Page 1 of Praising the Pitcher

PROLOGUE

GIGI

Age 17

Alone in my bedroom, curled up under the throw blanket, I smile before quickly flipping to the next page. Finally, I’ve reached the sweet point in the book where the characters stop fighting their feelings and admit how they feel. It’s about time, too, because this was one seriously slow burn. My heart swells in my chest as my eyes sweep the words, sending a warming sensation across my chest.

Since the beginning of this book, it’s been obvious the male main character is crazy about the female main character, even if he tried to play it off like he wasn’t. And her? She’s lost for him too; she’s just been better at hiding it. She’s one of the most stubborn characters I’ve read, but with good reason. And even though I spent the first five chapters being unsure if I was ever going to connect with her, I can say now … I love her. She’s so complex and hard to figure out, but little by little and page by page, the author peels back another layer and shows us more. And what I’ve found is, she’s frosty for a reason. Her pain runs deep and would make anyone standoffish.

The hero cups her chin, and her eyes flutter shut as she anticipates his kiss. Meanwhile, my heart thunders in my chest from the tension. I can’t imagine someone looking at me the way these characters are so perfectly written to look at each other. Or to feel something this deep for another human that your whole world feels like it’s beginning and ending with that person. I’ve had a few crushes, sure. Unfortunately, my schedule doesn’t really leave time for anything past that.

From the time I was ten years old, my days have been scheduled for me by my father. I won’t bore anyone with the breakdown, but basically it involves a healthy breakfast, private school, a two-hour strength training session with my private trainer, a pitching lesson or, at the very least, getting my reps in for the week, dinner, homework, and then bed. I still sneak in a few pages of reading anytime I can though. Reading romance books is something my mom always did when I was a little girl. In fact, she even dreamed of one day writing a book of her own. Sadly, she never got the chance because she passed away when I was thirteen. But the image of her sitting beside the pool while I swam in the summer will always be in my mind. Her large sunhat on, smiling at me between chapters. Reading was her escape, I think. From my dad’s harsh temper and unrealistic expectations. Just like it’s been my escape for the past few years too. Without it, I think I’d drown in my father’s world of making sure I’m in perfect shape and on top of my pitching game. I love softball and all but yeah, I get burned-out sometimes. Anyone would with Cal Jacobs for a dad.

I read the sweetest lines, my heart fluttering as I picture what it would be like to have someone say those types of things to me. To have another person’s day begin and end with me on his mind.

Finishing the chapter, I slide my softball bookmark in and gently close the book. As much as I would love to stay up and binge the rest of this love story, I can’t. It may be Friday night, and most of my peers are probably out doing things normal teenagers get the chance to do—like attending prom—but for me, I need to be up at four in the morning to head out of state to play in a tournament with my travel team.

Being a normal teen will have to wait.

Just like it always does …

Setting the book on my nightstand, I turn onto my side. I try not to think about the game tomorrow because if I do, I know my heart will begin to race. And not in the good way either. Not in the way my books make it do. No, this is from pure nerves because I know if I don’t perform well, it’ll be a long ride home with my dad. Those rides are when I miss my mom the most. When I first started playing softball competitively, I didn’t understand why my parents always took separate vehicles to the games, but it didn’t take long for me to figure out why they did that.

Or really, why my mom did that.

She wanted to save me from the wrath of my father during those incredibly short, yet somehow painfully long, rides home. Now that she’s gone, I don’t have an escape from it.

And that is why it’s so hard to breathe whenever I think about the tournament …

ONE

GIGI

FOUR YEARS LATER

“Strike two!” the umpire calls, and the batter steps out of the batter’s box, taking a practice swing. She takes her time, holding her bat in front of her face, looking at it and inhaling like we’re playing in the World Series. I get it, and if I was batting, I’d do the same thing. I no longer go in the batting order though. I was always a decent contact hitter, not so much of a power one, but once I got here to NEU, it became clear I’m here for one job—to pitch. That’s the only thing I do on the field.

After reaching down and grabbing a small handful of dirt before releasing it, I stand on the mound. I inhale slowly as I drag in the crisp New England air. I wish we could play in October all the time, but this game is just a scrimmage and doesn’t count. The real games begin in February, though we’ll be traveling out of state for those because everything here in Massachusetts will be buried under God knows how much snow.

It’s the very end of the month, and we lucked out today that it’s above fifty and sunny out, making it perfect conditions in my opinion. I’ve always played better when it’s a little cooler.

I love spring because it means softball season, but nothing beats playing during autumn. Especially when you’re playing in New England.

The batter up for Vermont steps back to the plate, and I know it’s time to lock in. She’s a lefty who I’ve already struck out twice today. She’s good, but I’ve been lucky enough to strike her and a few other lefties out on inside pitches.

Right now, though, she’s about to get a changeup. So, while she’s expecting a pitch that’s coming in close to eighty miles an hour, it’ll be more in the high fifties and will hopefully make her way ahead of the ball.

Harley flashes her glove for me to see before dropping it down into the dirt as she awaits the pitch. Just like I have thousands of times, I go through the motions before sending the ball flying toward her glove.

It plays out in front of me just like I visualized. The batter takes a stride and swings her bat, but she’s way too early. The ball lands right in Harley’s mitt, and she stands up, cheering.

“Way to be, number one,” she calls out, running toward me once the batter is out of the way. “Three up, three down!”

I’ve worked with a lot of good catchers over the years, but Harley Meadows is no doubt the best. Not just because her talent is unmatched, but she’s one of the best people I know. When I’m struggling, she talks me down.

The chemistry between pitcher and catcher is crucial, and the two of us certainly have it.

My entire team rushes toward me as I step out of the circle, all cheering with excitement. This team today is tough, and we’ll certainly be facing them in the regular season. But it’s the fifth inning and we’ve yet to let them score. Meanwhile, Haven, our shortstop, put us on the board with an out-of-the-park home run.