Page 76 of Convincing the Catcher

“Yeah, I’ve been …” She bobs her head up and down, looking around the room. Then her eyes move back to mine, and she stills. “Not very good,” she mumbles. “Turns out, you were right.”

I know what she means without any explanation because I’ve been in her shoes. I was just younger, and maybe it was easier because I wasn’t living on a different side of the country from my mom, having to be an adult.

“I’m sorry.” What else can I say? There’s nothing that’s going to make it any better.

Her chest rises as she drags in a long breath. “Thanks.” She rubs her lips together. “Oh, also, my insurance is all set now. I’ll pay you back soon though. For, you know, this month’s costs.”

I start to reach for her hand, wanting to take it into mine while I tell her not to worry about it, but I stop, knowing that isn’t what she needs or wants right now. To be honest, the past week, I’ve felt guilty, feeling like maybe I took advantage of her during a confusing time in her life.

“We had a deal, Catch,” I murmur. “You helped me stop being so hated by everyone, and I paid for your prescriptions.” I narrow my eyes, just enough so that she knows I’m not playing around. “I don’t want your money.”

“Excuse me,” someone says from behind her, trying to pass through.

She’s left with no choice but to step closer to me, and as the person nudges up against her, squeezing through as everyone stands and talks, her body presses to mine, and instantly, my heart rate spikes.

Her green eyes stare up at mine as her pupils dilate. She could step back, but she doesn’t. At least not right away. Her body heats my own, but the second she moves away, I feel like fucking ice.

“S-sorry,” she murmurs, running a hand over her sleek hair.

“Don’t ever apologize for pressing your body close to mine, Catch.” I wink playfully.

I wait for her to blush, but instead, she looks away.

“Well, it was nice to see you,” she says, almost in a robotic tone. “I need to go thank a few people—per my coach’s orders.” Stepping backward, she almost runs into someone but stops. Holding a hand up, she waves. “See ya around.”

When she turns, walking away from me once again, a part of me wants to grab ahold of her, pull her close, and kiss her harder than I’ve ever kissed her before. I don’t want to give her space, but if she thinks that’s what she needs, what else am I supposed to do?

So, like an asshole, I watch her weave through the crowd. And even though she said she’s going to talk to people, she goes into the women’s restroom.

No doubt just to get away from me.

THIRTY-THREE

HARLEY

I brush my hair before applying some lip gloss. Haven asked me if I’d go to a party with her at The Lookout, and even though I didn’t want to, here I am, getting ready to go because I know I’ve been in a weird mood for the past three weeks and I feel bad.

I know a lot of how I’m feeling—or not feeling—is because I’m grieving my dad. I also know there’s more to it though. Because on top of that, I miss Cane. I miss him so much that sometimes, I wish I could rip my own heart out so that I wouldn’t have to feel it aching.

I’ve kept my head down at practice. I’ve made sure to be respectful, work hard, and show up. But nothing is as exciting as it once was, and I’m terrified that it won’t be again.

So, tonight, I’m going out. I’m going out and doing something I don’t ever do. I’m going to have a few drinks with the girls and try to leave my troubles at the door.

Sliding my Nike sneakers on, I head out of my room to where the noise is coming from. When I walk into the kitchen, I find Haven hanging out with a bunch of the girls on the hockey team.

“Holy smokeshow,” Summer, a hockey player, says when she spots me, whistling.

“Damn, girl,” Haven calls out, holding two shot glasses. “You’re just in time!”

When she walks toward me, I debate on taking the drink at all. I don’t drink. In all my years, I’ve never been drunk. Yet when she hands it over, even though I know she would never pressure me, I find myself taking it instantly.

Clanking her glass to mine, she winks. “To dancing with cute boys.”

“To dancing with cute boys,” I say back, even though I have no intention of actually dancing with a dude.

I tip the glass back, and as the alcohol burns my throat, my entire face puckers into an awful expression.

“That’s gross,” I say, trying not to gag while also wondering who in their right mind would enjoy drinking that crap.