Page 84 of The Sweet Spot

No.

There's no way she did.

I set myself back up and smell her again.

It's my hand. It smells like her, but I washed it. Hold up. I look at my gloves and then I look back at Whit.

Her smile grows.

Fuck me.

She did!

When? Where? How?!

All the questions run through my mind, but I have no time to answer them.

Dalton hits a single.

Two on base, and I'm up next.

Taking a breath, I make my way to the plate. I don't know how to explain it, but the second I step into the box, everything is silent. Penguins’ knees don't bother me, I'm optimistic about rats and their companions... the only thing I'm truly focused on is the bat in my hand.

I dig in.

The pitcher comes set.

The first pitch is a fastball. The same pitch I've been fouling straight into the dirt for a month and a half.

I don't think about it.

I just swing.

Thunk!

That sound. The feel of the ball making contact.

I know before it's even left my bat that I got all of it.

The entire stadium gasps, and we all watch the ball climb and climb against the lights until it clears the left-field wall by a mile.

Three run homer.

The fans are cheering, and my feet start to round the bases before I've really registered what happened.

I'm not watching where I'm going. I'm too busy looking up into the stands and pointing at Whit the entire jog around the bases.

You. That was you. All of it.

I cross the plate. Dalton's there with his hand up for our usual high-five celebration after a homer, but I stop myself.

I yank my hands back against my chest.

“Can't,” I tell him. “Gloves. Don't touch the gloves.”

He stares at me with confusion. “What?”

I lift my elbow instead and give him an arm-five, forearm to forearm, because there is no universe in which I'm smearing her off these gloves before the night's over.