Page 14 of Praising the Pitcher

He holds it open, dropping my hand as I pass through, and I rush toward the hot tub, damn near leaping into it. The hot water makes my cold skin prickle, but it’s oddly satisfying.

Taking a seat on one end, Noah sits directly beside me, getting so close our legs touch. I ignore it as best I can—which isn’t easy, by the way.

“Well that was fun.” He smirks at me. “Even if I wish we would have turned around when I said.”

“Then we would be quitters,” I mutter, dipping down lower so my chin is touching the water. “No one likes a quitter.”

“I think no one likes a quitter in something that matters,” he says, clearly amused. “What we did was stupid. I don’t think anyone would have blamed us.”

I don’t respond because the truth is, I would have blamed us. In fact, I would have gone to bed disappointed with myself. But I’m not going to tell him that because then he’ll know for sure that I’m a weirdo.

“You can’t stop things you start, can you?” he asks, and even though I look forward, I can feel his eyes on me. Analyzing me, no doubt.

“I mean, I could …” I shrug. “But I’d rather have the satisfaction of just doing them if I say I’m going to.”

“You don’t do well with failure, do you, Gigi Jacobs?”

I rest my head on the back of the whirlpool, sighing. I don’t know this guy that well, and yet, right now, I’m considering opening up to him. Perhaps that’s because today was insane and traumatizing and I’m incredibly vulnerable.

“I haven’t really experienced it yet,” I admit, cringing at my own words. “It’s never been an option.”

“Because of pressure you’ve put on yourself?” He pauses. “Or … someone else?”

Finally, I look at him again. “You know who my dad is. You know he puts a lot of money into the softball program.” I inhale. “Do you think he’s a man who accepts failure well?”

My words seem to hit him, and I swear he flinches. “Probably not.” He lifts his hand from the water and swipes it down his face. “But when you play at the level we do, part of it has to be for you, right?”

His question cuts deep. I know I love softball. I have since the day I picked up a ball for the first time. But I also know that since the day I fell in love with it, I’ve also never had a choice. Once I started pitching and people started talking, saying I was the next big thing, it overtook my father’s life. Even if I’d wanted to stop, I’m not sure that would have been open for discussion.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, bobbing my head up and down. I know I’ve said too much from the way he’s eyeing me over. Like he’s seeing if I’m bullshitting him.

The truth is, I love the feeling I get in my stomach when I step onto the mound. I like the one even better when the batter has two strikes and I hit her with a changeup and she walks back to the dugout because I’ve won the battle. I just wish I could balance other things with all of that, but I know it would be impossible.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, both soaking in the hot water whirling around, warming our recently chilled bones. But I know I have an early morning tomorrow, and I need to head home to do my homework.

Slowly, I stand up. “We should probably start heading out,” I say, and when his eyes fall to my chest, roaming down my abdomen, I instantly wrap my arms around myself again.

“Why do you do that?” he asks, his eyes now on mine. “Why do you cover yourself up whenever I’m looking at you.”

Because you’re used to looking at voluptuous, gorgeous bodies.

I think it, but I don’t say it. I don’t have delicious curves or huge boobs. I’m rather lanky, though I am lean.

“I’m … not what you’re used to looking at, I’m sure,” I utter, chewing my bottom lip.

“You’re right,” he says instantly. “You’re better.”

My heart feels like it jumps inside my chest, but I remind myself this is what he does. He tells girls what they want to hear to make them feel good. I’m sure he’s used that line lots of times and it has nothing to do with me.

“Okay, Romeo,” I say, trying to muster an amused grin. “Time to go.”

Turning around, I climb out of the whirlpool and head toward the towel rack. As I grab one, drying myself off, he appears beside me to do the same.

“I’m not just saying that, Gigi,” he says, holding the towel in his hand. “You’re athletic and strong. You aren’t the most ruggedly built girl, but you just might be the strongest female athlete on campus. Your ass—and I’m sorry, yes, I checked it out, numerous times—is fucking scrumptious. Your tits are the perfect size to play with, and your thighs are so fucking strong that any motherfucker would be lucky to have those wrapped around his neck.” He pauses, turning toward me. “I’m being damn good tonight because you’re Haven’s friend, and you’ve been through a lot. But just know this: If it wasn’t for those two things, I would have probably asked if I could finger fuck you in the hot tub and sat back and watched your pretty face while you came.”

When he drops the towel down, my eyes float to where he’s holding it over his waist and he shrugs. “Yes, my dick is hard just from being this close to you.” He leans forward and kisses my cheek. “If you were anyone else, looking this good, I’d show you how hard it is. But you’re not anyone else. You’re Gigi. You’re Haven’s friend and a woman I respect. So for that, I’m going to go get showered and changed, drop you off at your place, and go home.”

I swear I don’t even breathe. I just stand here, frozen in shock that he said all that.