Page 24 of Bad Ball Hitter

“What is it you do?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“I’m a pet groomer down on East Broadway Street. That’s the closest I’ve gotten to my Mastiff.”

“I can see you doing that. You always had a way with animals.”

“If she’d play her cards right, she’d have a way with the owner of that Mastiff,” Miranda mumbles.

“That’s not true.” Pink coats Lila’s face as she shakes her head, but something about her expression indicates a hint of truth to Miranda’s words.

A pang of jealousy hits my chest out of nowhere. I clenched my teeth, wanting to know how this faceless guy measured up to me.

Fighting the urge to ask if she wants it to be true.

Wondering why I even care.

“Whatever. The poor man comes in weekly. No one needs their dog groomed that many times.” Miranda rolls her eyes as her fingers graze my arm, a subtle claim that goes unnoticed by everyone but me. I unfurl my fingers so she can slip hers through. With a grin that says she wants more than my hand, Miranda asks, “What kind of dog did you want?”

“Drake doesn’t like dogs,” Lila says with such ease that I can’t help but meet her gaze again. But this time, I feel Miranda’s suspiciousness oozing as she looks between us.

“I had an incident when I was younger. I can tolerate them now, but owning one? Lila’s right. It’s not going to happen.”

“That’s good because I don’t have the time or want to deal with the furry creatures,” Miranda interjects.

I have to hold back the “good thing I wasn’t asking,” which is on the tip of my tongue. I’d shut down any talk about the future with any other girl, but I’m trying to be committed. For once in my adult life, I want to be a good boyfriend. I am not sure if the forced smile is working, though.

“That is something you won’t ever have to worry about.” I squeeze Miranda for added affirmation.

“I am curious as to what happened?” Miranda asks.

I take a deep breath and force my gaze away from Miranda’s. But Lila knows this story well. She knows everything about my childhood, but we share this story. “I was attacked by a wild dog when I was eight.”

Miranda gasps. “Seriously?” She starts looking me over as if it just happened. “Were you hurt?”

Lila and I lock eyes. From their depths, I see reflected the memory of a terrified boy covered in blood, his screams echoing through the woods. She was so brave that day, grabbing my knife and stabbing the dog. She saved me.

“I was. Bad enough that I needed stitches.” I lift my tattooed arm to reveal an old scar running down the side of my forearm—an ugly reminder of that day.

Without thought, Lila’s fingers trace along the scar.

“That’s why you got inked? To cover it up?” Lila asks, voice soft.

I nod, unable to say anything else.

Miranda clears her throat loudly, pulling our attention. But before she can say anything—to complain or reclaim me, or whatever she plans to do—I stand up, gathering the scattered plastic plates and cups.

“Let’s pack up,” I say, more curtly than I intend. My pulse races with a mix of emotions—lingering touches, forgotten memories, and Miranda’s suspicious gaze—I don’t quite understand.

Miranda’s lips tighten into a thin line, her hands folding over her chest as she watches me clean up our picnic spread. From the corner of my eyes, I see her glance at Lila, who is also standing up and helping gather Jake’s scattered toys and blanket.

In the following silence, my mind replays every moment of our conversation. Lila’s soft touch on my scarred skin sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the cool Boston breeze blowing around us. It feels too intimate—too reminiscent of a time when we were more than friends who just happened to share a past.

“I’m sorry about the damn dog,” Miranda says, finally breaking the silence as we load everything into the trunk of my car. “But had I grown up with you, I would’ve been there for you.”

I hold back a sigh. Miranda doesn’t strike me as a nurturing person. I can tell she tried with Jake, but she didn’t pull it off. His body language alone screams they aren’t close. I’m not sure why she’s pushing it.

“Mama Lila, can we get ice cream on the way back.”

“Oh, I like that idea,” I say, much to Jake’s excitement. From the look on Lila’s face, I worry I’ve overstepped. “That is if your mom is okay with it.”

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