Page 38 of Things I Wish I Said
I suppose I only have myself to blame.
That’s what happens when you keep everyone at arm’s length and when your sole focus is a sport and not the relationships around you.
Funny thing is I’m not sure I’d do it differently if I could go back. You have to know what you’re missing to miss it, and all I’ve ever known is my mother and soccer.
Mom crosses her arms, a smirk curling the corners of her lips. “So, you two are really doing this, aren’t you?”
I shrug, trying to act casual. “Yeah, I guess we are.”
“Well, you look adorable, like you just stepped off the cover of theTeen Voguesummer issue.”
I scoff. I wish. Maybe before. But not now.
“Mom, the only magazine cover I could pose for are those informational packets about treatment options they give you at the oncologist’s office.”
“Whatever.” She ignores my sarcasm and goes back to her Chromebook and the mountain of bills I know are mostly from me. “Just be safe and have fun.”
“Will do.” I turn to leave.
“Oh, and text me what time you think you’ll be home!” she shouts at my back. “And snap me a picture.”
I glance over my shoulder, appalled. “I am not snapping you a picture.”
“Just one?”
My mouth drops. “Mom, no.”
When she shoots me a pleading look, I drive the point home and say, “No picture, but maybe I’ll have him stop by the house this week.”
“Yes!” Mom claps her hands, beaming at the prospect while the evil genius inside of me twirls the end of her mustache.
Playing Mom is almost too easy.
God, I’m a terrible daughter.
“That would be amazing, but no pressure,” she adds quickly, and, once again, I feel sorry for her. She’s so completely thrilled at the idea I’m acting like a normal eighteen-year-old, going out and talking to boys, it’s hard to watch.
Yet somehow, I manage.
I underestimate how long it takes to get to the field and wind up late. By the time I arrive, the game has already started, and despite the fact it’s just past six o’clock on a weekday, there’s quite the crowd.
People fill the bleachers. Camping chairs scatter along the fenced infield. A concession stand beside it sells sodas and snacks, the buttery scent of popcorn filling the air, along with the foil-wrapped hot dogs I see several people carrying toward the stands.
I pick my way past a group of people and up two rows of bleachers, feeling the burn everywhere, my lungs and muscles most of all. It’s a reminder not to go any higher as I take aseat. Several days have passed since my last chemo session, and though I feel better than I did when Grayson last saw me, I don’t want to push my luck.
Once I’m settled, I cough a couple times to clear my chest, then stare out at the field, realizing I don’t even know which team is his or what position he plays. Considering my lack of knowledge about baseball, I’m especially clueless as I watch, my gaze skimming over the players as a new batter takes the plate. A quick glance tells me it’s not Grayson. Neither is the pitcher, who begins his windup and launches the ball.
The batter swings and makes contact, thecrackof the bat reverberating in the air around me like lightning.
The ball flies low like a torpedo in what I imagine is a damn good hit, before a player in a gray-and-black pinstripe uniform launches his body off the ground. He reaches out his glove and catches the ball midair, then falls to the dirt, all while keeping his hold on the ball outstretched in his gloved hand. It’s more acrobatics than I thought was necessary for the sport, and I find myself impressed.
The crowd around me roars in agreement as he jumps to his feet and whips the ball back to the pitcher. It’s then I see his face and recognition hits me.
Grayson.
My eyes slide over him. A baseball cap shadows his eyes while his shirt hugs a firm chest. Baseball pants fit snugly over muscular thighs, and even from here, I can tell the view of his backside is most likely incredible enough to make girls weep. But seeinghim like this is odd. Kind of like watching this alternate version of him that’s clean-cut and radiating light, so different from the James Dean bad boy from my doorstep.
I take a closer inspection of the catcher from his team, and I can make out the name on their jerseys—the Aces—as well as the fact the catcher doesn’t have a bad ass either.
