Page 147 of Nothing Like the Movies

The game started, and I sat in my seat behind home plate about eight rows back, capturing the action from the center of the stands. My peripheral vision was always aware of where the tall pitcher in the number 32 jersey was, but I refused to focus on him.

Until he took the mound.

It was a laid-back scrimmage where everyone played, and apparently the fourth inning was his. I watched as he came out, and the sight of his intense face brought back memories of him kissing me against the dugout wall.

Of him knowing exactly how many 12:13s we’d been apart.

Seven hundred and nineteen.

Of him saying,I exist to exist alongside of you.

His eyes found mine through the long lens, and he swallowed and clenched that hard jaw. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had no idea what that look was—anger? sadness?—but I felt it in my belly as we watched each other.

And then it was gone because he was throwing the ball.

The first pitch was a fastball that the hitter didn’t even swing at.

Damn, he was good.

He caught the ball when Mick threw it back, gave it a flip, trailed his fingers over the seam before bringing it in for the next windup. He took a deep breath, kicked his front leg, and threw what looked like a slider. (I still wasn’t good at identifying pitches.)

The batter got a piece of that one, sending a line drive into the infield.

Only it came straight back at Wes.

The ball hit him in the center of his chest before it bounced onto the field. The first baseman ran over and grabbed it, sprinting back to base to get the out, and it happened so fast that it almost seemed like it didn’t bother Wes.

But then he put his hand on his chest and grimaced, took a few steps like he was going to walk it off, and collapsed onto the grass.

“Wes!”

I leapt to my feet, my heart in my throat as I watched him roll onto his side. A collective gasp went up from the stands as coaches ran over—and players—but it was hard to see as they crowded around him.

And he was facing the other way.

Move!I wanted to scream to every single person who was blocking my view. I couldn’t see Wes, and I needed to know if his eyes were open.

Are his eyes open??

“Is he conscious?” I yelled to no one and everyone, staring at his legs, looking for any sign of movement.

But… there wasn’t any. His long legs—white baseball pants and tall blue socks—were still.

As helay on the ground.

Please, God, let him be okay. Please, please, please, please.

Fear clutched at my chest, and I stood on my tiptoes, trying tosee, but I couldn’t seeanything because everyone in front of me was on their feet.

“Excuse me,” I said loudly, grabbing my stuff. “I need out!”

I pushed past the people in my row, blinded by tears as I scrambled to get free. I bumped off of everyone with my arms full of gear, rushing to get closer to Wes.He has to be okay. Please, please be okay.When I finally reached the end of the row, I ran down the steps to get closer to the field, watching from behind the net as Coach Ross crouched beside him, saying something I couldn’t hear.

Please sit up, Wes.

God, please, sit up.

The seconds ticked by like hours as the only boy I’d ever loved lay on his side in the middle of the baseball field.

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