Page 42 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

“Good! That was perfect.”

“Don’t make fun of me!” she says, laughing as she tosses the ball back.

“I’m not. I promise.” I scoot back a foot. “And that was a really good throw. It’s the best pitch I’ve caught in weeks.”

“Shut up.” She frowns at me, but I can see a smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

I hold the ball out toward her. She doesn’t flinch this time. Progress. “Will you try to catch it with your hands this time? Keep your eyes open and on the ball the entire time.”

She nods her head and locks her eyes on the ball. She’s concentrating so hard. I suppress another laugh and toss the ball. She straightens her arms and catches it way out in front of her body.

“That was good, but don’t catch it so far in front. Let it come into your body. Throw it to me. See how I let it come to me. Let’s try it again.”

“Good.” I keep scooting back a foot at a time until I get about ten feet from her. “Okay, let’s try it standing.”

She stands up and starts shifting nervously.

“Soph, it’s the same as sitting. Just keep your eyes on the ball the whole time. Okay? Let it come into your body. You ready?”

I toss it a little too high. She twists her body, but somehow still manages to catch it.

“That’s perfect. Good adjustment.” I say, nodding. “Ken, grab her a glove.”

Ken walks over to her with the ball boy’s glove. “I’ve worked here ten years and I’ve never once got to play catch with any of the players, much less Seb Miller. Cherish this.”

She looks up at me as I walk back to her. She smiles—her eyes lighting up a little. I think she might be starting to trust me again.

“Let’s try catching with the glove.” I throw the ball up and squeeze it as it lands in my glove. “Squeeze the glove around it like that—like a shark gobbling it up.”

She laughs. “Is that what you tell kids? About the shark?”

“Depends on the kid. Sometimes it’s dinosaurs. You seem like more of a shark person.”

We spend about twenty minutes tossing the ball back and forth until she can catch it in the glove from about ten feet.

“I’m proud of you, Soph. You learned that so quickly,” I say as I motion her ahead of me to the dugout.

“You’re a good teacher,” she says, smiling at me. She’s back to looking at me with that soft glow in her eyes that mesmerized me the night I met her.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “So, let’s see, we’ve solved your catching problem and I know that distraction is the key to your hurricane and air turbulence phobias. Are you scared of anything else?”

“Yeah, toothpicks,” she says, her face scrunching up. “Why do they have to be so pointy?”

“Truly one of life’s great mysteries.”

She laughs as she hops down the stairs into the dugout. “My brothers are going to be so surprised the next time they throw something at me, but I still want you to kick their asses.”

“Understood. It’s the first thing I’ll do when I meet them.”

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