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She’s hanging her head with her arms wrapped around her middle, almost like she’s attempting to comfort herself. I can see dried tears staining her cheeks, the moonlight highlighting her sorrowful expression.She looks so fucking sad.Strands of her blonde hair have escaped from her ponytail, falling like a curtain around her delicate face. Her uniform is filthy, covered in dirt and grass stains from her dive.How can someone look so beautiful and broken at the same time?I clear my throat, letting her know she’s not alone. Startled, she jolts her head up to look at me.
“Phoebe, what are you still doing here? I was just about to lock up. Is everything okay?” I ask, slowly taking a seat next to her on the metal bench.
“I’m fine. I was just waiting for my ride,” she replies, wiping her damp cheeks with her jersey.
I snort. That’s a lie, but I let her think I believe her. “Your ride is over an hour late. Do you need me to call someone? Actually, let me drive you. It’s late, and I’m not leaving you alone in the dark.”
“My parents were supposed to be here,” she says flatly, turning her face to look at me. Her piercing eyes have transformed into a shade of deep blue, and her bottom lip trembles as she tries to fight fresh tears from falling. “Maisie asked me if I needed a ride when they didn’t show, and I told her no. I was hoping they were running late or would call with an excuse, but I think they just forgot. Maybe something more important came up.” She takes a deep breath to steady her shaky breaths.
I want to fucking strangle her parents.
“It’s their loss that they weren’t here tonight. You made one of the best plays I’ve ever seen. Don’t let them take that away from you,” I whisper.
She shrugs her shoulders and stares straight ahead, not responding to my comment. After a moment of sitting in silence, I realize she doesn't have any plans to move from her corner of the dugout. Does she really expect me to just leave her here?Hell no, not happening.
“Alright, let’s go,” I exhale. “I’m taking you home.” I stand, extending my hand to help her up. Instead of taking my hand, she just shakes her head.
“No, I’ll call Colin. Just give me a minute,” she replies, reaching to pull her phone from her gym bag.
I sigh at her stubbornness. “Phoebe, please don’t be difficult. Let me give you a ride home. I’m driving past campus anyways. Plus, it’s a Friday night, are you really going to ask him to drop his plans?”
I’m sure that fucker would be more than happy to give Phoebe a ride, but I’m not about to let that happen.You have no right to be so possessive, Knox. What’s your problem?
“Are you coming with me or am I going to have to call the cops to report a trespasser?” I joke.
She looks up at me again and sneers in my direction. “It depends; are you going to be an ass to me tomorrow for giving me a ride?”
“No, I promise,” I reply, feeling guilty for the way I’ve treated her. “Come on,” I add, holding out my hand. “Let me take you home.”
“Okay,” she responds, her voice barely coming out a whisper.
Color me shocked. When she finally places her hand in mine, it takes all my willpower to not pull her into my chest and wrap her in my arms. It fucking kills me to see her this way. She deserves so much more than her sorry excuse for parents.
After I lock up the field, we sit in silence as I drive Phoebe to her apartment. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, picking at the skin around her nails, unable to steady her hands. I try to think of something, anything, that will cheer her up, when I remember what I learned from creeping on her Instagram. Grabbing my phone off the dashboard, I open up Spotify and type “Taylor Swift” into the search bar. I hit shuffle on the first playlist that pops up, and a song called “Wildest Dreams” filters through the speakers.Oh God, this sounds like a love song.
“Didn’t really peg you for a Swiftie,” Phoebe finally comments, earning me a small smile from the passenger seat.
“Why, because I’m old?” I joke. “There are many things you don’t know about me, Phoebe,” I smirk.
Instead of continuing our banter, Phoebe turns her head, looking out the window and fidgeting with her hands.Dammit, I just want to touch her.She looks so sad and anxious, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.
Slowly, I move my hand over the center console and slide it beneath the hand resting in her lap. As soon as our skin makes contact, her head snaps up to meet my eyes in shock. Without thinking, I curl my fingers around her small ones, and wrap her hand in mine. I look down at our linked hands and notice goosebumps covering her arms. Every time we touch, it’s like a current of electricity ignites down my spine, and it’s nice to know she feels it too.
Her hand feels too good in mine.I never want to stop touching her. Holding hands is such a simple gesture, but it’s never felt like this with anyone else. Unable to stop myself, I gently brush my thumb back and forth against her skin. Her breathing has slowed, and she seems a million times calmer than she did a few minutes ago. I know this is wrong, but right now, I would do anything to make her feel better. In this moment, she’s all that matters.
We hold hands the rest of the drive to her apartment, my thumb caressing her hand the entire time. The heat radiating off her, the feel of her soft palm against mine; it’s all causing me to wonder what other parts of her skin would feel like. Thank God it’s dark outside, because I can’t physically hide my arousal, what her touch does to my body.
I pull up to a dimly lit parking spot outside her complex, in case she feels weird about me dropping her off a second time. I expected her to let go of my hand and start gathering her things once we parked, but instead, she continues holding my hand, staring out the window in a blank stare. Silence fills my Jeep as I turn down the radio, trying to get her attention. I have no idea what she’s thinking, but I’m tired of guessing. I ask her what I’ve been wanting to know for weeks.
“Phoebe… why do you do it?” I ask. She takes a deep breath before responding, fully understanding my question.
“My parents,” she says, turning her gaze to fully face me, keeping her grip on my hand. “I do it for my parents. I started playing when I was young and immediately fell in love with everything about softball. The smell of morning dew on the grass before an early game, the feeling of making a game-changing play, the comradery of a team. Not only was I obsessed, but I was good. As I got older, my skills ramped up and people started to notice me. Once my parents realized that I wasn't going to be a lawyer, they decided to use my athletic talent to climb the social ladder. That’s when I started falling out of love with the sport, when it became about them. The pressure I felt to get into this program took all the joy out of playing. CCU was all my parents could talk about for years; they never thought to ask me if I wanted this. So, there’s your answer. If it looks like I’m not happy, it’s because I’m not, and I haven't been for a while.”
I’ve coached dozens of athletes with parents like hers, parents who make the sport about themselves instead of their children. Unfortunately, this parenting style only burns kids out from a game they once loved. I wince at her statement; it makes me sad to see something she used to love become something she can no longer stand.
“Why do you keep playing? You’re eighteen. If you’re miserable, you can quit. Trust me, college will fly by. Why waste it on something that no longer brings you joy?” I ask honestly. An unhappy player can turn into a bad player extremely quickly.Sure, that’s why you’re asking.
“Because I need an education. How would I afford CCU without my scholarship or my parents? I told them I was contemplating quitting once, and they threatened to take away my car, my phone, basically anything they pay for. If I can’t make them look good, they want nothing to do with me.” She says it with a sardonic smile that only makes me angry with her parents.
