It was a half hour after the game had ended. Cassie had packed up her gear, but she was in no big rush to get out of here, knowing she still had plenty of time to get back for the start of the Cubs’ game against the South Haven Mets.
She thought Sarah had left a few minutes ago with her parents. But now Cassie looked up and saw her walking back from the parking lot, past Cassie’s dad and the Hollis Hills coach, whom Chris Bennett had once played in high school ball.
“I forgot to tell you something,” Sarah said.
“Okay,” Cassie said.
“I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I know how much you hate to lose, and I was the reason why we lost today. So I’m sorry for that. I let you down. I hate letting people down, the way you hate to lose. Sometimes I feel like I’m always letting people down, even ones who I know have gone out of their way to be nice to me. And I know you have, even if I don’t always show I do or not. I’m not good at showing people what I’m feeling, mostly because sometimes I don’t know how I’m feeling.”
There was a lot to unpack here, Cassie knew. It was one of her mom’s favorite words: “unpack.” Sarah was telling her a lot of things at once. Cassie decided to start with the easiest one for her to handle.
“I’m the one who made us lose today, not you,” Cassie said. “I’m the one who threw that pitch.”
Sarah was staring out to the outfield. “I should have caught the ball.”
“You were distracted.”
“I lost my focus.”
“You had a reason.”
“My parents always tell me that my best thing is my focus. It’s why nobody ever has to tell me to do that. To focus. It really is my thing. Sometimes I focus so much that I do it too much. But mostly I’m better at focusing than almost anything else. Other than remembering. You know how good I am at remembering things, right?”
“I remember,” Cassie said. “And what I’m going to remember about today is that you did exactly what you should have done: you looked out for a teammate. And by the way? Probably one who’s never thought of looking out for you.”
Sarah didn’t say anything.
“I would have done the same thing,” Cassie said.
“It doesn’t mean we’re alike,” Sarah said.
“Maybe not. But maybe more than you think.”
Sarah ignored that. Cassie was used to it. Sometimes Sarah responded to what you’d just said, sometimes not. When you had a conversation with her, she was the one making the rules, whether she understood that or not.
Cassie said, “My mom says that just because everybody thinks, it doesn’t mean they think alike.”
“If you say so.”
“And getting back to what you said a few minutes ago? I don’t hate losing as much as I love winning.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
Cassie looked across the field and saw her dad shaking hands with the Hollis Hills coach. Time to go.
“The only thing I really hate,” Cassie said, “is meanness.”
“That’s another thing we are alike on,” Sarah said.
“My dad and I are gonna head back to Walton for the Cubs game. You want to come watch later?”
“Maybe.”
She was still staring out at center field. Now she turned and looked at Cassie, with all the focus she’d just been talking about.
“So do you accept my apology or not?”
Cassie smiled. “No,” she said.
Sarah said, “I see what you did there.”
“Good,” Cassie said.
And for one of the first times since she’d known her, Sarah Milligan smiled back at her.
“You’re tough,” Sarah said.
“Makes two of us.”
THIRTY-TWO
It was 4–0 for Greenacres in the semifinals by the time Cassie’s dad got Allie out of the game in the top of the fourth. It was Wednesday night. The Cubs would play the next night.
Allie had given up two runs in the first, pitched well for a couple of innings, and then put the first two batters on in the fourth. She got two outs after that, both on pop-ups in the infield, and looked like she might get out of it with the runners still at first and second. But then Marisa Russell, the Greenacres pitcher, tripled over Nell Green’s head in right. A two-run game had just gotten a lot worse. The Sox were four runs behind now, and Marisa was pitching like a total star for the other team.
Suddenly the season was shrinking on them. Even if they somehow managed to hold the Giants from here, they still needed five runs. If they couldn’t get them, not only weren’t they going to get their shot at playing in Fenway Park, but they weren’t even going to make it to the finals.
When Cassie’s dad went to take the ball from Allie, he signaled for Sarah to come in from center field. Cassie was on the mound with her dad after Allie left. Allie was on her way out to right. Nell was going to move over and replace Sarah in center.
Chris Bennett said to his daughter, “I was one batter late. I’d convinced myself she was going to get out of it, and then I was going to bring Sarah in to start the fifth.”
“I felt the same way, Dad.”
When Sarah got to the mound, Cassie’s dad said, “You can do this.”
Sarah looked at him, acting almost confused by what she’d just heard.
“I know I can,” she said. “I have to find out if I will.”
Even now, things were black and white with her.
Cassie’s dad left first. Cassie lingered for just a moment, and said, “Look on the bright side. At least he didn’t wish you luck.”
Sarah said, “I need to warm up. Please leave now.”
“Okay, then.”
“Is there any time when you don’t want to
