Page 6 of Running Home to You
Kate narrowed her gaze as she looked between them. The casualness in which Abby greeted the teacher, and the familiarity with which she responded, landed like a joke she wasn’t in on.
“You never sit up here.” Professor Cruz folded arms across her chiffon blouse, squinting as though amused.
Abby shrugged. “Trying something new. Is that allowed?”
“I guess. Just don’t bother poor Ms. Hutchins.”
“Morning, Professor,” Kate said.
“I think it’s too late for poor Ms. Hutchins.” Abby smirked.
Kate bit her lip to avoid flashing a smile back. One that threatened to spring big and cheesy despite the unwanted attention. She didn’t know this Abby character, didn’t understand why she went out of her way to sit beside her, or why one of her favorite professors had a soft spot for the smoker who usually hid in the back of the lecture hall. Kate purposely ignored her for the rest of class, hustling out when it ended in case she tried to speak to her again, unaware that it wouldn’t matter when she arrived at practice a few hours later.
As always, she showed up early. Her visor perfectly straight, ponytail tight against her head, her Insley Eagles T-shirt tucked into her gray softball pants. A few players clamored in the dugout, Mick among them, fastening her catching gear. But while they had time to spare, someone was already working out on the diamond, plunging Kate’s heart into her stomach.
It was Abby, coasting with feline grace at shortstop. Dirt covered her thighs and stomach. A few wild pieces of black hair fell into her eyeline. Coach Whitley hit her a grounder, sharp and deep. Abby tracked it in a few nimble strides, scooped it in her glove behind second base, squared up in one motion, and drilled a throw to first. Kate shuddered at how loud it popped.
“Who the hell is that?” Jill asked in the dugout.
“Transfer student, I think?” Mick said.
“Fuck. She’s good.”
Abby dove for a line drive near third base, making a nearly impossible catch look like an easy stretch. The coaches roared in approval. Abby wasn’t just at shortstop. She was in Kate’s position. And she was good at it. She was great at it. Kate couldn’t move.
“You okay, Hutch?” Mick asked.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
Coach Whitley hit Abby a few more balls, all of which she handled effortlessly, every throw on target, her footwork light but precise, like a dancer’s steps. She didn’t muscle or force it either. Her arm stayed loose, flopping at her side like a limp noodle, and yet shewielded raw power. Kate could have watched for hours, absolutely hypnotized.
Abby jogged to the dugout afterward, wiping at a light mist across her forehead. She nodded at Kate but didn’t say a word.
“Circle up.” The group tightened around the robust, Australian-born Dana Whitley. This season marked her third at the helm, meaning she’d been with Kate’s class from the start. “Welcome back.”
The team clapped and shook each other’s shoulders. Kate couldn’t bring herself to smile.
“Today we have a few walk-ons trying out with us, but we’re going to treat this like a regular practice. I also want to introduce a late addition.” Coach Whitley gestured to the brawny player in the back. “This is Abby Cruz, junior transfer from UCLA. She plays shortstop and made all-conference last season, and we expect her to have a big impact here. Let’s make her feel welcome.”
Mick patted Kate’s back and whispered, “Don’t let it get in your head.”
But it was too late. Kate clenched her teeth, overcome with freshman-like nerves. She incessantly drifted to Abby during warm-ups, eyeing her form while they threw, envious of her height advantage and wingspan, hating that her rolled-up sleeves revealed toned biceps and square shoulders.
All week, they took turns at shortstop. A grounder for Abby, a grounder for Kate. They ate up every ball, diving, scooping slow rollers and bounces bare-handed, grunting to launch a throw to Jill at first base. While Abby moved like an animal or dancer, fluid and lithe, Kate moved like a machine, rigid but consistent. Her crouch, her steps, her glove always found the right angle, always adjusted to the bounce, her throw a laser to Jill.
Every so often, Abby nodded at Kate’s performance, a smile playing at her lips after a big dive or slide to make the play. It made Kate want to scream. It was as if she didn’t realize they were competing, or worse, she didn’t consider her competition. Kate punched the pocket of her glove and glared in return.
“What the hell is she doing here anyway?” T.K. asked after the third day.
Abby always vanished as soon as practice finished, and with the coaches gone, gossip stirred in the dugout.
“Looking for more playing time?” Jill tossed a ball to herself while she lay on the bench.
“She was all-conference. I doubt that was an issue,” Mick said. “I mean, who leaves the best program in the country for this shithole? She dropped a whole division coming here.”
“Exactly,” Courtney Seaborn, their senior captain, said. “I bet she got kicked off the team.”
“Why?”
