Page 2 of Praising the Pitcher

There’s a reason she leads us off. The girl can hit a bomb, and after that first hit, the pitcher has only thrown her balls—and I think we all know why.

We all head toward the dugout, and even though I feel my dad’s stare on me, I do my best to keep my gaze from looking his way. Even though I’ve played a great game so far, he would still critique me on something I’m doing wrong, and that would pull my head from the game.

He doesn’t realize how much self-work it takes for me to get his voice telling me all the things I’m doing wrong out of my head. I mean, I meditate before each game, for fuck’s sake. I have to, otherwise all I hear are negative thoughts screaming at me the entire game.

I hear my name called from the crowd, but I pretend like I don’t, and instead, I walk in with my team, who all continue making me feel like a million bucks.

These girls don’t realize how much I need this right here …

NOAH

“Holy shit,” Cane muses beside me. “Gigi can throw some heat. I’m surprised Harland’s arm doesn’t get ripped off.”

“Better her than me,” I mumble, knowing damn well I wouldn’t want to catch for that girl.

This is the second season Cane’s girlfriend, Harley, is catching for Gigi Jacobs. The speed and intensity don’t even seem to make her bat an eyelash. Harley is an animal behind the plate and hands down one of NEU’s best female athletes. Gigi is another one. And, even though I wouldn’t tell this to my sister’s face because her head would swell, Haven is a standout here too.

Gigi always looks relaxed. She keeps her composure to the point it’s a little scary. I’ve been to a lot of games and scrimmages, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her flinch when she’s on the mound. Even when a line drive is coming toward her at an insane speed.

Maybe that’s why she’s ranked as the number one pitcher in college softball right now. And as slender as she appears, I have a feeling under her uniform is pure muscle.

Her long blonde hair is always pulled into the same style—a single braid. She’s at least five-six, I’d say, and on the lankier side. Though when she pitches, and her leg muscles flex through her tight softball pants, it’s easy to see she’s strong.

And I’m already wishing NEU was on the field again so I could watch …

When she’s pitching, there’s an entire game going on around her, but it’s hard not to stare at her. Because Gigi on the mound is like Michael Jordan on the court. Tom Brady on the field.

Hell, even Picasso with a canvas …

There’s an art to the way her body moves when she throws a strike. She explodes off the mound, practically leaping toward the batter to gain more speed. Each time I watch her play, I think I’m more impressed.

As the other team situates themselves on the field, Haven is up first to bat. And as my sister walks out of the dugout, my best friend Dallas shifts around nervously on his feet. He thinks I don’t know he’s in love with Haven. Which is comical because I’m pretty sure he’s loved her since basically the first time they met. He’s always played it off like she’s annoying, so I’ve never brought it up because I figured it wasn’t my place. One day though, they’ll stop pretending like they aren’t madly in love.

Haven steps up to face the pitcher—who’s good, but not to the level Gigi is. I’m kind of expecting the pitcher to throw her balls because after she got a home run in the first inning, the pitcher walked her for her next at bat. Surprising me and I think my sister, too, the first pitch is a strike. Haven backs up, takes a swing, and takes a breath. My sister is one of the best hitters on the team. Last year, I lost count of how many homeruns she had, but it was a lot.

When she steps back up to the plate, swinging within seconds, this one is a foul ball.

“Heads!” a bunch of people call out as the ball shoots over the backstop, landing out in the parking lot.

“All right, King, you’ve got two on you. Better protect!” I call out because my mom normally would do it, but she isn’t here, so it’s up to me.

“Wow, you sounded like your mom,” Dallas mutters, side-eyeing me and grinning slightly. “Even though you don’t know shit about softball.”

“Dude, with her as a sister, I can promise you, I didn’t have a choice but to learn,” I deadpan, and my heart races a little faster when she steps back up to the plate. This could either be a ball, strike three, or a bomb.

When the pitch comes in, she swings, and I immediately hear the crack of the bat. I shake my head as she begins to run toward first.

Sometimes I think that little shit waits till she has two strikes just to raise my blood pressure.

“That’s out,” Dallas says beside me as we watch the ball get closer to the fence before easily sailing over the top of it.

“Yep,” Cane agrees. “Holy fuck, she can hit a damn softball.”

The outfielders all turn around, walking back toward the infield slightly. Not one of them wears a smile because my sister no doubt just pissed in their Cheerios.

Stepping up onto the bleachers, I cup my hands around my mouth.

“That’s my sister!” I yell, pointing toward the field before stepping down. Too bad she won’t be embarrassed of her little brother doing that. Not much embarrasses Haven, to be honest. She is who she is, and you can take it or leave it.