Page 4 of Pitcher

“That’show you make a free throw, sweetheart.”

Why I said that, I have no idea. Call it a challenge. Something about this boy sparks a fierce competition within me.

His grin is slow and dangerous. “Touché, little Brownie.”

I shrug. “It’s all in the hips.” I toss him the ball and frown. “Maybe you can practice and suck a little less next time?” I say, already turning and heading back to Grandpa’s truck. My job here is done. I taught the boy how to shoot. Somewhat.

“What’s your name, Michael Jordan?”

I grin, not turning around. “Anniston,” I call back, almost to the truck.

He’s silent at first, but then… “Hey, Ans?”

I turn at the new nickname that makes me feel all kinds of girly.

“Want to come to a party tonight?”

The smile on my face dies along with his dreams of becoming a basketball star.

“Can’t,” I say, as I reach the truck.

“Why not?”

His voice is much closer, and I whip around to find him right behind me. His deep blue eyes are piercing when he grins—attempting to be charming—and a dimple forms in his right cheek. Yeah, that dimple is a killer.

I shrug at the rude and insanely cute boy in front of me.

“I’m probably grounded.”

His smile ratchets up his face. “Sounds like my kind of girl.”

Sounds like my kind of guy too, but I would never admit it to him.

“What’d ya do?”

Again, I go with a shrug before locking stares and admitting, “I broke a boy’s nose.”

It takes two seconds for him to react. Two seconds for him to throw his head back and belt out a laugh that bounces off the bricks, making the sound seem melodic.

“No shit?”

I nod slowly.

“Hang out with me tonight, Anniston. I’ll even let you pretend to show me how to shoot hoops, not that I care if I’m any good. I play baseball.”

He plays baseball… Of course he would have to play my favorite sport.

“What position?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Pitcher.”

Why God? Why must he be a pitcher?

“Are you a southpaw?” I ask, referencing the baseball term for a left-handed pitcher. I figure he is since he shot the basketball from his left side.

One side of his lips pull up, but he doesn’t answer me. “Hang out with me, Ans, and maybe I’ll tell you. I promise you’ll have fun.”

Before I realize what I’m doing, I agree. “I’ll talk to my grandfather.”

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