Page 41 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

“All right, all right,” Alex says, laughing, “I’ll leave you to your playtime.”

“Sophie, sit.” I point to the ground again. “Now.”

“Control issues!” She points at me.

“Oh, he definitely has control issues,” Dane says as he walks over. “I’ve never met a catcher who doesn’t though.”

“If I didn’t manage what pitches you throw, you wouldn’t have any wins. Complain about my control issues when you get a fucking Cy Young nomination.”

“I’m not complaining. Sophie, let him teach you how to catch and then I’ll teach you how to throw a fast ball.”

Manny falls onto the field, laughing. “How are you going to teach anyone to throw a fast ball? What’d they clock that pitch at the other night? Like seventy-two?”

“It was a called strike, asshole.” Dane kicks him in the leg.

“Yeah because the batter was so confused about how slow it was coming in,” Alex says as he pulls Manny up off the field.

Dane nudges Sophie’s shoulder. “Sometimes being controlled can be a good thing. You know what I mean?” he says, winking.

“Gross,” she says. “Go away, Dane.”

“Wowww,” Dane says. “No woman has ever told me to go away.”

“Oh, I’m one hundred percent sure that’s not true,” Sophie says, rolling her eyes.

“Okay,” Dane says as he backs up and follows Alex and Manny off the field—his arms spread wide. “You don’t know what you’re passing up.”

“Oh, I do,” Sophie says. “Remember? I’ve already seen everything you have to offer. Pass.”

He flips her off as he disappears into the dugout. I’m going to have to break that finger after the season’s over. Sophie turns around and scowls when she sees me still sitting on the field.

“Sophie,” I say. “Please sit down so you can learn how to catch. Being scared of hurricanes is one thing, but none of my friends are going to be scared of catching.”

“Are we friends, Seb?” she says, smiling.

“For now.” I pat the ground in front of me again. “Let’s see how this goes.”

She finally sits down with an impressive amount of drama. “I don’t want to learn how to catch.”

“I know you don’t, but you’re going to anyway.” She flinches again as I toss the ball a few inches in the air and trap it against my chest. “Trap it like that against your chest at first. Don’t try to catch it with your hands.”

I toss it at her chest. She throws her hands over her face. The ball hits her forearm.

“Okay, lesson one,” I say, pulling her arms down. “You have to keep your eyes open.”

“You’re wearing a chest protector. It’s not fair.”

“The chest protector is for ninety-five-mile-per-hour fast balls, but you can wear it if you want.”

She thinks about it for a second but then shakes her head.

“Okay, I’m going to throw it so gently. I promise. Keep your eyes open.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know you don’t, but you’re going to anyway. Trap it against your chest like I showed you. I won’t get it anywhere near your head.”

I toss it again. She squints but manages to keep her eyes open and catch it against her chest.

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