Page 29 of The Perfect Game

“My dad taught me when I was younger, back before he started his own law firm. He had a lot more time then, and he was more patient with my quirks. He’d bring me here when my anxiety would flare up.”

The fact that he was so open about it made me want to know more. “Do you still have problems with it?”

He bit his bottom lip, his eyes narrowing on the water. “I think it’s morphed into something different. I feel like I’m always having to prove to him that I’m a good son, or that my interests are important. And I think that drives me to work on things more, obsess over the little things. Just like the play. I didn’t necessarily have to go to it for my grades, but I wanted to go from a B+ to an A-, hoping it would please my father.”

“That seems like a lot,” was all I could think to say. I hadn’t tried to please my parents in at least five years, but that was probably because there was no use in actually trying. They weren’t home enough to even notice when I put in the effort.

“I try not to worry about it, but I think it’s something I’ll have to keep working on. It’s even worse when it comes to baseball just because my dad has no interest in it or thinks it’s a waste of time.”

I smiled, reaching over to touch his arm. “Well, I think you’re pretty amazing at it. If it’s something you want to pursue through college, why not? And then from there, you can decide if you want to be in the big leagues or not.” My smile grew wider, tears pricking at my eyes from the look of surprise on his face.

“Thank you,” he whispered, turning back to the water.

I moved my hand over, placing it in his lap. As we sat there, enjoying the sound of the water, I realized this was the first time I’d ever held hands with a guy. His skin was rough, callused in some spots, but his fingers were long, almost touching my wrist as they intertwined with mine. Most of all, I was happy.

“I get your relationship with your dad. My problems come mostly from my mom. I think she wishes I was more of a girly girl, someone who just wants to go shopping and talk about clothes all the time. I mean, I don’t mind doing that every once in a while, but I kind of wish she’d get excited about what I like every once in a while too.”

Ben scooted closer, letting go of my hand and wrapping it around my back. “I’m sorry, Serena. If you ever need to, you can vent about it to me.”

The end of my fishing pole bent, causing the line to go taut.

“I think we’ve got something!” he said, scooting closer to me. He put his other hand over mine as we turned the lever, reeling in the line. He moved it at a decent speed as the pole bent a little more every few seconds.

“Pull back like this,” he said, guiding my arms as we pulled the line in. He helped me put my arms back down and said, “Okay, keep reeling it in.”

He stretched for the net near the corner of the dock and leaned over the water as I kept reeling. Soon enough, he scooped up what looked like a bass. Even I knew that, and I had no experience with fish.

Ben lifted the net up with the fish hopping around in it. “Look at that! You caught your first fish.”

I was more excited than I thought I’d be. “Is it a big one?”

“He looks to be a good size. Let’s get him off so we can throw him back.” Ben’s forehead creased as he focused on the line.

“Throw him back? We just spent all that time to catch him. You don’t want to keep it?” I was surprised at my sudden protectiveness of something so slimy and wet.

Ben chuckled. “You caught it, so you get to decide what you do with it. But if you keep it, you’ll have to clean it.”

“Like cut it open and stuff?”

When he nodded, I swallowed hard and shook my head. “I’m good. Let the fish live.”

We both laughed at that, and I studied Ben as I watched him hold the fish with one hand, working the line loose in the other. He was such a nice guy, and I found myself wondering if I even measured up.

But then I thought about the flaws he’d just admitted to me and the quirks I had. Maybe we were a lot more alike than I originally thought.

Ben freed the fish but must have cut himself on the hook because he tensed up, losing the fish from his hand. The fish flopped on the deck several times, and I jumped back, accidentally kicking it back into the water. I let out a nervous laugh but saw blood coming from Ben’s left pointer finger.

His whole body shook, his gaze frozen on the scratch. It took a minute for me to realize he wasn’t going to move. I grabbed a paper napkin from the bag and reached over, wrapping the square around the cut. Blood seeped through it easily, and I shifted the paper over, wrapping it tightly around the wound.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, looking between my face and where my hand was holding his finger. “I’m not very good with my own blood.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not worried about it.” We sat in silence for a minute or two, and I peeled back the napkin to see how much damage the hook had done to his finger. It was deeper than I’d thought at first, but I could only see it when I wiped away the blood every few seconds. Thankfully, it wasn’t his pitching hand.

Wrapping it back up, I said, “We’re going to need some medical supplies. Hold this here, and we’ll walk to the car.”

My pole was ready to go, so I reeled Ben’s in quickly. I scooped up the bag with the leftover food and grabbed the blanket as I followed him down the dock.

“Here, let me help you with something,” Ben said, letting go of the napkin. It unraveled, and I shook my head.

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