Page 17 of Hot Shot

Tate gives me a look. “You okay?”

“Just tired.” I shift so I’m sitting a little straighter, trying to make myself uncomfortable so I don’t nod off again.

“Man, did you hear about that house fire in Franklinville last Sunday? The guys were talking about it last night. There was a fatality.”

I frown. Fire fatalities are uncommon enough in small towns. It’s no wonder word had gotten around. “Really? Damn.”

“Yeah. Girl who died was our age. House burned down in her sleep. I texted Jack Hannigan about it—he said it was arson. I’m trying to get her name, but he hasn’t answered.”

“The fire marshal should know better than to tell you shit,” I warn.

“Sure, but we’ve played ball with Jack since before we knew which direction to run when we hit the ball.” Tate shakes hishead. “I keep hoping there will be an obituary or something, but I haven’t seen any names yet, just the story.”

I hmm, but before I can respond, Carlin strikes out and the inning is over. He trots back to the dugout shamefaced, but we clap him on the shoulder anyway.

Our team’s stacked with ringers, and everybody but Carlin played at the high school level, at least. Half played through college. But Carlin is only playing because he spoke Klingon to his mama one too many times, and she told him if he didn’t play, she was kicking him out. I hadn’t expected him to last a season, but he’s taken right to it. He even started working out with us and is finally starting to fill out.

Only took him twenty-five years.

We take to the field and warm up. I set up, wind up, throw to Tate, and when it’s back in my hands, I’m drilling the infielders.

Between all that, I sneak glances into the stands, finding Cass easily. Could be her copper-red hair, or the pretty pink dress she’s wearing, pale against her alabaster skin. Could be the fact that I can feel her eyes on me, our gazes snapping together like magnets every time I look in her direction. She sat up in those stands through high school with a Roseville-red bow in her ponytail sporting the number thirteen, always cheering for me. Always had my back.

I never told her why I picked that number when I couldn’t get myoriginalnumber twenty-seven freshman year of high school—thirteen is how old I was when I fell in love with her. I knew even then. The moment she agreed to go to the dance with me would follow me for the rest of my life.

It’s absolutely sick just how bad I need her, and now’s the time.

I’m lining up to shoot my shot.

All I have to do is not fuck it up.

CHAPTER 6

FATE AND FUCKERY

CASS

All I have to say is God bless baseball pants.

I’ve spent most of the game ogling eight of the Roseville Ramblers asses—the ninth is my cousin’s, and the thought of him sleeping with my best friend still makes me gag. She, on the other hand, isonlyogling his ass, leaning forward with her bottom lip between her teeth as Remy throws to third, just in front of the runner, earning them a second out.

The game’s almost over and we’re winning by two. It’s been close enough to keep it interesting, but I know as well as anybody that one bad inning can turn the tide. If Wilder’s arm holds out through the ninth, we’ll win. Which means he has one more out to earn, and judging by the look on his face, he means to get it.

His jaw is set as he shakes his head, shakes it again. The lines of his body are art as he nods and winds up, whipping the ball, his back leg extending.

Watching him sends me right back to high school. I used to live in these stands. On the rare occasion his twin sister Shelbydidn’t have a game, she’d come with me to the away games—I never missed one, even that time I was sick as hell with the flu. I grabbed a box of tissues, took a handful of cold meds, and soldiered on.

The hitter takes a bite out of it, but the ball sails high into centerfield and straight into Ashton’s glove.

We hop out of our seats, cheering as the game ends, the guys slapping each other’s backs and butts and arms as they clear the field. The stands are already emptying, so we grab our purses and head down to the gate to wait for the guys, just like I used to. Jessa runs for Remy, jump into his arms, and kiss his whole entire face off.

So gross.

I glance away, looking at nothing in particular, toying with the end of my ponytail so I don’t have to watch. It also helps me maintain my chill as Wilder exits the field with his duffle bag strap across his broad chest. I’m reminded as he approaches that he saw me naked last night. And while most of the encounter was a blur, I remember exactly how he smelled, how my bare breasts brushed the rough leather of his gear, how his hands felt on me.

He smiles, and the last ten years disappear. Desperately, I want to throw myself into his arms and kiss his face off like Jessa did Remy.

I have a feeling Wilder wouldn’t say no.

---