Page 205 of Out of Left Field

Things like that had been happening the whole trip. Maybe my body reacted to the air here differently. Or maybe there was a smell. Maybe I was allergic to this part of the world.

Or maybe it was Everett.

No. I pushed that thought right out. “Everything here is so big and overwhelming.”

Everett frowned again. Like he couldn’t figure me out. Then glanced up at the endless sky. “Yeah, I get that. But you’re used to big things. What’s different here?”

I kicked a rock and watched it skip down the road. He wasn’t wrong. I worked on movies with massive scale. Big budget action flicks. I also worked on quiet, intimate stories about two people. I never struggled to find my vision, a way to tell the story so that it drew people in.

So why was I struggling to take some fun photos on a vacation?

“Who's the best?” he asked.

“Huh?”

He shrugged. “When I’m trying to figure out a pitch, or a pitch sequence, I watch film on who is best at it. So if you’re struggling with the scope of what you’re trying to do, who, in your world, does it best?”

There were a dozen good answers, but one kept leaping to mind for the last week. “Denis Villeneuve.” I sighed. “I still remember sitting in the theater when I saw Arrival and thinking what the fuck? the entire time. It was so big and so intimate at the same time. I’ve been jealous ever since.” Jealous in a good way. In a fangirl kind of way. I was awestruck and amazed.

I wanted to have that thing that no one else had too.

“That sounds a lot like you.”

That was sweet but inaccurate. “I don’t make movies like Denis Villeneuve.” No one did.

“You said Arrival was big but intimate. That’s what you do too, Willa.”

He said that so effortlessly. With such conviction. I stopped. “Explain.”

Everett grinned as he turned, the wind whipping his hair in a new direction. “Taking Tampa.”

I cocked an eyebrow. The name of the Tangerines documentary never sat quite right with me, but the marketing team assured me it was golden and had high name recognition, so I didn’t fight it. “What about it?”

He blinked as he stared at me. “You really don’t know what you did?”

I made the best of a messy situation while still telling their story. “Let’s not be pretty with our words, Everett. Spit out whatever it is you’re trying to tell me.”

He held up one long finger as he pulled up his phone. Everything about Everett was big. He had large feet, large hands, long fingers, long arms. It was the perfect anatomy for a pitcher.

For a pitcher.

That was the only reason I noticed such things.

Maybe when I was done with the Tangerines the Mantas would be interested in telling their story. And the uniqueness of their pitching staff would obviously be a part of the story.

“Fuck, I don’t have any signal here.” He shoved his phone back in his pocket with a huff. “The reviews all say things along the lines of ‘an intimate look into the struggles and triumphs of America’s biggest upcoming sport’ or similar.”

I shrugged. I knew what critics were saying. I had a distilled version of what viewers thought. They were pretty words. I appreciated the positive response. But it was nothing earth shattering.

Everett groaned. “Willa Cooper. You are a frustrating woman.”

“Says Everett Anson, the most frustrating man.” I could seriously strangle him for cutting me out for the last few years.

“You made me cry!” He threw up his hands as he glared daggers at me. “You made me cry, Willa. I felt for them. I know these women. I love Annalise and Jeri like they’re my sisters. But that isn’t the same as being on the field with them, being in that locker room. I’ll never be a woman. Their story isn’t one I’d ever know otherwise. But you, you, told it. You made me understand it. And as one struggling athlete to another, I cried. Because you made their big flashy story so intimate, so real, I couldn’t help myself.”

I snapped my mouth shut in surprise. Everett was a boisterous, funny guy, but he didn’t have outbursts of emotion. No, he bottled his feelings up unless they were laughs or hugs. “Thank you.”

He shook his head. “You all like to give me crap for the way I handled my problems, but I own them. Just like I wear my new accomplishments with pride. Life is short, Willa. Too damn short to waste a second of it with self-deprecation. You’re brilliant. Maybe the reason you aren’t getting the shots you want is because you’re standing in your own way.” Then, with a curt nod, he stomped down the road.