Page 17 of Quintessentially

ChapterSeven

Dax

Present day

Looking at the glove in my left hand, I grin.

Shit. I caught the ball.

I might be as shocked and surprised as the other men on the team. Cheers come from the hometown players and the bleachers. Just before tossing the ball to the pitcher, I catch sight of someone in the crowd. She isn’t among those standing, but her pale blue eyes are on me.

My smile dims at her expression.

I’ve made mistakes in my twenty-eight years, but the biggest mistake is not getting back in contact with the beautiful woman sitting in the crowd, the one with no emotion on her face. In a split second, I have memories of Kandace’s laugh, whether we were walking hand in hand or caught in the rain. The way she giggled as we swam in the pond and the excitement in her voice as she talked about her plans…

Fuck.

I’d forgotten.

My stomach sinks.

Kandace told me once about a plan for a business similar to Quintessential Treasures.

Is that why Grandma left her the store?

“Hey, earth to Richards,” Cory calls. “Get your head in the game.”

With one more glance toward the stands, I nod.

We hold Trevor to no runs in the first and second inning. At the bottom of the second, I finally get a chance to bat. We have two outs and one man on second.

“Don’t strike out, Richards,” Sheers says.

I grin. “You mean the way you did.” I don’t know why I’m fucking with him, or why he has decided to ride my ass, but I can’t help but enjoy his expression as I walk past the bench.

It takes all my effort not to turn and see if Kandace is watching the way she did when we were young. My personal cheerleader, her voice calling above the others.

“Show them what you’ve got,” Ricky yells.

I take my stance.

Maybe playing ball is the same as riding a bike.

I hope it is.

The pitcher throws a fast ball.

Swing and miss.

“Strike,” the umpire yells.

“That was a ball,” Sheers yells. “You forgot how to read a pitch.”

The small hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as I grip the bat tighter and do a couple practice swings. The pitch is released. It’s low—most likely a ball—but I can’t stop myself. I swing.

Crack.

The bat connects and I feel the impact from my hand to my shoulder as the ball sails high between second and third. I’m too intent watching the ball to remember to run until I hear my team screaming. I take off at full speed, rounding first as the outfielder jumps and misses. The ball lands over the back fence.

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