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Business? “We’re leaving. Now. ”

Her fingers curl in my hair and tighten, yanking to the point of pain. She leans down and places her forehead to mine. The stench of beer rolls off her breath. “I promise. I promise I’ll go with you. Listen to me. I have to clean some stuff up. Give me a couple of weeks, then we’ll go. ”

The doorknob wiggles and my heart kicks into high gear. He’s back.

Mom grips my hand painfully. “My bedroom. ” She drags me through the apartment and loses her balance as she trips over the pieces of broken furniture. “Go out the window. ”

Bile rises in my throat and I begin to shake.

“No. Not without you. ”

Leaving Mom here is like watching sand run out of an hourglass while I’m chained to the wall, unable to flip it back over. Someday, Trent will go too far and it won’t just be a bruise or a broken bone. He’ll take the life out of her body. Time with Trent is an enemy.

“Sky!” Trent shouts when he enters the apartment. “I told you to keep the door unlocked. ”

Mom hugs me tightly. “Go, baby,” she whispers. “Come and get me in a few weeks. ”

She rips the cardboard off the glass and I jump back when a hand shoots through the already open window. “Give her to me. ”

Isaiah pokes his head in and both of his hands latch onto my body. I stop breathing and realize one way or another, one of these guys is going to kill me.

Ryan

I SNAP MY ARM FORWARD. With a thump, the ball hits outside the orange box taped onto the black tarp bag that serves as a target. My mind’s not in it today and I need it to be.

Placing my pitches is the priority. If Logan calls inside—I need to hit inside. If Logan calls outside—I need to hit outside. If he calls straight down the plate—I need to smack that mother too.

I keep thinking about Beth. She looked so damn small and lost that I wanted to gather her in my arms and shield her from the world.

Definitely not a reaction I ever thought I’d have with Skater Girl. I slap my glove against my leg. I’ll find out what’s going on with her at dinner. Silence will no longer be accepted.

I roll my shoulder in an effort to find some life in it, but I come up empty. I’ve pitched for the past hour and the muscles in my arm are as useful as jelly.

The training facility isn’t much, just a warehouse with green turf carpeting and an air conditioner welded to the ceiling. The unit buzzes overhead and every few seconds a bat cracks.

My coach, John, pushes off the metal wall.

“Good, but you’re still throwing with your arm. Your power and consistency are going to come from your legs. How’s the arm?”

Tired. Beth must hate this place. A warehouse full of guys hitting balls into nets and pitching into bags. Part of me is disappointed. She hasn’t stood once to watch.

“I can throw a couple more if you want. ”

“Have you been resting your arm like we’ve discussed?”

“Yes, sir. ” Not as much as I should. I can pinpoint the exact location of my rotator cuff: approximately two inches down from the top of my shoulder and, right now, it aches.

“Let’s call it a night. ”

I roll the ball over my fingers. Beth isn’t the only issue that’s plagued me this practice and no matter how I try to ignore the thoughts, they keep returning. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot. ”

“If you had to choose between playing college ball and playing pro out of high school, what would you choose?”

John scratches his cheek as he stares at me with a mix of wonder and confusion. “Do you want to go to college?”

I don’t know. “If you had the choice, what would you have done?”

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