Page 14 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

As soon as I realize we’re heading into the changing room, I dig my heels in again. “Wait. Is this even allowed?”

“They all know me. It’s fine,” Freya assures me, though I don’t feel very assured. I feel like this is going to be a really, really bad idea. She’s never seen me interact with kids, and she probably doesn’t want to. But she has such a tight grip on me that I can’t wiggle away from it, despite my struggle.

As we approach the changing room, she looks at me, an intensity in her eyes that freezes me to the spot. “You don’t have to if you really don’t want to,” she says, softening. “I just think it would be nice for the kids.”

“Fine. Let’s get it over with,” I groan.

She opens the door to the changing room and pushes me inside, leaving me at the mercy of one confused coach and a whole bunch of teenage boys who glare at me for a second before all their mouths drop open as they recognize me.

“Oh. My. God,” whispers Matt, punctuating every syllable hard as he glances between me and Freya. He gives her a strong look, and she shakes her head hard back at him. I’m not one hundred percent sure what this communication is supposed to mean, and I can’t help feeling a pang of envy. My brother and I never achieved that level of psychic communication.

But I’m going to guess it’s got something to do with his suspicions about where she’s been for the last few nights. I throw Matt a look of disapproval too, just for good measure. It’s cute that he’s got the wrong idea, but he definitely does have the wrong idea. So there.

I give the best smile I can muster and take a step forward. “Hey, everyone. My name is Jackson. You probably all know me as the pitcher of the Prairie Dogs.”

They all nod in agreement, staring up at me with wide, expectant eyes. I clear my throat and continue. “I just wanted to say, you guys are doing great. I mean, obviously you’re losing, which is not great. But you’ve made some good plays. Pitcher: your slider is cool, but your fast ball needs work. Careful with the positioning of your arm before you throw. First base: watch the pitcher, not the batter. Don’t get distracted by posturing. Second base: you’re doing good. But…”

I continue around the rest of the team, giving them all little pointers, kicking myself internally every time I’m slightly too mean to a child. This is nothing compared to what our coach says to us, but I’m trying to remember that these are just kids. They don’t need to be bullied by me so they can win a school game. It’s not really that deep.

Hell, even if a college official was here, it wouldn’t matter if they lost. They don’t care if people win; they just want to see how you play.

“So, get back out there and kick the other guys asses,” I say in conclusion with an awkward thumbs-up.

The kids burst into applause that I don’t think deserve, and I nod slowly, wanting to escape. It’s not that I’m not used to this kind of attention — the press are way scarier than a room full of fifteen-year-old boys. But there’s a reason I refuse to do school talks and charity games and all that feel-good, heartwarming inspiration shit. I’m not really sure what to do with that. I’m just not cut out for being a nice person.

I’ve always known that I need to focus all my energy into the game. That’s how I’m going to be the best. That’s all that counts.

“Thank you for those words,” stammers the coach, still clearly confused that a baseball star has found his way into her locker room. “We’ll be sure to take all your comments on board.”

I nod at her in a smile-less recognition, and then Freya ushers me back out of the changing room and back to our place on the stand. “Thank you for doing that,” she says genuinely, her hand still on my arm as we sit down. “It will mean so much to them.”

“It was nothing. I was just saying it how I saw it.”

"Yeah, but it’s not every day a professional star comes to your school and gives you a tip on how to be a better player.”

For a moment, our eyes lock, her hand leaving a burning imprint on my skin, my heart rate increasing like I’ve started jogging. Even I’m not so stupid as to not know what this means. But I can’t allow it. “I guess not. We still gotta see if they win first, though.”

She smiles, finally taking her hand away, leaving a cold vacuum where she was. “They’re only two runs down. I wouldn’t count them out just yet.”

I shrug again, not willing to open my mouth and say something else. She’s right, of course, and there’s still plenty of time for everything to change. But she’s already had way too many victories today. I’m not letting her have another one, especially when she’s already having such an effect on me.

Still, I don’t say no to the snacks she offers me.

The boys bounce back out onto the field, seeming to have a new energy that they didn’t have before. Matt glances up at us before taking his place on the mound. Freya throws him a thumbs-up, and if he sees, he doesn’t react. He’s playing it cool.

It’s tense all the way through the eighth inning, with neither team scoring, just keeping the tie that they’ve built, but Matt comes through in the ninth, striking out the first two batters perfectly. I feel like I’m holding my breath as he goes to throw for the third batsman.

He does a good slider, and the batter hits it high into the air. It comes back down into the midfield where one of the guys catches it with ease.

Freya jumps to her feet, whooping and clapping at the victory, calling out in celebration for her brother. I get to my feet too, applauding, even letting out a tiny whoop to be supportive. Fortunately, I don’t think Freya hears because she’s too busy waving and making signals at her brother, who rolls his eyes at her. Fifteen-year-olds are so easy to embarrass; it’s hilarious.

And then Freya looks over at me and smiles, her face slightly flushed with excitement, and I feel that rush again, the warmth that spreads from my scalp to my toes. Something is happening to me. Something that I shouldn’t be enjoying.

But I think I do.

CHAPTER 10

FREYA

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