Page 7 of Nothing Like the Movies

He was just… cool, like he was simply a decent human who knew a lot about baseball. He said, “Don’t come up with a bullshit answer for the coach. You and I both know this first day of school is more than that to you, and I’m curious how it’s gone so far. What do you think of your classes?”

Ross was the one I called when I quit the team two years ago, and he was the one I called when I wanted to come back.

He was also the one who saidthanks, but no thanksthe first ten times I begged.

Two seasons off is just too much, kid.

“They’re great,” I said, meaning it. “I mean, definitely not easy, but at least they seem interesting.”

“Good,” he said, turning his head to spit. “Everything else going okay for you? I’m sure it’s a little weird, after everything.”

Talk about understatements.“Yeah, it’s very weird, but in a good way.”

“Had Fat Sal’s yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, don’t,” he replied, giving me a smirk. “That stuff’ll clog your arteries and give you a jiggly ass. Stick to Bruin meal-plan shit.”

“I am.” I’d heard a lot about Fat Sal’s, but I was too hyperfocused on performance right now to put a lot of garbage in my body. I said, “Everything here is too expensive, anyway.”

“Right? Fucking LA, man.” He gave his head a shake, straightened, and said, “You ready to throw a few?”

I followed him and threw bullpens, which felt amazing. Therewas nothing in the world like throwing a fastball (when it hit exactly where it was supposed to), and all those ridiculous butterflies disappeared the second my first pitch smacked into Woody’s glove.

I was on a roll—hell yes—until I noticed there was a giant blond dude filming me.

What the hell?

“Ignore him,” Ross said, apparently reading my face. “They’ve got crews filming all the time for social media; you’ll get used to it.”

“Ah,” I said, feeling a twinge of apprehension in my gut. I was working my ass off to be chill and not focus on the fact that how well I performed in preseason could basically determine my entire baseball future, so the last thing I needed was to have strangers with cameras adding pressure.

“It’s just Clark,” Woody yelled, grinning in the direction of the giant. “Nobody cares what that asshole thinks.”

“Oh, your mom cares,” the guy (Clark, apparently) replied with a laugh, though he didn’t lower the camera to stop filming me. “And she told me to tell you ‘hi.’?”

“Tell her ‘hi’ back,” Woody said, pulling his face mask back down, “and ask her if she can get me tickets to your party.”

“She’s pretty exhausted, but I will,” Clark said, which even made me laugh. “Now shut the hell up so this guy can throw.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a deep breath.

“No problem.” Clark moved over and lowered himself to his knees. “Trust me, it takes a village to shut down a Woody.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”

—A Cinderella Story

Liz

“Buxxie!”

I turned and Jimmy Rockford was waving me over to the dugout with his enormous arms. He was a senior catcher coming off of a torn ACL, and the guy was built like a gorilla.

A ginger gorilla with a braided beard.He was a lot to look at, but that was part of his charm.

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