My stomach churns like a washing machine on tilt.
“I can’t see it,” Garrett calls, his frustration obvious.
No, he can’t. But even with tears welling in my eyes, I see what he doesn’t.
He looks up then—spots me. I see the instant when he realizes who it is. The bat drops from his hand. A ball spirals into the fence, forgotten.
“What’s going on?” I hear Masters ask.
“Josie!” Garrett shouts. Masters turns, and when he sees me, the whirr of the pitching machine goes off.
“Give me a few,” Garrett shouts over his shoulder. He’s already jogging my way.
I’m rooted in place and spinning at the same time.
Then he’s in front of me, breathing hard, his eyes shaded behind the brim of his cap, his hands still encased in batting gloves. I didn’t even know he had batting gloves. Or a bat. Or a shin guard.
“Hey, birthday girl. What are you doing here? Everything okay?” He reaches out a hand and I shudder, pulling my shoulder back before he can touch me. He frowns, his gaze stalling at my hand, and I realize I’m still holding the folded schedule. The middle is crushed where I unknowingly wadded it in my fist. I fold it quickly and shove it into my back pocket.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask.
“The hitting?” He glances back to the field. His hands rise to his hips. He looks good in uniform. Looks more comfortable than most guys look in their own skin. “Couple—three weeks. It’s just something I was trying.”
“Just something you were trying?”
“Are you mad?” He seems surprised. “I’ve never lied about what I was doing.”
“You let me think you were pitching.”
“I let you think I was doing anything and everything to get back in the game. And that’s the truth.”
“It’s not the same.” My anger spikes because he’s actually right.
“You knew that I had to try right up until the end, Josie. If you want me to apologize for having a dream and fighting for it, then you’re out of luck.” Now he’s angry, too, his eyes sparking blue heat.
“That’s not what I want.”
“You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure.” The words are emphatic, but I look away because the truth is I might be lying.
“I also told you that if there was a chance I could play again, I’d tell you. But you can’t trust me, can you?”
So many emotions swirl around us, thick and palpable. Anger. Fear. Desperation. Betrayal. Which belong to him and which to me? “I have reason to be wary.”
“None that I’ve given you.” He rips off one glove and then the other, stuffing them in a back pocket. “You had to have seen me hit on your way out here. I’ve been working for weeks and I don’t see the curveball. I’m like Evan Harris, who you like to make fun of every damn time he comes up to the plate.”
I blanch. I remember how tense Garrett would get every time Evan came up. Every time he struck out. “You don’t have to hit the curveball, Garrett. Not if you’re good enough hitting the fastball.”
“That isn’t true. Not if I want to play at the highest level.”
“You can still play college.”
“I’ve already told you. I don’t want to hang on and watch other guys move up knowing I never will. Even if I did, I don’t have that option and you know it. I’ve got a deal with my dad. One last spring to work on my game and one last tryout.”
The final two words shock me into a startled, “What? You have a tryout?”
His hands fist at his hips, but there’s no apology in his eyes. “I didn’t tell you about it, because I didn’t see it happening. And it won’t.”
My voice is like sandpaper. “What tryout?”
“A junior college coach in Florida knows me from summer leagues. He’ll be watching some guys in Phoenix next weekend. Said if I wanted to come by, he’d take a look. But there’s nothing for him to see. It’s done. I’m…done.”
His voice cracks and he looks away. I look away. My heart feels like it’s just cracked, too. I want to hold on to my anger, but there’s a crushing weight on my chest. I look back at the field, at all the missed balls. He wants this so badly. He wants this as much as I want him.
“What about broadcasting?” I ask.
“It’s the only thing that’s kept me from losing my mind.” He pulls off his cap, runs his arm across his forehead. When I raise my gaze to his, it’s like I can see his heart.
The heart that will only be mine once baseball is in the past.
All I have to do is walk away. Forget what I’ve seen. He’ll take all that love for the game and he’ll channel it into broadcasting. Into us. Into me.
“Let me finish up here,” he says. “I’ll see you later the way we planned. All right?”
Tears spring to my eyes. “All right.”
I turn to leave, my heart screaming, Coward! I start jogging. I’m suddenly desperate to put distance between Garrett and me. Between me and everything I just saw.
Because it isn’t hopeless. Because Garrett isn’t the same as Evan Harris. Because I’ve seen hitters like Garrett struggle before, and there might be a way I could help him.
If I do, baseball wins.
And I lose.
Chapter Forty-One
Mai is waiting at her front door when I get there. I sent a pathetic, needy text, and I can tell she’s doing an inventory of me as I walk up. Puffy eyes that have produced enough tears to water a baseball field. My rumpled tank streaked with wet sticky splotches where I wiped my
