I jam my hands back in my pockets as the ball soars up and up, flying toward the foul pole!
I can’t tell if it’s fair or not, but?—
Is it curving??
YES!
It curves right before it reaches the pole and drops harmlessly into foul territory.
The whole suite exhales. But no one more than me.
“You okay?” Kayla asks, side-eyeing me like she’s trying to see through my head.
“Sure,” I say, even though my nails are digging through my pants into my hips.
Kayla smirks.
I lean toward her. “How’s that morning sickness you’re pretending doesn’t exist?”
She glowers, but that smirk doesn’t quite fade.
Lucas steps back on the mound. Ninety-seven pitches. Three more to hit a hundred. Three more before Fletch has to pull him, no matter how close he is to history.
I wonder if he’ll fight them.
I wonder if it’ll bother him to have to hand it over to Logan, who’s warming up in the bullpen.
Kayla is practically vibrating out of her seat. Cooper’s got an arm slung around Liesel, calm and casual.
And I’m trying not to look at Lucas too closely.
Trying not to admit that there’s something about him—that mix of brash confidence and warm, puppy dog energy—that’s starting to get under my skin.
The second pitch comes in hot. A ball.
I think I’m going to throw up.
Another pitch, and the batter swings.
Makes contact.
Fouls it back.
(My hands are in my pockets, thank you very much.)
And I keep them there, just in case.
Because Lucas is at ninety-nine pitches.
One more.
One more before he has to let it go.
I can’t decide if I’d rather him keep it for himself or share it with his brother.
I can’t decide if I’d like him more if he fought to be the hero or shared the spotlight with someone else.
Either way, my chest is tight. And as Lucas winds up for his final pitch of the night, looking graceful and powerful and maybe even a little tempting, I can’t pretend I’m above it all.
No matter how hard I try to shut it out.
