Page 26 of Praising the Pitcher

I can feel my inside boiling, the bubbles getting bigger and bigger until steam is about to come out of my ears and finally, I snap.

“If it meant not having to live like this, then yes!” I scream, punching my fist into his dash—something I’ve never done or thought I ever would. I’m not in control of my own actions right now, and my entire body shakes.

Within seconds, tears burn the backs of my eyes. I wish my mom was here to tell me everything would be all right. I wish she could save me from this man who has let softball overtake our lives.

He stares at me, eyes darkening. “Look at you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Already well on your way to that.” He points ruthlessly toward the window again. “All of my hard work for nothing because as soon as you got to this campus, you lost your edge.”

“My hard work,” I mutter, my lip quivering as I point my finger into my own chest. “My hard work.”

He begins speaking again, but I can’t hear him. Pushing the door open, I start to step out when his hand wraps my arm, holding it tightly.

“No, you don’t get to act like a little fucking brat and run off now.” He growls. “That’s not the kid I raised.”

His fingers dig into my flesh, and I’m glad it’s not my pitching arm, but it hurts. I look down to see just how tightly he’s squeezing me.

“Let go!” I scream, trying to pull further away, but he doesn’t let up. “Let go of me!”

The anger on his face makes him unrecognizable, and I know after today, after this moment … things will never be the same between us. He’s taken it too far.

The door pulls the rest of the way open, and the same girl who was washing the floors is suddenly standing beside the car.

“Let her go or I’m calling the police!” she warns loudly.

His eyes fly to her, and within a few seconds, he releases his hold on me. I suck in a few shaky breaths, staring at him in disbelief before I get out of the car with her arm around me protectively. He doesn’t leave, even when she takes me inside the restaurant, locking the door behind us.

Leading us away from the front window, she takes me to a corner booth. “Here, sit down,” she says, and slowly, I sink onto the wooden bench.

She peeks around the corner out the window. “He’s still out there. Do you want me to call the cops?”

I shake my head quickly. “No,” I utter. “Please … don’t.” I exhale, attempting to calm myself down. “He’s my dad.”

Walking back toward me, she sighs. “Is he usually like that?”

I look down at the booth, running my finger over the scratches in the wood. “Yes and no,” I whisper. “He’s always intense, but he’s never … physically hurt me.” I think of the bruise that’s likely forming under my sweatshirt. “I know he didn’t mean to today, he’s just … mad.”

“Yeah, I could see that,” she says softly. “But even if he was mad, it doesn’t make it okay.”

My eyes slowly lift to hers. “I know.” I barely squeak the words.

She’s quiet, and I look down again. But after a moment or so, she speaks.

“I know who you are, you know,” she whispers, and when I look at her, I’m met with a small smile. “You’re one hell of a pitcher, Gigi.”

“I know who you are too.” I swallow, and now that I’m looking her in the face, I remember watching her on ESPN when I was younger.

“You’re probably wondering what the hell happened to me, huh?” She smiles sadly. “How a player who had a big future ended up here.”

“Kind of,” I answer honestly. “I hope that’s not rude. You don’t have to tell me, you know.”

She looks thoughtful before sliding out from the other side of the booth. “You want something to drink?” She chuckles. “I don’t have anything hard, but I have water, coffee, or soda.” She shrugs. “I make a mean Shirley Temple too.”

At the mention of a Shirley Temple, my ears perk up and I smile. “My mom used to let me order those when we went out to dinner, just the two of us.” My chest aches as an image of my mom smiling at me and hitting her glass against mine forms in my memory. “That sounds great.”

“You got it,” she says, disappearing around the corner.

I know my dad is still in the parking lot, and my guess is he won’t leave either. Not until I come back out. But I’m not leaving with him today. In fact, no matter what the consequences, I’m putting space between us.

A few minutes later, she returns with the two pink drinks, and I grin at the extra cherries on top because that was something my mom always ordered for us too. She knew how much I loved them and she also knew if it wasn’t for those one-on-one dates, I’d never be allowed to have one. My dad thought soda and drinks like that were too sugary and bad for my diet.