His hand, the one I can still feel on my cheek, is rubbing over his mouth as if wiping away a kiss that never happened. His eyes meet mine, stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I shouldn’t… It’s not—” He swallows. “I—” He dips his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Shit.”
I know exactly how he feels. “Garrett.” I lick my lips and then wish I hadn’t when the movement draws his gaze to my mouth. My pulse is sprinting. The question I blurt isn’t planned or thought out, but it’s the only one that matters. “What are you doing on Saturdays? With Kyle Masters.”
It takes a second for him to look me in the eye, but he’s not surprised, that’s obvious.
“You’re training with him, aren’t you? You’re still hoping to play.” I hold my breath because his answer determines this. Determines us.
His nod is small but certain. “My dad has agreed I can have until graduation to make a comeback. If that doesn’t happen, I do it his way. College. Accounting. I can’t afford to live on my own.”
“What about your mom?”
“She’s always supported my dream, but after my grades dropped…” He blows out a long breath. “He’s got her convinced this will be good for me. So I’m down to my last shot.”
Disappointment curls my fingers into fists. Without admitting it to myself, part of me has been hoping he’d given up on playing again. That he might find a way to stay in baseball without stepping on a field again—without living that life. “What about your arm? The bones might have healed, but what about the torn labrum in your shoulder? That’s not an injury most pitchers come back from. How can you create the velocity you need?”
“Not every pitcher relies on speed.”
“Oh, so you’re going to be the one successful sinker ball expert?”
“Not the only one. Brandon Webb. Derek Lowe.”
“There’s also Braden Garnet. Ever heard of him?” But of course he hasn’t. “He was on my father’s Double A team. He messed up his arm, just like you, and tried coming back as a side-arm pitcher. Then he tweaked that to throw submarine style. Ended up wrecking his arm even more, and he never made it back.”
“At least he tried.”
My voice rises. “Did you even hear what I said? He fucked up his arm. That means lifelong pain. You really want that?”
His jaw hardens. “It’s one story.”
I want to shake him. “And your arm is holding up?”
He looks away, but not before I see a flash of pain. So no, the arm is not holding up. “What’s your brilliant Plan E, Garrett? You gonna try pitching leftie next? Is that it? See what you can do to your other arm?”
“Other guys have made the change.”
“Are you serious?” Tears hover behind my lids. Angry, frustrated tears because he’s never going to give up, and that means everything I’m starting to feel for him is a mistake. “There’s always some other guy, Garrett. Always. It doesn’t mean it’s going to be you.”
“But you don’t know that it won’t be me.”
“You have no idea how much I know.” My voice trembles, but I don’t care. “I lived that life. Rookie ball, Low A, High A, Double A, Triple A. Up and down and down and up. Lying awake at night checking stats on my computer because if my dad had a hit then tomorrow would be a good day. And if he went enough nights without a hit, then it meant we might have to move again.”
I close my eyes, swallowing against the rise of other, darker memories. When my gaze finds his again, my eyes don’t waver. “I will never get involved with a guy chasing that dream.”
He doesn’t look away. “And I will never get serious with anyone until I’m done chasing.” He slides his chair back, putting more space between us. “What almost happened—it won’t happen again.”
I nod in agreement. I feel like I was standing too close to the edge of a cliff and barely saved myself from going over.
“Friends?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “Partners.”
The word expands between us, creating distance. “Partners” is safe. “Partners” is the way we planned it. We’re together for the contest, for a chance to prove myself. For Garrett to find a way back into the thing he’ll always love more than anything or anyone.
“I should get going,” I say. I busy myself with my backpack, though there’s really nothing for me to do. I never even unzipped it.
“I’ll drive you home. Let me find my keys.”
“Thanks.”
“And I’ll get you a flash drive with everything we did here tonight.”
“Thank you for the website, Garrett. You didn’t have to do this, and I, well, whatever our disagreements are, I want you to know I appreciate it.” He nods, and I follow him out. My heart, safe behind its protective wall, still feels the loss.
Garrett Reeves is a good guy.
Just not the right guy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
People have the mistaken belief that anticipation is a good thing. But really, if you look up the definition, all it says is “the act of anticipating something.”
It could be good.
Or it could be humiliatingly bad.
Such as, let’s say, when you have an awkward almost-kiss with a guy and then have him drive you home in complete silence while you pretend there’s something so fascinating on your phone that you can’t possibly look up. When you get out, you mumble a goodbye without meeting his eyes. Without knowing if he was willing to meet yours. And then you see him the next morning in the halls, and do you acknowledge his existence? No. You pretend not to see him.
Now it’s three in the afternoon, school is over, and here’s what I’ve discovered: the longer you say nothing, the more you anticipate having to say something.
Even though Mai and I are walking very slowly toward the baseball field, we’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m
