Page 39 of The Foul Out

She shrugged, her focus still fixed on the ball on the tee.

Since she was still relaxed, I forced out the big news and crossed my fingers that she’d take it well. “Some people are going to come in and talk to us. Hope that’s all right with you.”

Piper turned in my direction, her attention skating up so high her eyes almost met mine before she glanced away.

“Why?”

Because I knew better than to bullshit her, I stuck to the truth. “They want to meet you. And I want you to tell me which one you like the best.”

She sent a ball sailing across the cage, then picked up another. “Do I have to stop playing?”

“No.”

She nodded, then got into the position I’d shown her.

I fired off a message to Cam and then set up the pitching machine. I’d cracked off three good hits before the door opened and a tall brunette walked in. I ignored her. She wasn’t here to talk to me. Thankfully, she headed straight to the fence. She chatted with Piper for about five minutes, and then she was gone. Two more women and a man popped in, one at a time, before I shut off my pitches.

“A bat weighs twenty-seven ounces.”

Brows raised, I eyed Piper, who was surveying her bat seriously.

“But it feels like more after you swing a lot.”

I chuckled. “Isn’t that the truth. Do you have Jell-O arms?”

She assessed one arm, then the other, and with a frown, she zeroed in on a spot on my shirt. “My arms are made of bones and skin.”

“I’m sorry.” I bit back a laugh this time. A lot of kids with ASD were very literal. “Do they feel like wiggly bands?”

She gently dropped her bat, then stretched her arms out. As she dropped them, her lips turned up just a fraction. “Maybe.”

“Means you worked them hard. Maybe you’ll want to play baseball someday.” I picked up her bat and headed for the rack. “Now we gotta get all the balls.” I pointed to the end of the cage.

She strode toward them, on a mission, as I grabbed the bucket. Together, we picked the balls up off the turf and dropped them into the bucket.

“I can’t play baseball,” she finally said.

“Why not?”

“I tried T-ball last year, but my coach told Mom I wasn’t normal enough to play.”

The hot fury that rushed through me when her words registered was like nothing I’d experienced before. “Normal?” I tried not to grit my teeth as I spit out the word.

“It was raining, and I didn’t want to get wet, so I ran back to the car.” She snagged another ball from the ground. “But I heard the coach tell her that in order to be on his team, I had to be normal.”

That was bullshit if I’d ever heard it. I wanted to wipe that idea from her head.

“Do you know Cortney Miller?”

Of course she did. Rather than just sayingyes, she spouted his stats. She was fucking impressive.

“He can do some of the same things you do. List stats for anyone in the league. He’s really good at it.”

Straightening with another ball in her hand, she frowned down at the floor.

“But he worries a lot. Sometimes he would worry so much that he would have trouble playing the game. He couldn’t focus if he was wearing the wrong socks or if a clip on his leg guard was the wrong color.”

She blinked.

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