We’ve had a completely different life. A completely different upbringing, and yet, the comparison will always be there. Everyone, from scouts to coaches to journalists on ESPN, forgets about all of that when they compare us. They see numbers and stats. As they should. I set up for another pitch and focus on my movements. It’s this motion that got me from eighty-nine to ninety-two when I was a senior in high school. My goal has been ninety-four for a while now and even though I can throw it, it’s not consistent enough for my liking. Or my coach’s, for that matter. So I try again. I stop thinking about Misty and the possibility that’s so close yet so far. I stop thinking about the scouts who are watching me like hawks. I stop thinking about the draft I’m going to enter after this season is over. I stop wondering if they’re going to pay me more than they originally offered and if I made a grave mistake by not taking it at the time. I just stop. If this was a game, it would be easier. During games, it’s easy for me to shut it all out. When it’s just me and Coach Wallace it’s a little different. Maybe it’s the noise I need. Maybe it’s the smell of sweat, beers, and hot dogs. Maybe it’s the cheers or the boos or the pressure of closing a perfect game. Whatever it is, it doesn’t exist in this moment, but I pretend. I make myself believe all of those things are happening as I set up this mechanic that’s become second nature to me already.
“Ninety-three,” Coach Wallace says. “You got this, kid.”
I do another one. And another one. And another one.
Ninety-three each time.
“Fuck.” I take a breath.
“We’re out of time. I don’t want you overthrowing if you’re so dead set on pitching tonight,” he says. “You’ll get there.”
“Yeah.” I pick up the ball and toss it into the bucket beside me.
“Are your parents coming tonight?”
“I don’t know. They’ll definitely be there this weekend though.” I pick up my bag, hoist it over my shoulder, and say goodbye.
As I walk out, I take it all in. This is one of my last practices here. These are my last three regular season games before we go to Charlotte for the ACC championship next weekend. It’s scary and exciting and I realize that maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m dying for Misty to give me a chance so badly. She’s already the one who got away and a part of me feels like maybe if I get her now I can secure her forever. My brother Mav would tell me it’s a stupid way to think, let alone talk, about a woman. Jagger would tell me I’m being a simp. I wouldn’t disagree with either of them in this particular instance, but I also don’t want to hear it, so I’m not going to tell them about any of it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Misty
“You did not tell me we were going to the game.” I glare at my sister.
“I thought you were going for sure. You’re writing a damn article on them.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t planning on going to tonight’s game. I was planning on hanging out with you.”
“Well, Jag got us tickets, so we’re going, and you’re coming with.”
“I don’t even have a ticket.”
“Misty, please.” She shoots me a look. “It’s like you don’t know who our parents are. Or theirs.”
“This is going to be so awkward,” I mutter under my breath as she walks inside and I follow.
“Hi, Mom. Dad. Jag.” I kiss each of them on the cheek. They’re all wearing baby blue shirts, ready to go support their baby blue team. Normally, I truly do not care about the rivalry. Truly. But when it comes to this, it bothers me.
“I’ll be right back.” I run up the stairs to my old room and pull out a Duke T-shirt. It’s a basketball shirt, but it doesn’t matter. A sport is a sport. When I run back down, the four of them laugh hysterically.
“You’re really going to sit behind home plate wearing that?” Mom asks.
“Yes.” I roll my eyes. “It’s not like the people playing don’t know what school I go to and everyone else can kiss my ass.”
“Misty!” Mom says.
“Fine. My butt.”
“Let’s go.” Dad shakes his head. “I hate getting there late.”
“You only like getting there early so you can have a beer and a hot dog before the game and then again during the fourth inning.”
“When was the last time we went to a game together?” Dad asks, raising an eyebrow. “But alas, you’re right.”
“Is Mavy coming?” I ask when we get outside. “I haven’t heard from him.”
“Yeah, he’ll meet us there. Rocky had practice today, so he’s waiting for her.”
“So things are getting serious.”