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My gut told me Granddad wasn’t the one to really worry about as far as “risks” go. But it also told me that, unfortunately, this was going to blow up in our faces sooner or later.

“You gonna start throwing, or should I come back later?” Eliza called from home plate.

“Sorry.” I shook my head to focus. “Zoned out for a sec there.”

She took her stance, and I grinned like a fool.

Damn. There was nothing hotter than a girl who knew how to play the game.

I brought my hand behind my back and rolled the ball around till the laces were perpendicular to my fingers for my four-seamer. I stared her down and imagined Dad behind the plate instead of Ben—because Ben would never play ball with a girl and we still weren’t speaking—and threw it.

Crack!

The ball soared over my head and into center field, where it dropped with a soft thud. “Nice!” I yelled.

Eliza rested the bat on her shoulder. “You throwing slow for me, Fulton?”

“No.”

Maybe.

Okay, just a little.

She arched an eyebrow and tugged her hat a little lower before tapping the bat on the plate. “Let’s see your slider.”

My slider?

You mean the slider that nearly took out your cousin in the season opener?

“Sure.” My voice cracked. I grabbed another ball near the mound and rolled it around in my hand till my pointer and middle finger touched. When my palm started sweating, I closed my eyes for a second and slowed my breathing.

Relax. You’ve thrown this pitch hundreds of times.

But in the last second, I rolled the ball into a changeup before releasing it. It slowed too quickly.

Crack!

Eliza hammered it into right field. It plopped into the tall grass, and I turned around to face a scowling batter behind the plate.

“What was that?” she asked.

“A pitch.” Just not the one you asked for.

She dropped the bat at the plate and closed the sixty-foot distance between us till her toes touched the edge of the mound. “Are you afraid of hitting me?”

“No.” Yes. Terrified, actually.

“Reed.” She took off her hat, and her hair spilled around her shoulders. “I wouldn’t have come out here if I was afraid you’d hit me with a pitch.”

“I know.” My throat squeezed.

She made a face. “Do you feel this much doubt every time you take the mound?”

“No. But this is different—”

“Because I’m a girl?” Her hands went to her hips.

“Hell no. Girls kick ass at baseball. It’s just…I don’t want to hurt you.” Ever. At all. And especially not with a pitch.