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“Sooner or later, you’ll accept it.”

Ha.

Me and Fulton?

That’s about as likely as a TV musical being better than Broadway.

Although, I’ll admit… Grease Live! wasn’t half bad.

She did a twirl out of the bathroom and began rummaging through the pieces of my costume on the floor. “Before I forget, can I have the mask back? Mom doesn’t exactly know I borrowed it.”

“Sure. I think I left it near the balcony.”

Twenty minutes later, though, neither of us could find the crow mask anywhere in my room, on the balcony, or even in the back of my Jeep.

“I don’t understand.” Lauryn threw her hair up into a messy bun. “It didn’t just disappear. So where is it?”

And then I remembered.

The swing set.

The cops.

I jumped.

It fell.

We bumped heads.

Dang it.

“It’s not a ‘where.’ ” I sank into my bean bag. “It’s a ‘who.’ ”

Chapter Four

Reed

“I know there are a lot of expectations of me, and I will do the best I can.”

—Carlos Beltrán

Early mornings were the best time to be at a ballpark. No groundskeepers cutting grass in the outfield. No obnoxious music blasting from the booth or noon-high sun burning the back of your neck. It had only been a few days since I came back to Fairfield, but it had already been one day too many away from the mound.

This was what I needed. Just a blank scoreboard, an empty field, and a ball in my hand.

“I hate you,” Ben muttered.

“What?” I grinned at him as he walked toward home plate like a hungover zombie. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“No one gets up this early during the summer.” He pulled his hat lower and hissed at the morning sun. Or maybe at me.

“My family does.”

“They’re farmers.” He stopped at the fence behind home plate and flopped against it.

“You could try it, you know. Farming. Helping out. You might actually like it.”

He made a face. “I don’t do farming, Reed, and honestly, I can’t believe you can just pick it up again after being away for four years.”