Page 16 of Pitcher

Good shit like that doesn’t last long for people like me—to bastards like me. People like me are angry motherfuckers. Sporadic and irrational are the founding traits of our personality.

It’s science, or maybe it’s the whole nature versus nurture thing? Or maybe it’s because I’m a greedy asshole and I took what I didn’t deserve.

You grow up knowing everything is shared when you have a sibling your own age. You learn to be clever and react quickly when something catches your eye.

In this case, I knew from the moment I saw Anniston McCallister that I wanted her.

Really. Fucking. Bad.

I wasn’t sharing her, and I sure as fuck wasn’t doing temporary with her.

So I became ruthless.

I charged my way through every boy who dared flash a smile in her direction, including my brother.

She was mine. All fucking mine.

Where I went wrong in this quest for permanence was growing complacent. I grew comfortable as I obliterated every dick out of her life. Spending time with her became easy…

Until now.

Until I’m left with four fucking weeks.

And I want every goddamned minute of them.

So fuck Thad and his stupid nachos and ridiculous shorts.

Fuck his and Anniston’s friendship.

And fuck him for stealing even forty-five seconds of my time left with her.

I know that sounds trivial and petty, and sure, I should be less upset about losing less than a minute of Anniston’s attention and more upset over the mediocrity of my performance, but I’m not. I’m man enough to admit I’m being an asshole about something stupid.

But you don’t understand.

Anniston McCallister behind the plate is like not washing my socks before game day. It’s a must-have or everything turns to shit.

The fact is, I can’t remember a time when I haven’t seen those blue eyes shining in excitement through the fence. Let me put it in perspective for you: having Anniston’s sole attention feels like what I imagine standing on the mound in game seven of the World Series with your last pitch deciding the fate of the championship. The hope in the fans’ eyes as they stand, cheering for you, rooting for you to reach deep within your soul and channel every ounce of power into one solitary pitch.

That’s what it feels like when Anniston’s eyes are on me.

It’s that moment Thad took from me.

So call me needy, call me a diva, I really don’t give a fuck.

I’ve grown accustomed to Anniston’s attention and maybe even… her love. Either way, I can no longer live without it. And as the days draw nearer to my departure, I should feel anything other than angry. I should be happy. I’m finally leaving this small town and getting out from under my father’s business. But I’m not happy. Because each game, each practice, is a countdown to losing my constant. My biggest fan. My girl.

Who is going to stare at me from behind the net when I’m in Washington? Who will call the pitches they know I can throw? Who will inspire me to dig deep, fight the feeling of failure, and chase my dreams?

No one! That’s fucking who!

Because the only person in my life who inspires these feelings is staying right. Fucking. Here. In Madison. With my brother—let’s not forget that little tidbit—and the other thousands of men I warded off for the last seven years.

I’m leaving her alone, unprotected from the hound dogs of central Georgia.

And it crushes my soul.

To the extent I can’t sleep. I barely eat—unless she cooks for me, let’s not get too dramatic. All I can do is think about leaving her behind.

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