ball hits outside the orange box taped onto the black tarp bag that serves as a target. My mind’s not in it today and I need it to be.
Placing my pitches is the priority. If Logan calls inside—I need to hit inside. If Logan calls outside—I need to hit outside. If he calls straight down the plate—I need to smack that mother too.
I keep thinking about Beth. She looked so damn small and lost that I wanted to gather her in my arms and shield her from the world.
Definitely not a reaction I ever thought I’d have with Skater Girl. I slap my glove against my leg. I’ll find out what’s going on with her at dinner. Silence will no longer be accepted.
I roll my shoulder in an effort to find some life in it, but I come up empty. I’ve pitched for HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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the past hour and the muscles in my arm are as useful as jelly.
The training facility isn’t much, just a
warehouse with green turf carpeting and an air conditioner welded to the ceiling. The unit buzzes overhead and every few seconds a bat cracks.
My coach, John, pushes off the metal wall.
“Good, but you’re still throwing with your arm. Your power and consistency are going to come from your legs. How’s the arm?”
Tired. Beth must hate this place. A
warehouse full of guys hitting balls into nets and pitching into bags. Part of me is disappointed. She hasn’t stood once to watch.
“I can throw a couple more if you want.”
“Have you been resting your arm like we’ve discussed?”
“Yes, sir.” Not as much as I should. I can pinpoint the exact location of my rotator cuff: approximately two inches down from the top of my shoulder and, right now, it aches.
“Let’s call it a night.”
I roll the ball over my fingers. Beth isn’t the only issue that’s plagued me this practice and no matter how I try to ignore the thoughts, they HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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keep returning. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“If you had to choose between playing
college ball and playing pro out of high school, what would you choose?”
John scratches his cheek as he stares at me with a mix of wonder and confusion. “Do you want to go to college?”
I don’t know. “If you had the choice, what would you have done?”
“I didn’t have that choice. College ball was my only option.”
“But if you did?”
“I would have gone pro.”
I slam the ball into my glove. Exactly.
Everyone with their college talk and writing competitions is screwing me up. “Thanks.”
“The question isn’t what I would have done.
The question is what do you want to do?”
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Beth
ISAIAH WRAPS HIS ARM TIGHTLY around my
waist and heaves me out the window. Mom’s hollow blue eyes have a haunting hurt as she stares at me one last time before slamming the glass pane shut and placing the cardboard back over the window.
“No!” I’ve left her behind. Again.
His grip becomes steel and the more I try to scramble back to the window, back to Mom’s apartment, the more he pulls me away. My heart—it’s literally breaking. It has to be, because the pain in my chest slices as if glass is ripping through it.
My legs tangle with Isaiah’s. He keeps a
firm hold on my hip bones and forces
weightlessness by lifting me and moving me in the opposite direction of my mom. I struggle back to earth, kicking his shins, knocking my HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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knees against his. “Isaiah, Trent’s in there.
He’s going to kill her.”
“Let’s go.” His growl rumbles against my
ear.
“Did you hear me?” He couldn’t have. Isaiah would never leave me to die, so he could never leave my mom. The one person I need.
“Yes.” He presses against me and my
smaller body yields to his. No. My elbows bend back and with open palms I shove at his chest. My heart convulses with the smack of my hands against his body. I hit him—my best friend.
I’ll do it again if he doesn’t let me go. “I hate you!”
“Good,” he says. His nostrils flare as he lightly shakes my hips. “Because I won’t feel bad when I toss you over my shoulder and throw you in the damned car.”
My palms, still stinging from hitting him, rest on his chest. His heart beats wildly, matching the crazy glare in his eyes. Isaiah means what he says.
So do I. “I’m not leaving without her.”
“Get in the car before I force you into it.”
His hands tighten. A warning. A threat. My HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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chest constricts, making it impossible to breathe. Impossible to think. “He hits her.”
I say it like it’s a secret. Because it is. My secret. The secret I hide from everyone. The secret that leads to my worst secret: he hits me.
Isaiah knows this already, but it’s different. I’m saying it out loud. I’m making it real. And I’m asking him to save me. I’m asking him to save her.
Isaiah presses his face unimaginably close to mine. “He will never touch you again.”
My throat swells and my voice comes out