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Reed

“I love it when people doubt me. It makes me work harder to prove them wrong.”

—Derek Jeter

I had never pitched a no-hitter before, but kissing Eliza Crowley felt like what I imagined a no-no would.

I couldn’t talk about it.

But I wanted to.

Couldn’t think about it.

But I needed to.

Because thinking about it and reliving it in my head reminded me that it was real, that it actually happened, and that it was fucking amazing.

And yet I still couldn’t keep another part of my head from screaming, What the hell have you done, Fulton?

This summer was already stressing me out to the max. Kissing Eliza and wanting to do it again and again would definitely not make it any easier.

“You’re quiet this morning,” Ben said from the passenger seat of my truck.

You would be too, if you had not only thrown our pact out the window but also lit it on fire.

To make up for it, I had packed up Granddad’s fishing gear early this morning and taken Ben with me. Ironically, we were heading to the same area where Eliza got her flat tire. Couldn’t escape the girl if I tried.

Not that I wanted to anymore.

“Just a lot on my mind. Sorry,” I said.

“Brett’s got some good ideas about new pranks, but I think you and I could do better—”

“Maybe we should just let it be for now. We’ve got a championship to focus on.” Guilt snaked its way around my stomach and squeezed. I wasn’t sure if I’d said that last part more for him or me.

A sign for Cattail Creek appeared on the right-hand side of the road. I slowed down and pulled the truck into a small gravel parking space.

Ben and I both moved around to the back of the truck for the gear. He opened the tackle box and rummaged through it. “Should we have picked up some crickets?”

“Nah,” I said. “Trout here love PowerBait. We’ll stick with that.”

Ben held up the container of PowerBait balls and frowned. “Pink?”

“Don’t ask me why, but Granddad has sworn by that color for years, and he always comes back with a bucket full of fish.”

Several minutes after walking through the woods, we came to the creek. Fallen trees and moss-covered stones outlined most of the muddy brown water. Upstream, the water rushed around a half-finished dam of sticks and branches.

Ben stretched and groaned. “I should’ve taken your nana up on that extra cup of coffee before we left.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Nana’s coffee was known for packing a punch. I only ever needed one cup to feel the jitters, but Ben was a caffeine junkie. He had to drink it all day.

I reached into the tackle box and handed him the container of bait. “No bobbers?” he asked.

“Nope. I mean, you could use them, but when you fish in a place where the water is always moving, like a creek or a river, it’s not really needed. You can’t see it much.” I helped him put the bait on his hook, and then we separated by several yards, Ben upstream.

I stepped into the shallow water. The pebbles pressed through the thin soles of my old sneakers as I cast out. Ben stayed closer to the underbrush than the water. Neither of us spoke for a long while, until Ben yelped about his line.

“I think I got one,” he said as he jumped.