Page 41 of When We Were Us
“No, I can’t.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and waits, eyebrows raised.
I glance toward the fields just as Hayley turns back and yells, “Hey, you guys coming?”
“Yeah, Wren just has to tie her shoe!” Finnley calls back and then looks at me. “Hayes Ranch sponsors the team, Wren. It’s not a big deal. I doubt anyone even remembers his number. I bet no one will even notice anyway.”
I remembered. And Hank willdefinitelynotice.
I look down. There is no logo telling me that Hayes Ranch does, in fact, sponsor the team.
Hell.
The sigh I let out has my shoulders lifting and falling dramatically. I could run back to the car and grab Finn’s flannel or jacket, but I hear the crowd cheer, which means the game is starting.
“Fine, but you’re buying me nachos. With extra cheese.”
A grin splits her face. “Deal.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
hank
It’s beena while since I did something just for the fun of it, and I’m glad I came out tonight. It feels good being out here with both of my brothers, talking shit in the dugout, and watching Hudson pitch again.
We’re up by two and have been the entire game. Just as the next at bat hits an easy ball right to me, I see them: an entire row of women, made up mostly of my sisters, and all in matching powder-blue T-shirts. At the end is Wrenley, her hair up in a messy bun, and a giant, half-eaten plastic container of nachos balances on her knee. All I can see is her profile as she talks to Finnley, but between that and her own powder-blue T-shirt, it’s enough.
I’m completely fixated on her and what that shirt represents, and I momentarily forget why I’m standing in the outfield. I don’t have much time to think about it though, because I feel more than see the ball whiz past my head. It didn’t even have a chance to hit my glove. I have to scramble after it, sending the other team’s pitcher into home and putting us up by just one.
I retrieve the ball and chuck it back to Hudson, who shakes his head and points his glove at me.
I manage to keep my eyes and head in the game for the next fifteen minutes or so. That is, until I miss another straight shot right down the baseline, putting a runner on first.
The metallic crack of the second hit splits the air, and the ball goes straight out left. Our left fielder picks it up quickly, but Jackson at second ends up just short of the tag.
With runners on first and second and no outs, their heaviest hitter hits a screamer straight for me. It hits my glove and ricochets to my left. I scoop it up fast enough, but when I turn to send the ball toward third, it's then that I see it.
It happens in a matter of seconds.
Wren is turned almost completely around, speaking to someone behind her on the bleachers. I can’t tell who, because all I can see is the black block letters of my last name emblazoned across her shoulder blades, and a giant number seven below it.
I’ve heard the term “gobsmacked” used to describe someone utterly bowled over by shock. This isthattimes three hundred.
My football jersey number flashes in my mind before I hear Hudson groan and holler, “Throw the fucking ball, man!”
My eyes snap to the right to see the first base runner already rounding second, right on the heels of his buddy, who’s just shy of third. I’m not too far out, and the split-second decision to throw it straight to third instead of the cutoff backfires when my throw goes high.
Hutch, who stands at roughly six-foot-six, lets out a grunt as he jumps on third. Not even he can catch it with a fully extended arm, and it sails straight over his outstretched glove.
Fuuuck.
Two runners make it in before he’s even got the ball. The ump calls it, his voice echoing through the warm night.
And that's the ball game.
Hudson stalks toward me as we leave the field. “What the fuck was that, Hank?” he asks, throwing his arms out. His glove is still on his left hand, andthe softball is gripped in his right. “You missed a shit ton of balls straight down the right.” His expression is incredulous.
I shoot him a glare and keep walking. No one ever hits that many times to the right, I want to tell him, but my attention is glued to the bleachers, my eyes searching. He matches my stride as he walks backward, and then turns around once we’re side by side.
