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“Yeah, training me.”

“Forhockey,” Mac reminded him. “You’ve got an assistant, don’t you? The cute blonde with the pink streaks in her hair. Can’t you get her to do this?”

“No.”

“Why not? Oh.” Realization dawned on Mac’s face, and he grinned. “You don’t want to look like an ass in front of her, huh?”

Jude sighed. “Would you just give me the ball and go to the end of the hall already?”

“Fine.” Mac slapped it into his hand and started walking.

“That’s far enough,” Jude called.

“No, it’s not,” Mac called back, still walking. “The distance from the pitcher’s mound to the plate in Major League Baseball is sixty-feet, six inches.”

“Oh. Is that far enough?”

“Almost.”

By the time Mac stopped, Jude had begun to panic. “That looks farther than sixty-feet.”

“It’s close enough.” Mac shoved his hand into the mitt and flexed it. “Why did you get me a first baseman’s mitt?”

“There are different kinds of mitts?”

Even at this distance, Jude could see Mac roll his eyes. “Does your assistant like baseball?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” He dropped into a squat and held the mitt up. “Okay, let’s see what you got.”

Jude took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then did what he’d seen pitchers do in the approximately seven hours of YouTube videos he’d watched the night before. He brought the ball and glove to his chest, kicked his front leg up and out, and flung his arm forward with all his might, letting go of the ball when he thought he should.

He knew right away something had gone wrong. First, he was so far off balance that he had to take two running steps to keep from falling on his face and nearly ended up smacking face-first into the wall. The balldidhit the wall, then rolled across the floor to carom off the opposite wall before rolling to a stop about three feet in front of Mac.

He stared at it for a full five seconds, then looked up at Jude. “What the fuck was that?”

“Isn’t that what pitchers do?” Jude asked.

“No,” Mac said, coming out of his crouch. He picked up the ball and walked to Jude. “Exactly no pitchers do that, and neither should you. Have you ever thrown a ball before in your life?”

“Yes,” Jude said, offended. “I’ve just never pitched before.”

“Well, you’re not pitching now, either,” Mac told him.

“I thought I was.”

“No. God, no. You’re throwing, not pitching.”

Jude frowned. “What’s the difference?”

“Too nuanced to explain right now. Just trust me.” Mac slapped the ball back in Jude’s hand. “Try again, and this time, just throw it. No leg kick, no wind-up. Just throw.”

“But—”

“Just…throw,” Mac repeated.

“Fine.” With ill grace, Jude waited for Mac to take his place at the end of the hall again. When he was crouched, mitt at the ready, he pulled his arm back and threw.

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