Page 46 of Praising the Pitcher

She glances from Harley to me. “Well, I sort of rode here with Harley. So⁠—”

“I’ll give you a lift to The Nest,” I say instantly. “I don’t have class till later anyway.”

Her eyes find her friend again, and I can practically hear the internal battle Gigi is having with herself. I’m sure she feels weird with me. I mean, she must … she fucking blocked me.

I think …

“Totally up to you, Geeg,” Harley says softly. “I can wait for you. I have to make a few phone calls anyway. Or you can ride with Noah. Whatever works.”

Before she can say anything, I touch her wrist, but right away, she pulls back like I’ve hurt her or something. She’s acting indifferent right now, and I fucking hate it.

“Please, can I bring you home?” I murmur, sounding desperate, I’m sure. But this season, we have a chance to win it all. We have to get through some pretty important games first though, and I won’t be good for shit if my head isn’t on straight.

As much as I hate to admit it, she’s the key to getting my mind right.

“Okay,” she finally says, turning toward her friend. “See you at home.”

“Sounds good,” Harley says with a smile. “See ya, Noah.”

“Later, Harls,” I say to one of my sister’s best friends.

“Ready?” I utter, turning toward my truck, and slowly, Gigi follows behind me.

I open the passenger side door, letting her in.

“I could have done that,” she mumbles, but I ignore her.

“All good, Smoke,” I drawl slowly before closing her door and jogging around to the driver’s side, wasting no time getting in.

I crank the heater, a shiver running down my spine. I may be a big dude, but I fucking hate to be cold. So much so that when I saw how cold it might possibly be for our next game, I was instantly in a shit mood.

Gotta love New England. Then again, I could be somewhere else, sweating my balls off during the playoffs. So maybe the cold weather isn’t so bad.

“Is it warm enough in here?” I ask, but I don’t put the truck in drive or make any move to leave this parking spot, even as all the cars around us take off.

“I just spent the last hour pitching to Harley,” she deadpans. “I’m still sweating from that.”

Fuck. I forgot she’s probably hot from practice.

“Sorry,” I say, turning the heat down on her side.

“It’s fine,” she mutters, looking forward.

She’s beautiful, but she’s tired. The same expression on her face I saw the night I took her home from that restaurant. A look of exhaustion, and right away, I feel like shit for not insisting she not go to The Nest.

“So, what … are you doing here?”

“I was just wondering why you blocked—or if you blocked me,” I say, wasting no time getting to the point. “I’ve sent messages, but they seem to go undelivered.”

I know she probably has a million other things to do today. One thing that’s true with Gigi—if you’re lucky enough to get a few minutes of her time, you’re one lucky fucker because she doesn’t have much of it to spare.

She doesn’t look at me, though her shoulders shrink slightly.

“I don’t have a phone right now.” She cringes. “Or a car, any money, and after talking to the coach at practice … maybe not a place to stay in a few weeks either.”

“What?” I try not to sound too aggressive, but I’m fucking pissed because I know damn well why she’s lost everything. Her fucking insane dad.

“Yep,” she says, making a popping sound with the p for an extra layer of distaste. “The day at the diner was the last time I spoke to him. He tried to contact me after, but I wouldn’t answer.” She looks down at her hands on her lap. “Guess I’m paying for it now.”