Page 3 of False Start

My second attempt was more successful than my first. Still nowhere near Gavin, but he chased after it, kicking it with the side of his foot and lobbing it into the outfield.

“Nice try,” he said, lazily taking first base.

A familiar tug of frustration built up in my chest, a feeling that normally only surfaced during football games, but apparently could pop up in other places, like a dumb game of kickball.

Derek kicked a clump of dirt off home plate, squaring up to the plate. “Not bad. Try again.”

I released an exasperated snort. My attempts were shit, but I’d get it this time. I pulled the ball back like a bowling ball, shooting my arm forward. Red rubber zoomed over dirt, hitting a rock halfway between the pitcher’s mound and home plate. It bounced up, hitting Derek in the chest.

“You want to help him out, Kit?” Derek caught the ball, throwing it back at me.

I turned back toward second base. Kit frowned. “Yeah. Fine.”

She trudged over to me, taking the ball from my hands and slowing her voice as if instructing a kid. “You’re throwing too hard. You have to start with accuracy and work up to speed.”

“But then everyone’s just going to kick it into the outfield,” I argued.

She snorted. “Yeah, because you’ve never pitched before. You can’t just come out here and crush it on the first try.”

“You know I play sports for a living, right?”

“Did you just ‘do you know who I am’ me?” She snorted, and her brown eyes sparkled, darting around the diamond in absolute mirth. Hell, at least that was better than annoyance, even if I was the joke.

“No. I just meant?—”

“Right, you’re a Greek god of athletics, so obviously you should immediately crush playing a kid’s game.”

I bristled. “I never said that.”

“It’s what you’re implying. Do you want my help or not?”

“Derek seems to think I need it.”

“Everyone on this field thinks you need it,” she snapped. Around us, our teammates polite chatter grew louder, more annoyed. Clocking the shift around us, she sighed. “We all want to get home sometime tonight.”

“Got a hot date?”

“A hot date with some books. Now, pull the ball back to waist height and bend a little when you come back down. Once it bounces, it’s liable to go anywhere.” She gripped the ball in one hand and crouched into a lunge as she pretended to pitch it. “And follow through with your hand in the direction you want it to go.”

“I did follow through.”

“Really? That’s not what I saw.” She lifted an eyebrow as she placed the ball back in my hands. “Now, make me look like I know what I’m doing.” She strode back to her base without a glance back.

An effective dismissal. The woman had all the makings of a pro coach: short, crisp instruction coupled with a mild disdain for the players.

Still, the instruction was sound. I hadn’t been following through and I’d been more focused on speed than accuracy. Even “in the vicinity” accuracy. So, despite her obvious annoyance with me, thanks to some girl who I probably didn’t remember, I took the advice, rolling a ball straight over home plate.

And sure, Derek punted it into the outfield, well outside the grasp of the guy with face tattoos skulking around Kit. Face-tattoo made a mad dash to the ball. But I was already on my way. I sprinted past him, scooping up the ball with practiced ease and slinging it toward second.

Kit’s look of surprise cleared as the ball sling-shotted toward her. She held out the ball with both hands and turned in time to smack Derek straight in the gut.

“Out!” she called, face breaking into the first sincere smile I’d seen since I met her.

Derek held out a finger, fist clenched to his stomach as he attempted to catch his breath. “Alright, pitching isn’t it. You’re an outfielder.”

She gave him a smug smile. “I told you.”

“But I put it over home plate,” I argued, unnecessarily possessive over a position I’d played for all of twenty minutes.

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