Page 40 of Nothing Like the Movies

But how was it fair that I’d just spent hours—hours—mining film that had a good amount of Wes Bennett content in it? Talk about torture. It was obscene that anyone should have to spend hundreds of minutes staring at photos—and videos—of their ex-boyfriend looking hot, right?

It was as if the cosmos hated me and was like,Y’know what’d be funny? Let’s make her watch him working out and wearing a baseball uniform. Oh—and let’s be sure she has to stare at shots of him wearing his glasses and studying too; that shit will kill her.

I sent the file to Lilith and cc’d Clark, and then I shut down and went to bed.

But sleep was elusive.

Because what the hell, Universe?

It just wasn’t fair.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“How do you know when it’s the right person?”

—The Summer I Turned Pretty

Wes

“Settle your ass down, Bennett.”

Woody threw back the ball and pulled down his face mask. Dropped to a squat and waited for me to get my head out of my ass.

I took a deep breath, trying to find calm.

“I’m good,” I said, desperate to convince him, knowing the coaching staff valued his feedback on all things pitching. I was throwing shit, and I needed to get it together.

I took off my cap and wiped my forehead because it was hotter than hell.

And then I gritted my teeth because Clark was in my peripheral vision, filming my epic meltdown.

As if sucking didn’t suck enough, Liz’s boyfriend was here to capture the suckitude.

Stupendous.

Because my pitches were all over the place.

No matter what drills we were doing.

The game was next week, and I needed to get all of thisshittogether.

I tried reminding myself it was only an exhibition game, but the reminder didn’t help.

It was only an exhibition game, just a casual fall-ball situation where everybody played, but for me, it was the most stressful game I’d ever prepared for. It was the game that haunted me, the game that was going to set the tone for whether I was actually able to get past the nonsense in my head.

And I wanted to get the start so badly, even though it didn’t matter.

I flipped the ball and ran my finger along the seam.

Heard my father’s voice, loud and clear in my head.

“Dammit,” I muttered, then threw the damn ball.

Another wild pitch that Woody had to chase.

“Did you grab my bag?” I heard Liz say from the direction of the dugout, presumably to Clark. “Or is it in the truck?”

I ground my teeth together, wondering if Ross had read my message yet. It was just too much, having the two of them everywhere. After witnessing them hugging as I headed into the locker room to change yesterday, I might’ve fired off an email questioning whether it was a good idea for the team to constantly be distracted by cameras.

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