and the ball bounces. In the dirt. A full body length in front of the plate. Then it sort of... rolls. Pathetically. Onto the ground.

The sound the crowd makes.

Oh, the sound.

It's a collective, sympathetic, deeply patronizing aww of thirty thousand people who expected nothing and still managed to be disappointed. It's the worst sound in all professional sports and the first time I've heard it in my career.

“Smile, Whit,” Jess, my best friend and tour mate, says from somewhere around first base. She’s standing with the other four LPGA players who are here for the charity tournament weekend, and they all just witnessed me fail. Any one of them would’ve done better than me.

Great.

I don’t have time to wallow, though, because she’s right. Somewhere in this stadium, I'm being recorded, and a GIF is being made as we speak.

I will not make this a thing I’m remembered for.

So I pull my lips into a tight smile even though I feel like my body is caving in on itself, and wave to the crowd.

The catcher scoops the ball out of the dirt and stands, making his way toward me.

Oh. Oh.

I shuffle back, forgetting I'm on the mound, and nearly fall. Thankfully, I manage to self-correct before I embarrass myself further. Everyone here knows I've suffered enough already.

Who is that?

I swallow, taking him in. The guy is... huge. Big, thick thighs, large, square, shoulders. Everything about this man screams, ‘I squat for a living.’