Page 124 of Off the Mark
“Someone’snot gonna get a cheesesteak,” I chided.
She dropped her head back on a laugh. But I only used it as an excuse to hold her closer, bringing our bodies together into one long, seamless line.
“When the ball comes, you’ll twist your hips before hands. Hips, then hands.”
I turned us to demonstrate, and the bat swung along with our motion. My cheeks hurt because I was smiling like I’d won the fucking lottery. And maybe I had—yeah, I was never gonna pitch again, but I had a life I loved and I was currently playing baseball, for fun, with Charlie. The woman that I loved who loved me back.
Felt like a win to me.
We did it again and again. Arcing up, swinging down. I peeked around and said, “What are you grinning at?”
“This. All of it. Being here with you.” She twisted her hips forward like a pro. “It’sfun.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” I paused our movements for a second and hovered my mouth at her ear. “Can you see it? The pitcher on the mound, the ball behind his back. Focused on you like a laser.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “I’m gonna hit it so hard.”
“Hell yeah, you are,” I said. “There he goes. Winding up. Releasing. And you—”
We swung as one. The bat slid past us, and I made aclocksound with my tongue. “And there it goes. You hear the crowd going wild for you?”
Charlie dropped the bat and spun, facing me with an eager expression. “Can I do it for real now?”
I gave her a wink and pulled the visor of my hat low. “Let’s do this, slugger.”
I turned and jogged out to the mound. There was no denying that a combination of grief and joy warred in my chest. There was nothing I could do except embrace it.
Once there, I scuffed my toe at the dirt before a memory slammed into me like a tidal wave. Another summer day, here at this same park, when I was thirteen or fourteen. Playing a game of pick-up baseball with a bunch of friends from the neighborhood—even Dean had joined in, slapping his hand in a catcher’s mitt and flashing me made-up pitch signs that kept making me laugh.
The memory vanished as soon as I remembered it. I couldn’t recall who won or if we even kept score. When I turned and faced Charlie though, scooping up a ball from the basket next to me, the same feeling flooded my entire body.
Freedom.
Charlie tapped the bat and yelled, “I wish I knew enough about baseball to trash-talk you.”
I grinned back. Fell into an overly exaggerated pose just for her, loving how delighted she seemed. I had the ball in my left hand and was prepared to lob it softly, underhand, though my body yearned for the wind-up. Yearned for the overextension and the release, all the parts of pitching that made it so unnatural and dangerous.
I breathed through it, until the ache quieted and I could focus on Charlie. My first throw sailed through the center of the batter’s box, and Charlie swung so forcefully, she spun around in a circle.
She laughed, head in her hands. I clapped and whistled. Yelled, “Shake it off, batter.”
“Okay, okay, I can go again,” she finally said, back in her stance.
“It’s only the first one. You’ll get it,” I called out.
I rocked back and forth on my heels and pretended to glare at her from behind the ball. Leaned forward for another underhand throw. And this time she swung clean, missing the pitch but looking strong.
I grabbed the third ball and slid my fingers along the seams. The evening breeze cooled the back of my neck. Charlie traced the brim of her hat, cocky as a cowboy, and went still.
“You ready?” I yelled.
“Born ready, babe.”
“You only needed those two swings, huh? And now you’re major league?”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re chatty for a pitcher?”
I laughed under my breath. “All the damn time. Good thing you love me.”
