Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Instead, I’d reached out to Jasmine, thinking she might’ve been having a crappy holiday as well. We’d spent part of the day baking cookies—something I hadn’t done since I was a kid with my mom—and after we’d stuffed ourselves silly, went to the movies. It was the perfect way to pass the time and get my mind off everything. Besides, Jasmine had her own woes because of her mom’s addiction, and she’d used me as a sounding board, which I didn’t mind. I’d confided in her before about my stepdad, but never about Girard. She probably suspected, but she didn’t press me on it, and maybe one day I’d actually get it all out instead of letting it eat me alive.
“We spent part of the holidays with my annoying family,” Kellan said tongue-in-cheek to his dad before throwing Donovan a sappy look. According to Donovan, they’d gone to his family’s house first before heading to Kellan’s and meeting the rest of the relatives.
“Watch yourself,” Coach replied with a mock scowl, and everyone snickered. Ugh, was this what I would have to put up with all season from these two lovebirds? Gross.
Fortunately, those weren’t the kind of thoughts I was having about Girard. Only fucked-up sexual ones, like that day in the shower. Christ, now my jeans were growing uncomfortable again.
“We had a big family dinner, and surprisingly, not in a bowling alley,” Girard said with a wide grin that was so mesmerizing, I cursed under my breath.
Did all these guys have great home lives? Of course I knew that couldn’t be true, but sometimes it sure felt like it.
When Girard met my gaze, I looked away. Fucking hell. One more season of this thing between us and I’d finally be rid of him. Too bad I had to interact with him several days a week for the next few months, since there was no way I could avoid the Pirates’ starting catcher. When I wasn’t pitching, I still had practices with him, and even more unfortunate was the fact that we had to have a certain level of chemistry to pull off wins. I’d fought that chemistry all last year, sometimes to my detriment.
Girard lifted his hand to his shaggy brown hair and brushed his fingers through it, and I zeroed in on his long fingers, vividly remembering how he’d touched me at the bowling alley during the fundraiser last year—firm yet delicate, like I was a piece of his grandmother’s fine china. Harmless but fucking intimate at the same time. Damn, I’d nearly melted from the inside. Over an innocent touch. A touch I hadn’t even known I was desperate for. Now I just sounded pathetic. Desperate for someone to touch me? Or just him? I honestly didn’t know.
But instead of showing him—or anyone else—my vulnerability, my weakness, I got angry and shrugged him off, which resulted in a bloody nose for him. It was an accident, and I certainly didn’t think my elbow could do that much damage, but fuck, it was awful watching him bleed all over the floor.
The result of my actions made me feel so guilty that I tried to make it up to him—in my own way—on the field. And maybe that was why we’d been pretty successful in regionals. We’d gone further than other Easton U teams had in nearly a decade, so that was pretty cool. And who knew what this year might hold.
If only I could relax and play it cool.
But every time Girard was around, I tensed up, as if he’d be able to see exactly what I was feeling from my body language alone, and I couldn’t have that. Not after the shower incident.
I forced myself to unwind my shoulders and stretch my legs beneath the table because if this was how I was acting the very first team meeting, I was in for a long haul. Maybe Girard and I could even get to where we were at regionals last year—friendly but keeping our distance.
Coach Crawford walked to the door and propped it open to allow a breeze to flow inside, since it was getting a bit humid with all our bodies stuffed together. Some guys had even discarded their hoodies and jackets. The beginning of the season was usually chilly and sometimes rainy, which was why our first games were generally played against Southern schools. By March, the weather would improve, and that was probably why it had always been my favorite time of year. How could you beat spring and the opening of baseball? Listen to me being all nostalgic, but knowing there were precious few months left of a sport I’d played for years… I pushed aside the nauseating uncertainty I felt in my stomach every time I considered my future.
“Let’s officially welcome our new hot-shot pitcher—Vickers,” Coach said, patting a guy in the front row on the shoulder. The newb raised his hand in a wave as his freckles became more prominent on his rosy cheeks. I’d heard from the other pitchers that he was a sophomore scouted from a junior college and had a killer fastball. Normally, I’d have a nickname all ready for him, but I couldn’t find it in me right then.