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I make it two steps before someone across the field shouts, “Heads up!”
Other shouts of warning are quick to follow.
I spin around, alarmed, and jump back when Corey’s arm springs out in front of me.
Smack.
A baseball slams into Corey’s palm.
My jaw drops.
Corey lowers his arm and drops the ball into his free hand, shaking out the other with a low hiss. Then, his gaze meets mine. “Are you okay?”
My mouth snaps shut, and I shriek, “Me? What about you? Did you break your hand?”
“My hand is fine.” He tucks it gently against his chest.
“Let me see.” I rush forward and grab his wrist, tugging until he lowers his arm to let me look at his hand. I suck in a breath when I see the angry red hue developing over the swelling skin.
Kendrick jogs over. “Woo, wee. That one was a doozy. Your hand okay, Corey?”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not!” I argue. “Look at his palm. It’s already bruising.”
“You should get some ice on that,” Kendrick says wisely. “Before the joints lock up from swelling.”
Oh my god.
Corey is slated to be the starting pitcher this season. Charles Wilson will kill me if he learns his star injured his throwing hand at a community service event. He might even fire the person responsible for organizing it—me.
“I’m fine,” Corey repeats. Then, he hollers across the field. “Watch where you’re fucking hitting, Chen.”
“Language!” I dart a meaningful glance at the group of kids scattered around us.
Corey follows my gaze and frowns. “Right. Sorry.”
I shake my head at him, unable to fight off a rueful smile.
A different reporter from a local TV station hurries over. Her cameraman follows. “Corey Johnson, that was some catch. I’m Charlotte from Channel Seven News.” She stops in front of him and shoves a padded microphone in his face. “Care to share what just happened with our audience?”
He scowls. “No.”
Looks like Corey’s earlier friendliness is over.
The pretty reporter isn’t deterred. She brings the microphone towards herself. “You just caught a hit ball with your pitching hand. Are you injured? How will this impact your play at the start of the season?”
“It won’t,” Corey says. “I just need ice” Without warning, he wraps an arm around my shoulder and tugs me into his side. “Come on, Carlee.”
I’m stunned as he leads me away from the persistent reporter, but not before I see the interested gleam in her gaze as she takes in the sight of me pressed into Corey’s side.
Embarrassment floods me.
I’m stiff as we walk off the field. It isn’t until Corey has sent one of the ball boys to get a bag of ice and we’re almost back to the bus that I shrug his arm off and hiss, “What the hell was that?”
At this point, the whole team knows I grew up with Corey, but that doesn’t mean I want to put our relationship in the public eye. I mean friendship. Acquaintanceship? Whatever it is I have with Corey Johnson… I want it to stay private. I don’t need anyone to get the wrong idea.
“What do you mean?” Corey’s voice is even. Too even.
