Page 1 of Bad Ball Hitter

PROLOGUE

Lila

EIGHT YEARS OLD

Why couldn’t I be taller?

Letting out a frustrated cry, I grip the tree branch tighter as I stretch my arm upwards. Just a few more inches, I’ll have the specific pinecone I want. Dirt cakes my knees from scouring the forest floor, and my hands are sticky with tree sap, but I don’t care. All that matters is getting this perfect-sized, stubby cone. Though, I need to hurry. It’s getting late, and being stuck in the woods after dark is scary.

I push on my tiptoes. So close that my fingers brush the bottom of the prize, the branch wobbling beneath. Almost there.

“Whatcha doin’?” His voice slices through the quiet like the crack of a bat against a ball, startling me.

The limb beneath me snaps and falls to the ground, bringing me along. Oomph. I land right on my butt. To be fair, the fall wasn’t far—only a foot from the ground—but it stung all the same. I turn to glare at the rude intruder, fully prepared to chew him out. But my breath hitches at the sight of Drake Gunner leaning against a tree with his arms folded and that ever-present scowl etched onto his face.

Speaking of being just out of reach.

Even at eight years old, he’s got this intensity about him. All dark and brooding, with a sense of raw, untamed power. He’s like a wild animal honing its focus on its prey.

“None of your business,” I say, pushing to my feet. It takes everything in me to ignore rubbing my bottom.

“It’s best to stick to thicker branches to climb trees.” His nonchalant voice angers me even more.

“I wasn’t climbing the tree.” I angrily brush off the pine needles from my sleeve and pick up the bag of pinecones I’ve amassed.

“Then what were you doing?”

I huff out a frustrated breath. “If you must know. I was reaching for a pinecone.”

His gaze drops to the bag in my hand, nose scrunching. “What’s wrong with those?”

“Nothing. But I wanted that one.” I point to the dangling pinecone, tilting my head to the side and admiring it. I can picture its placement on the wreath I wanted to make for Daddy. A wistful sigh escapes. “It’s the perfect size.”

“The perfect size for what?”

The questioning tone snaps my attention back to Drake. He sure is curious for someone known as a wild child. “For making my wreath. You know, like the one in art class.”

He rolls his eyes. “That ugly thing?”

My mouth drops open. “Daddy’s right about you.”

“About me? What did he say?”

“That I should stay away from you.”

“Yeah?” He pushes off the tree, and those long legs chew the distance between us. My breath stills as he towers above me. We’re the same age, but he stands more than a foot taller. “Why would he say that?”

“I don’t know. He said you’re a ‘Wild Child.’ Nothing but trouble.”

Drake flashes me those pearly whites. “You afraid of the big bad wolf, little cub?”

I scoff at the nickname. “I’m not scared of you.”

My chin tilts forward, a hint of defiance in my voice. Drake doesn’t frighten me. Quite the opposite, if this strange sense of safety enveloping me is anything to go by. I find him interesting, even though he’s always getting in trouble with the teachers. But being scared? No, he doesn’t frighten me.

He shifts to where his body practically engulfs mine. With a tilt of his head, he studies me. “You should be.”

His breath grazes my skin, sending my heartbeat racing, but I’m still not scared. I don’t know what I feel, but it’s not fear. It’s something thrilling, something that makes a warm shiver spread down my spine. It’s the same nervous excitement I feel right before the starting whistle of a soccer game.

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