Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Nervous?” I leaned forward to rub his shoulder on the ride over to the high school field. Whenever his dad was in the car, I rode in the back seat.
“Heck no,” he said. “We’re gonna crush those turkeys, right Elliott?”
“Right.” Next to me, Elliott grinned happily. He was wearing his favorite pink T-shirt with his jeans and boots, but instead of the unicorn barrette tonight, he was wearing a Bulldogs cap Beckett had given him. It was a little loose, but he didn’t care.
It had been such a joy to watch the friendship grow between them. Beckett was so sweet with Elliott, so kind and generous. Whether he was teaching him how to sit on a horse or muck out a stall or swing a baseball bat, he never criticized or grew impatient. He never said no when Elliott asked him to play catch or drive the four-wheeler. He never asked why Elliott insisted on wearing a pink dress one day and torn blue jeans the next. He made Elliott feel confident, accepted, and worth his time. And Elliott idolized him.
When we arrived at the field, we wished Beckett luck, and he took off for the dugout. Watching him walk away in his Bulldogs uniform—the team shirt tight on his back and biceps—did swirly things to my insides.
Mr. Weaver, Elliott, and I headed for the stands where Blair, Cheyenne, and Bianca, Mrs. Dempsey, Mrs. Mitchell, and both Morettis were already sitting. Cheyenne hopped down and introduced Elliott to Cole’s daughter Mariah. She was a few years older than he was, but asked if he’d like to hang out with her and some other kids at the concession stand.
“Is it okay?” he asked me.
“Sure.” I pulled some money from my wallet and gave it to him. “Here. In case you guys want a snack. But stick it in your pocket so you don’t lose it, okay?”
“Okay.” He did as I asked, and they turned around and walked toward the concession stand side by side.
“I love your boots,” I heard Mariah say, which made me smile.
“She’s sweet,” I said. “And so pretty. She’s got those blue eyes of Cole’s, doesn’t she?”
“She sure does.” Cheyenne looked after them. “And you don’t have to worry about them. Mariah is very responsible, and she’s been coming to these old man baseball games all her life, so she knows her way around.” She took me by the arm. “Come sit with us.”
“Gosh, I haven’t been to a baseball game in years,” I said as we settled in on the bleachers. I looked around at the high school, the track and football field, the wide expanse of lawn where soccer games were played, and the graduation stage had been set up. “I feel like I’m a teenager again.”
Cheyenne laughed. “Hometowns will do that to you. Have you enjoyed being back?”
“Oh my goodness, so much.” I touched my chest. “Much more than I anticipated. I don’t think I appreciated Bellamy Creek when I was younger. I just couldn’t wait to escape.”
“I was like that too,” Cheyenne said. “Just desperate to get out of here. But by the time I had to choose a place to settle down and find a job, I couldn’t get over feeling like this was where I belonged. Anywhere else I lived had always felt like a stop along the way.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean,” I said, watching the Bulldogs take the field. Beckett’s catcher’s equipment made him look even bigger and brawnier behind the plate.
The game was a nail-biter, with the Bulldogs getting ahead by two runs almost right away, but the Mason City Mavericks tying it up in the third inning and pulling ahead in the fourth. They stayed tied through the seventh, when the Mavericks’ biggest hitter sent a ball sailing over the right field fence. Thankfully, no one was on base, so only the one run was scored. My throat was hoarse from shouting.
Cheyenne was biting her nails. “Shoot. I can tell Cole’s shoulder is bothering him. He should go out and let the other pitcher take over.”
Behind us, Blair leaned over and patted Cheyenne’s shoulder. “He’s good, Chey. Have faith.”
She was right. Cole managed to strike out the next batter, and the Bulldogs headed in from the field to bat.
“I wish I could play,” said Mr. Weaver on my left. He’d been grouchy today, insisting that he had his own game tonight and arguing with Beckett, who was ‘holding him hostage’ in his own home. “I could get a hit off this pitcher.”
I patted his arm. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
The eighth inning passed with no more runs scored, but during the Mavericks’ last at-bat, they managed to score another two runs, putting them up by three.
The Bulldogs only had one more chance to win their first game. Griffin was up first, and after two balls and a called strike sent a line drive rocketing between the third baseman and shortstop, deep into left field—a double.