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“That’s the only part you heard?”
It’s the only part that doesn’t hurt.
Even if Serafina’s the one in the stands, I want to watch Reese on TV. “Don’t give up your dream.”
Reese unfolds, then pats the machine. “I’m gonna stretch. Maybe toss you a few. You want to hit?”
“Yes.”
He moves the machine under the netting, this time with no drops. I grab a bat from the gear pile, then trade Reese’s cocoa ballcap for a dusty batting helmet.
Reese dumps a bucket of balls into the feeder. “I should tape off a box for you.”
“Later.” I duck under the net, staying out of range until Reese gets the motor churning.
After the machine fires the first ball, I know where to stand without tape. Clearing my head, I adjust my grip and square up.
The world quiets when the ball launches.
I swing to hit the freaking moon and whiff so hard I spin.
Laughing, I line up again, this time, focusing on the ball instead of my bottled rage.
Perfect timing.
I crack the ball so hard my bones click, and the only sound more satisfying than my hit is the boom when the ball slams the ceiling.
“Beautiful.” Reese gives my fingers another reason to tremble.
“Weren’t you stretching?” I choke the bat.
“Yeah.” He pins an arm across his chest. “See?”
Have to ignore my lickable audience.
Reese half-asses his stretches just like I’m half-assing my swings.
He won’t stop watching me hit.
I can’t stop watching him exist.
Before I end up taking a ball to the chest, I finally stop peeking.
Once I find that focus, I mostly zone out. I can’t let go all the way—never can when I’m not alone—but I fall into a rhythm that’s just what I need.
I hit the ball, I feel better.
Maybe if I pounded a few alphas, my problems would disappear.
“You’re swinging too early.”
The whoosh of my bat matches the gust from my lungs.
Reese climbs under the net, swirling hazelnut. “Can I show you?”
I grip the bat in self-defense.
The answer should be no.
