Page 3 of Praising the Pitcher

She rounds second and then third before running toward home with her whole team waiting. One thing she can’t stand is if a player gets a home run and takes her sweet-ass time to run the bases. If it’s Haven’s hit, she’ll run like she’s on a time limit.

Gigi hugs her, hitting the top of her helmet a few times before they head back toward the dugout.

Gigi is beautiful and intriguing, no doubt. When I’m around her, it becomes my mission to make her blush because it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. But that’s harmless because I would never act on my attraction to her. I have a rule, and that’s to stay away from my sister’s friends. It’s been firmly in place since I fell in love with one in high school and ended up dating her for a year and a half. When she cheated on me with my best friend, not only did our relationship end, but so did the friendship between her and Haven.

I may have sworn off commitments and taken up the role of being a playboy after getting my heart ripped out and stomped on, but I also made a rule that I wouldn’t hook up with my sister’s friends ever again. I didn’t want Haven to lose any more friends because of me.

Even if she is better off without that traitorous bitch …

Yet, even knowing my own rule, when the guys all start chatting beside me, and NEU heads back into the dugout, and the celebration is over … my eyes still find Gigi fucking Jacobs. Because how can they not?

TWO

GIGI

I shift around in the booth as my dad flips through the menu, as if he’s not going to get the same thing he gets every time we come here.

And every time, he complains that they screwed it up.

He hates this diner; he’s always made that clear. But he knows I only have a few hours between class and practice, and this is what’s open today.

The waitress appears, asking if we’re ready to order. When we both nod in approval, my father orders first—his usual over-easy eggs with toast. When it’s my turn, my mouth waters at the thought of French toast. As a kid, the only time I got a breakfast like that was when my dad was out of town and my mom would make it for me. Even now, I rarely eat anything that’s unhealthy because, for my entire life, I’ve been made to think about protein and carbs and making good choices for my body.

“And for you, my dear?” the waitress asks, looking at me over her glasses.

“Hmm … French toast does sound good …” I say, trailing off as I wait to see if my dad will push back or if he’s in a rare mood where he’ll let it go.

“You said you were having the veggie omelet with wheat toast, sweetie,” he corrects, immediately telling me what I was wondering before he smiles at the waitress. “She’ll have the veggie omelet with wheat toast.”

At first, the lady just stares at him, but finally, her eyes narrow and shift back to mine. “Do you want French toast or an omelet, hun?”

French toast … obviously, I think to myself, but when I feel my father’s eyes burning against my face, I close the menu and slide it to her.

“I’ll take the omelet, please.” I smile, trying to sell her that it’s what I want, feeling uncomfortable as hell. “Thank you.”

Slowly, she takes the menu, and I look away from her because I can feel the judgment. Once she’s gone, my dad sits up a little straighter in his seat.

“French toast before a practice?” he scolds, clearly disgusted that I’d even consider something like that. “No wonder you looked a little sluggish at last week’s scrimmage. What did you eat before that game? Chocolate chip pancakes?”

“No, sir,” I whisper with a shake of my head.

He’s silent for a few seconds, and I don’t dare to look him in the eye because as it is, my nerves are already shot. He has a way of getting under my skin. At a game, I’m calm. I know what I need to do, and I’m there to get my job done. With him? I’m always ready for the next dig he’ll throw my way.

“Well, that’s too bad. At least then you could have blamed your performance on making a shitty breakfast choice,” he mutters. “You and your team got lucky, you know.”

He’s wrong. We didn’t get lucky; we outplayed the other team. I outpitched their pitcher. Harley didn’t let a single ball get past her. And all the women behind me did their jobs. I couldn’t have played a more perfect game. Yet, even if I found a way to, he’d still tell me how crappy I did.

Because that’s what he does.

“Is anyone in there?” he says, whispering angrily. “God, kid. I swear sometimes no one is home.”

“S-sorry.” I drag in a breath. “I’ll tighten it up next game.”

Maybe he’s right. The other team wasn’t hitting off me, and I assumed it was because I was pitching well, but maybe it’s just because I really did get lucky.

My dad paid a huge percentage toward the upgrades to our facility … that’s probably why Coach continues to play me.

The intrusive thoughts quickly fill my mind, telling me I’m overrated and all the ugly things I can’t keep out. Without the man across from me, I probably wouldn’t have even made it this far. Because of him, I’m playing at one of the leading softball programs in the country.