And then I’m on the bag at first, squeezing in next to Stacey Sanderson. Who, up until a minute ago, was my least favorite player on the Northland team.
She can hit. She can run. And she’s Jake’s gorgeous ex-girlfriend.
From, like, two years ago. Or something. Whatever. I’m not sure—but there’s a history there. And she’s been reminding me of it the whole game. Giving me side-mouthed sass every time I’ve gotten on base. Which, let’s be honest, has been a lot.
This time, I strike first. Shaking my head as I clap home our third-base runner, Rosemary, for the tying score. “One away, Sanderson. All because your girl Cleary can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
The corners of Stacey’s mouth quirk up but her eyes stay at home, where Addie is settling into her mega-erect stance. The girl can dunk and hit the three, but she’s a praying mantis in cleats. “I’d say she hit the broad side of something, all right.”
I snort and roll my eyes. “Jake loves my curves.”
“Jake also runs headfirst into a pack of bodies for three months a year. Brain cells aren’t his forte, Rodinsky.”
“Whatever, Skeletor.”
Addie dusts Kelly’s curveball, but it falls straight into the catcher’s mitt. Strike one.
Come on, McAndry. Just a base hit. No extra innings. Just a straight seven-inning pass to the championship.
Stacey sniffs. “I have a lot of admirers of my ass,thankyouverymuch.”
I don’t even miss a beat. “They’re just trying to figure out how you sit comfortably on something so flat.”
Addie squares her shoulders and waits for another pitch,looking very badass. Kelly is takingforfreakingever, and Isowant to inch off the base and away from Stacey’s fish lips—too bad it’s not allowed. But then Cleary actually does something right and rips a strong fastball. I lead off base, sure Addie will connect, but McAndry hesitates—strike. Shit. I dive back in just as the catcher whips the ball to first. I hit the dirt just in time, fingertips grazing the base before Stacey gets the tag.
Called safe, I stand, not bothering to wipe off the dust streaking across my chest and the Eagles logo.
“Nice skunk streaks, Rodinsky.”
Whatever.I keep watching Addie, willing her to mow down whatever-the-hell pitch Cleary comes out with next.
“I think they highlight my assets much better than my uniform on its own,” I shoot back.
“I’m not so sure about that”—here comes the pitch, fast and straight, and square in the batter’s box—“better ask your sister.”
Addie’s bat rockets forward and connects, sending the ball straight into the gap between second and third, dropping short of the outfielder at left.
My body knows it’s supposed to run—it’s been trained to run at the crack of the bat for the past thirteen years—but my mind is reeling. Did she just imply what I think she implied?
Stunned, I stutter-step, weighed down by her voice in my ears. Somehow, I move forward enough to make it to second, giving Addie room at first so Christy can score thewalk-off run. But my brain is back at first. Where Stacey is standing, punching her free hand into her glove, pissed that Northland’s state run is now officially over. She’s a senior, so it’s really the end of her road. We’ve won and she’s ended her high school career with a loss.
I should smile. Collapse in relief. Cheer about going to the championship game. But I can’t—not until I respond. I have to. I can’t just let her say something like that and then go home like it didn’t happen.
Sanderson is moping at first, so I jog back down the first-to-second line. My teammates are all celebrating at home base with Christy, but there’s no way I can go straight there. I drop in next to Stacey, now walking in the direction of her dugout.
“What did you say?” My voice is clipped.
She doesn’t even look in my direction. “Nothing.”
“No, I think you did. And I think you meant something very specific.”
Stacey’s eyes roll my way. They’re a muddy shade of brown, made worse by the fact that her eyebrows are on the endangered species list. “Doesn’t it bother you? Your sister being paid to check out your teammates?”
“Excuse me?”
She purses her lips and says, slowly, “You heard me. Your sister. Is paid. To check out. Your teammates.”
The knuckles of my right hand smack her straight across the ski jump of her obnoxiously pert nose, and we tumbleto the infield dirt. I have her pinned, my butt across her kidneys, knees on either side of her squirming stomach.
