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“Oh, no. Boo. I thought I saw Alexander Skarsgård, but it was just another hot blond guy.” She clears her throat. “You know, I think there’s one in Moorbridge, too. He plays baseball.”
I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. “Isn’t he your brother?”
“When a man’s attractive, you notice, Mia.”
Fair enough. “He’s just… he’s too much. He’s too fuckingnice.”
She hums. “He tries very hard.”
“To do what?”
“To be nice. To be Sebastian.”
“What do you mean?”
She thanks someone on her end. “Sandwich acquired. Let me sit down first.”
I nearly grind my teeth as I wait on the line for her to find somewhere to sit. I think about asking where she is specifically, but that would derail her, and despite myself, I want to hear what she has to say. Why he tries so hard to beSebastian.
“Okay,” she says finally. “This is amazing. Totally worth the wait.”
“Izzy,” I say. “While I appreciate the play-by-play—”
“I know, I know. It’s just, you don’t watch your parents die in front of you and not be a little fucked up, right? I don’t know for certain, because if he’s talking to anyone, it’s Cooper, but I think he has nightmares. He’s a good guy, but that’s because he tries so hard to be positive.”
My stomach twists. He went out last night, I’m certain of it. I heard him in the hallway when I woke up, but I stayed in bed. I nearly texted him, but I thought better of it.
I know the story in broad strokes. His parents died in a car accident when he was eleven. Richard Callahan was his father’s best friend, so he and his wife adopted him in the aftermath. I guess since he’s so entrenched with the Callahans, I never gave much thought to the family he had before. The mother and father he must have loved and hated losing. I can’t imagine losing my own parents, no matter how much we clash.
“That’s awful.”
Her voice is equally soft. “Yeah. If you’re not into him anymore, whatever. But you must have made an impression on him, because he was moping and he never mopes, so just… be his friend, okay? A friend is never a bad thing.”
13
SEBASTIAN
The best partof my pregame routine is batting practice.
For all my talent in left field—and I do love chasing down fly balls and stopping base hits in their tracks—I’m most comfortable in the batter’s box. I’ve always had a good eye for strikes, and when it’s just practice, I get plenty of nice pitches to hit. It’s what my father was known for, and over the years, every batting coach I’ve worked with has remarked that our swings are nearly identical. Same leg kick, same sweeping arc.
While Ozzy, a lefty with a fantastic curveball, works something out with our pitching coach, I step out of the batter’s box. I tuck my necklace under my collar and adjust my gloves, then tap the end of the bat against my cleats. I’m not superstitious, but I still have a routine.
This game is going to be good. I can feel it. Bryant’s pitcher for the evening is at the bottom of their rotation. If I can keep myself focused, I’ll do some damage on the bases—and hopefully help us get out of the skid we’ve been in for a couple weeks now.
I’ll likely focus better if Mia doesn’t show.
Didn’t stop me from leaving a ticket with Billy, the man who manages the box offices for the McKee baseball and softball programs. One ticket for Captain Kirk. Hopefully she thinks it’s funny. She loves the stars so much, I figured it was a good bet.
Just as I settle back in the box, Coach Martin beckons me over. He’s standing in foul territory, a clipboard underneath his arm. “Callahan, a word.”
I give Ozzy a shrug and jog off. Hunter steps into the batter’s box instead.
I adjust my baseball cap to block the glare. “Coach?”
I admired Coach Martin from the moment I met him. He’s someone who has been around baseball for a long time, and who remains steadfast in his love for it, even as people wonder if America’s game is too slow, or too boring, or too time-consuming. When Cooper decided that he was going to play hockey at McKee—or rather, Richard decided for him and gave Cooper the choice between a couple of top hockey schools—the logical choice was to tag along, and lucky for us, McKee’s baseball program wasn’t too shabby. We were terrible last season and we’ve been terrible this season too, but that’s not for Coach Martin’s lack of trying. Sometimes in sports, luck plays a bigger factor than people want to believe. Sometimes, you try your best, but another team bests you.
His hand, a deep, weathered brown, rubs over his goatee as he considers me. “Thought we might start chatting about the draft.”
