Page 35 of Praising the Pitcher

“Welp, I’m going to get going,” she says sweetly.

Sliding out from the covers, she stands beside the bed in her baggy T-shirt and sleep shorts. Her blonde hair is down in waves, spilling over her shoulders, and her face is bare without an ounce of makeup.

She’s fucking breathtaking. And if I’m being honest, aside from when she’s on the mound, this is when she’s most gorgeous to me. And how lucky am I that I get to see her this way?

Even if we are just friends …

GIGI

I get in my car and try my best to fight the stupid-ass grin that so badly wants to spread across my face, knowing Noah may be looking at me from the window. I’m already sleeping at his house every night even though we aren’t hooking up. I don’t want to look like a creeper smiling the whole way to the car. It should be easier not to smile because I know this little flirtatious, harmless friendship is eventually going to have to come to an end. But Lord, right now, I’m having a good time.

Tonight, I need to sleep at The Nest. If I don’t do it soon, I’ll keep putting it off, and this whole sleeping in Noah’s bed thing? Well, it can’t last forever. I might as well get myself prepared to sleep back at my own house since it’s inevitably going to happen.

As I drive away, I let my mind wander to what it would be like to indulge in fooling around with Noah—of course, with no strings attached. Boy and girl friendships don’t last forever, so part of me wonders if the risk of us hooking up would be worth it.

The way he makes me feel and the butterflies in my stomach tell me I shouldn’t be sleeping in his bed because I’m going to get attached, and I’m a fairly smart girl—I know he isn’t one I should be getting attached to. Then again, so many of the male main characters I read about are that way, or much worse. And they somehow give the girl in the story a happily ever after.

What the hell am I even thinking? Happily ever after? My life is nothing but chaos right now, which is clearly making me conjure wild thoughts.

My father has called me over thirty times in the last few days and sent twenty-six text messages—all of which I haven’t opened. Lilly said he stopped by The Nest a few times, seeming less than impressed that I wasn’t home. I’m sure it’s not helping matters that I disabled my location on my phone, but if I didn’t, he would have showed up at Noah’s.

While I was in bed with him. And it wouldn’t have mattered that we weren’t doing anything sexual; my father would have blown a gasket.

I know the more I hang out with him, the more butterflies I’ll feel, but right now, spending time with Noah is bringing me a type of peace I haven’t felt in forever. Well, since my mom passed away. So even though it’s risky, and I’m sure I’ll later regret it, I’m not pushing him away yet. I’m going with my heart on this for once in my life, and what my heart wants is to be friends with Noah King.

And tonight, we’re going to tell Haven we’re friends because even though I’m enjoying his company, it’s eating me alive that I’m keeping it from someone who’s been nothing but a great friend to me.

I look at the clock, seeing I have plenty of time until I have to get ready for practice.

I’m going to visit my mom, because talking out loud to her always makes me feel better. Even if she can’t answer back.

I stare at my mom’s headstone, studying the beautiful butterflies and flowers decorating the scene on the front as if I don’t already know every single detail. Of course, I do. I had it drawn for her myself—choosing that was one of the only things my father has ever not fought me on.

“It’s all just … getting hard, Mom,” I say, my voice cracking more with each word. “Softball … school … life.” I pause when it gets painful to talk but force myself to swallow down the aching lump that’s worked its way up my throat. “Sometimes I wonder if I should just walk away from it—from softball.” I sigh. “I love it. I really do. But as long as I’m on that mound, Dad’s voice will always be in my head, telling me everything I’m doing wrong.”

I think about a game I played my senior year of high school. I pitched the entire game, and every out that day was my own. I allowed one hit, but I caught it and got the player out. It was the closest thing to a perfect game I think I will ever play. And still, on the ride home, my dad wasn’t happy with it. He told me I had gotten lucky and my pitching that night was embarrassing to him.

Now, every time I strike someone out, no matter how composed and calm I may seem, those words—among so many others—flash in my mind.

You got lucky.

You aren’t really that good.

You have a long way to go to be great.

You’re overrated.

These hitters will get you timed up, they’ll make adjustments, and when they do, it’s all over.

You’re getting lazy.

There are thousands of girls with better work ethics waiting to take your place.

You’re too lanky; put on more muscle.

You’re getting cocky, kid.

So many things that have been engraved into my mind since I was a kid. My dad spent his life building me into the pitcher he wanted me to be, but the entire time he also broke me down. And now that I’ve finally hit a breaking point, I just don’t know if I can ever rid myself of his constant criticism if I continue playing the game I love.