Page 39 of Stealing Summer

I met her eyes steadily. "I know, Mom." My voice was firm. "But Reese—he's a lot different than he seems."

She sighed, a soft exhale of understanding. "I understand that, honey. Just... be careful, okay?" Her hand reached out, fingers brushing against mine in a fleeting gesture of caution.

Those words were becoming too familiar. "I will, Mom," I assured her, though the edges of my patience were beginning to fray. I was getting tired of people saying that to me. I was tired of the warning that hung over my head like a storm cloud.

A few hours later, the lights of the baseball field cut through the dusk, illuminating the neatly lined chalk and the crowd gathering in the stands. The energy was electric as players from both teams warmed up on the field, tossing balls back and forth to loosen up their arms.

"Chandler, look over there," my dad whispered, nudging me gently in the ribs with his elbow.

"Where?" I followed his gaze toward several people taking their seats.

"Guy in the red shirt, a couple rows behind us." He tilted his head slightly to direct my attention. "He's on the coaching staff for the Atlanta Braves."

I nodded, my stomach fluttering with excitement. The possibility that any of them could be one step closer to their dreams sent a surge of nervous energy through me.

My eyes found Boston in the dugout, laughing with some teammates. He seemed loose and relaxed, his blonde hair windswept as usual. Then I noticed Reese standing nearby, an intense look of focus on his face as he watched the players on the field. His jaw was clenched and his eyes blazed with competitive fire.

“Reese looks ready to dominate out there,” I remarked.

Dad agreed. “Yeah, I’m sure they’re all feeling the pressure.”

I hoped they would shine under the stress and knew they all had what it took to play at the pro level. Win or lose, there’s no way anyone could deny the talent on that team.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, introducing the starting lineup. It was time. The boys jogged out onto the field, game faces on. I tilted my head, scanning the crowd for one person I really wanted to find. Just then, like a stroke of fate, Boston’s mom weaved her way through the crowd, giving us a sense of relief. She slipped into the seat beside me, the space we’d been guarding with our lives.

“Made it,” she breathed out, giving a faint smile as she settled in.

“Hi, Ms. Riley,” I greeted, but my eyes darted to Boston, who just took his shortstop position. He looked in our direction, and for a split second, I could see his shoulders relax ever so slightly. Relief washed over his features—comforted by his mother’s presence.

Reese stood on the mound, rubbing the baseball between his fingers.

“Think he’s gonna throw a no-hitter today?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual, eyes glancing back and forth from Reese to Boston.

“Definitely,” I replied, though I wondered why she was asking about Reese when tonight could easily be a huge game for Boston. Something else also tugged at my attention. Ms. Riley had always been the epitome of vibrancy, her cheers the loudest, her spirit infectious. Today, she was different. Her hair, usually flowing freely, was pulled back under a baseball cap.

“New hat?” I prodded gently, trying to gauge her mood.

“Oh, this?” She reached up, self-consciously touching the brim. “Yeah, just grabbed something on my way out.”

“I have never seen you wear a hat,” I teased.

She managed a half-smile instead, her eyes flickering away. “Thought I’d try something... low-key today.”

“Low-key” wasn’t a word in Ms. Riley’s vocabulary, not when it came to supporting Boston. An uneasy feeling coiled in my stomach, but before I could inquire further, the umpire bellowed, “Play ball!” and the game snapped into motion. Ms. Riley clapped her hands, albeit softly, her eyes tracing every pitch and swing with an intensity that belied her subdued demeanor.

I watched her as much as I watched the game, and in those moments, the threads of worry began to weave a pattern I couldn’t quite decipher. Something was off, but the why of it remained just beyond reach, hidden beneath the brim of a baseball cap and the forced curve of her smile.

Reese grinned as he took the mound and gave Parker a nod, his dark hair catching the sunlight as he turned. His athletic body tensed, preparing for the pitch. As his arm drew back, I noticed the pendant necklace he always wore glinted against his chest. With a sudden burst of speed, Reese’s arm whipped forward, releasing the baseball in a blur. It rocketed through the air, cleaving a path straight towards home plate. Parker snapped his glove out and the ball smacked into the leather with a satisfying thwack.

“Can you believe that pitch?” I asked my parents, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Can’t deny his talent,” Mom agreed, her eyes sparkling with admiration.

“Wow,” I breathed, unable to tear my eyes away from the next ball’s trajectory. It was the fastest pitch I had ever seen, and it left me feeling more in awe of Reese than I had ever been before. The sheer power, the precision—it all added to his undeniable attractiveness.

As the game continued, I couldn’t help but watch Reese with newfound appreciation. Each pitch, each swing of the bat–-it all showcased his incredible talent. Whether he knew it or not, every move he made on that field only drew me closer to him, making it impossible to deny the growing attraction between us.

“Reese is really bringing the heat,” my dad commented from next to me, his eyes tracking the game intently. “And Parker’s got a cannon behind the plate. They make a good battery.”

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