Harmony: Sellout.
Priya: Like I said, not even sorry. Love you, sweet cheeks.
Grumbling, I set my phone down just in time for a tray of pizza to land in front of me. Holt takes a seat in the bench across from me with his own tray of pizza and a Powerade.
“Eat up, babe,” he says while situating himself in his bench.
“I told you I brought lunch.”
He looks up at me and tilts his head. “And what exactly do you have for lunch?”
I twist my lips to the side. “Peanut butter and jelly.”
He chuckles. “Eat the pizza.”
“I don’t want your charity,” I say, sounding more ungrateful than I want to.
This is the reason I’ve put him off for the last two weeks. I know that Holt is a good man, but at this stage in my life, I need to stay focused. My future, my chance to leave the cycle of relative poverty, is determined by my GPA. I need to work to stay in school. So there isn’t much time left in my life, and to give my time—possibly my heart—to Holt will derail that.
His affectionate eyes flash at me. “I would never consider you charity. I’m trying to win you over so when I ask you out on a date, my chances of you saying ‘yes’ are higher.” He picks up a slice of pizza. “A thank-you would be sufficient.”
Feeling bad, I push my backpack to the side and move the tray in front of me. “Thank you.”
“Attagirl.” He winks. “Now tell me everything I’ve missed over the past two weeks. Start with the men in your life. Have any?”
“Do you really think I have time for a man in my life?”
“For the right man.” He smirks as I lift up the pizza and take a bite.
Ugh, it’s so good. Greasy and cheesy with just enough pepperoni to add that special kick.
I can’t help it. I moan.
Holt laughs out loud. “Hell yeah. I think my chances of scoring a date are high.”
“I’d rather go on a date with this pizza than you right now.”
His brow raises when I look at him over my slice. “I stand corrected. Don’t worry, I’m not afraid of a triangular piece of food. I’m thinking by the end of this date, I’ll be scoring another.”
“Who says this is a date?”
“Me.”
Chapter Thirteen
HOLT
Slow down, man. Don’t scare her away.
I’m having a hard time reining it in, though.
When I spotted her walking outside of the South Building, I felt my heart stutter in my chest. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen her. Two weeks of trying to contact her, trying to catch her at the diner or at her house, and falling short every single time. With my training schedule and school starting up, it was difficult to time my pursuit. After failing to find Harmony at the diner on my latest attempt, but instead running into Priya, I enlisted the roommate’s help.
Thankfully Priya was more than willing to help. We exchanged phone numbers and she texted me Harmony’s class schedule.
Did I feel like a stalker waiting outside for her?
Maybe a little.
But, then again, I’m eating lunch with her, aren’t I? Maybe it was a good move, after all. Now I just need to figure out how to get her to go out with me.
“So, you never told me what you’re majoring in,” I say, wiping my mouth with my napkin.
“You never asked. You were too busy planning out your next sexual innuendo the last time we saw each other.”
“Cute that you think I plan those out. They just come naturally.”
“Lucky me.” She rolls her eyes.
This is not going well. I can feel her reluctance to be near me. The pizza has granted me some time, but not much. I have to impress, and quickly.
“Seriously.” I nudge her under the table. “What are you majoring in?”
She sets her pizza down and leans back in her booth, her eyes trained on me the entire time. After a bout of silence, she finally answers, “Journalism.”
“Really? That’s pretty cool. What do you like to write about?”
She shrugs. “Whatever pops up.”
“Not buying it. There’s something you’re passionate about, and you’re not telling me.”
“What makes you think that?” she asks.
“I see it in your eyes, in your body language, in the way you’ve ignored me over the past two weeks. You don’t just write whatever pops up. You don’t seem to be that kind of person. There’s something burning inside of you, propelling you to take school seriously, to not get distracted, to avoid a guy like me. So, what is it, Harmony?”
The smallest of smirks pulls at the corner of her mouth, but before I can commit it to memory, it disappears. “It’s unnerving how perceptive you are.”
“Can’t hide anything with me, babe.” I take a sip from my drink and say, “Go on, tell me what you’re passionate about.”
“You tell me first,” she challenges with a nod of her head in my direction. “And don’t bullshit me with a clever response.”
“Easy. I’m passionate for life,” I answer, growing serious. “I’m passionate for every breath I take, for being able to sit here, on this sticky booth bench, sitting across from a beautiful girl and enjoying a greasy piece of pizza that I’m going to have to run off later. I’m passionate for every damn day I wake up because there was a time when I wasn’t sure I was going to wake up the next day. And I don’t take that for granted.”
Her eyes soften and her posture becomes less defensive. “Because of your mugging, right?”
I nod.
“It was really bad in the hospital?”
“Yeah.” I grip the back of my neck. “I overheard my parents at one point talking about a funeral. I can still see my mom crying into my dad’s shoulder, her frail body shaking against his. I might have been in and out of it during that time, but those memories are branded on my brain. It seemed like heaven wasn’t ready for this handsome face yet,” I joke to ease the mood.
Thankfully, she chuckles.
“So, you’re passionate about life.” She slowly agrees to that with a nod. “I can appreciate that.”
“Your turn.”
She sighs heavily and looks toward the food court, clearly avoiding eye contact with me while she speaks her truth. “The good,” she quietly says.
“The good?” I ask, feeling like I might know what she’s talking about, but wanting her to clarify.
“Yes, the good. There’s so much negative in the world. Those stories are covered. I feel as though reporters feed off the drama of the negative, froth at the mouth, hoping they can break the next story about what shitty thing is happening in the world.” She shakes her head and then looks me in the eyes. “I’m not that person. I want to write stories about people being lifted up, about the boy across the street that started a philanthropic business mowing lawns for the elderly. I want to talk about the accomplishments made by those who have struggled, who have hustled, who have run the marathon of life and prevailed. I want to shine light on those who are feeding the homeless, clothing the unemployed, who are bestowing grand gestures of empathy.”
“You want to bring more love—more hope—into the world.”
Her eyes connect with mine. “Yes, I do.”
I slowly nod while considering her passion. It’s impressive. She’s impressive. I don’t know anyone else with such an altruistic heart. With such fierce humility. “You’re incredible.” Before she can knock my compliment away, I add, “Well, if your goal was to push me away, you did a shitty job. Because I very well might have just fallen for you.”
She smirks. “Confessing your love already? Doesn’t that seem a little premature?”
I tap my chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see. You have the kind of sass that turns me on, you’re smart, your mind is a beautiful thing, and you know how to give one hell of a hand job. Yeah, I might be falling for you,” I joke.
She chuckles and shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
/> With that laugh, I know I have her.
Before she can change the mood, I go in for the kill. “Go out with me, Harmony.”
She’s staring at her pizza, picking a pepperoni off the cheese. “I don’t know.”
“Give me a chance. One date.”
Her lashes flutter as she glances in my direction. “I’m not a fancy girl. I don’t need to be impressed by what’s in your wallet.”
“That’s not how I roll. My parents might have money, but I have a bigger heart. Give me a chance.”
Her teeth move over her bottom lip as she returns back to her pizza. “Okay. One date.”
I can’t contain the smile that spreads from my small victory.
“One date is all I need.”
“Awfully confident.”
“When I set my mind on something, I accomplish it. Making you see me for the man I am, not the façade, is the goal. I think I’m one step closer.”
* * *
“Are you even listening?” Knox asks, sounding irritated.
“Huh?” I ask, looking up from my phone.
“Who the hell are you texting?”
“No one.” I pocket my phone and turn my attention to Knox, who looks annoyed. I wasn’t texting. I was trying to figure out the best way to spend a date with Harmony. She wants simple, and I can do simple, but I need to do it in a Holt kind of way.
After we parted at the student union—no hug or kiss goodbye, but that’s fine—she texted me later that night and laid out her schedule. She’s pretty busy at the diner but she does have Thursday night off, which I laid claim to. I let her know that I get out of practice around five, and I’ll pick her up after I shower and get cleaned up.
That was the last correspondence I had with her.
“Doesn’t seem like no one. You’re buried in your phone.”
As we make our way down to the stadium, I reach out and tickle the underside of Knox’s chin. “Are you feeling neglected, Knoxy Poo?”
He swats his hand away. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
I chuckle. “Tell me what has you so distraught.”
“Not distraught, just wondering why you’ve gone missing lately. It’s as if your head isn’t in this friendship.”
“Aw, you’re feeling neglected. Want me to cook you dinner tonight? I can wine and dine you.”
“I wouldn’t pass up a burger, but seriously, dude, what’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on,” I say, not wanting to dive deep into what’s happening with me and Harmony.
For one, I’m superstitious, and it feels like if I speak about Harmony, the date might not happen. Childish thinking? Maybe. But I also have lived off superstitions my entire life, and I’m not about to stop now.
Also, I don’t feel like getting into it with my buddies. They will find out at some point, but while I’m trying to get a good grip on Harmony, I want to keep that to myself.
“You’re lying to me,” Knox points out. “But I’ll let it go for now only because I’m trying to figure out how I can capture Emory’s attention.”
“Hmm.” I give it some thought. “From the brief interaction I had with her, I would say she doesn’t like douchebags.” I pat Knox on the shoulder as we reach the entrance to the stadium. “I think you’re shit out of luck there.”
“Wow, you’re fucking helpful.”
I chuckle and we make our way down the hallways of the coveted Brentwood baseball stadium. The walls are decorated with past legends—legends who have gone on to play professional baseball and have had long-lasting careers. It’s the reason I’m here at Brentwood. To earn a degree and to move on through the baseball system and become a professional one day. If I learned two things from my mugging, it’s to never take one day for granted and do what your heart wants.
My heart wants to be out on the field, the grass beneath my feet, surrounded by seven-foot walls that I’ve spent my life learning to scale to steal homeruns. My heart wants the thrill of a first inning, a hopeful crowd cheering on the home team. I want to feel the vibration of my bat through my bones as I make contact with the ball. I want the excitement of diving into home while the catcher tries to tag me out.
Nothing is more exhilarating.
Nothing makes my heart beat faster.
Nothing will make me feel more at home than baseball.
“Are you headed to the trainer?” Knox asks as we make our way into the locker room.
“Yeah, just dropping off my things and changing.”
“Do you have to get tested today?”
I set my backpack down in my locker and start putting on my Under Armour compression shorts, followed by my mesh shorts and Brentwood Baseball T-shirt.
“Yeah,” I say as a wave of unexpected nerves hits me.
“Are you feeling good?” Knox asks, concern in his voice.
“Feeling pretty good. I think the training we did this summer proved that I’ll be okay.”
“Good.” He eyes me. “And you’d tell me if you weren’t okay?”
I tie my shoes and stand from my locker. “Don’t baby me, Knox.”
“I’m not. Just being a concerned friend.”
“I would tell you if something was wrong, okay?”
“Just like when you didn’t tell me last year and I was rushing you to the hospital?”
I fill up my water bottle at the refill station and say, “That was stubborn pride. Won’t happen again. Plus, Disik wouldn’t let it happen again.”
“Will he be there?”
I nod. “Yup. Always is.” I head toward the locker room door and say, “Catch you at practice.”
“Good luck,” I hear him call out before I head down the hallway toward the training room.
Brentwood University is known for its superior athletic facilities, mainly, its multiple baseball facilities. We have state-of-the-art training rooms and trainers, as well as coaches, and weight-training staff. If anything were to happen, they would be able to handle it.
I enter the training room and immediately see Coach Disik talking with our trainer, Dan, next to the treadmill and ECG machine.
They glance up and Disik immediately greets me. “Green, feeling good today?”
“Yes, Coach,” I answer. “Feeling great.”
He nods to my shirt. “Then let’s get this test over and done with.”
I reach behind my head to grab my shirt and pull it off and toss it on one of the training tables. I walk up to Dan, who starts putting sticky electrodes on my chest. It’s not my first ECG test and it won’t be my last.
Not as long as I continue to train my body like I do. Not as long as I keep reaching for my goals.
I can feel Disik’s eyes on me, staring me down, like he always does.
Not looking him in the eyes, I reiterate, “I’m good, Coach. Promise.”
“We’ll let the test and Dan make that assessment.”
Fair enough.
* * *
Holt: How was your day?
Harmony: On my break at the diner. I just served some of your freshmen. I feel bad for their parents.
Holt: LOL! Why?
Harmony: To know you raised such idiots? Must be heartbreaking.
Holt: I thought you were in the business of finding love in this world.
Harmony: You’re right. They were pretty good-looking even though they had bricks for brains.
Holt: Watch it. You’re only supposed to have eyes for me.
Harmony: Didn’t realize when I agreed to a date that I was signing an exclusivity contract.
Holt: Did I not mention that? Hmm, must have slipped my mind. I’ll scan you over the details, but, yes, you are in fact exclusive to me.
Harmony: I see, and are you exclusive to me?
Holt: Baby, I’ve been exclusive to you ever since I saw you in that yellow bikini.
Harmony: You’re on top of your charm game tonight.
Holt: Got some good news. Feeling spicy.
Harmony: What kind
of good news?
Holt: Nothing too riveting. Just baseball stuff. Now I have a question for you. What kind of food are you craving?
Harmony: Is this for the date?
Holt: It could be for any time. Just give me the word and I’ll be at your front door in an instant.
Harmony: You’re starting to sound desperate.
Holt: Desperate for you.
Harmony: As much as I would enjoy watching you beg your way into my house with food, I need to get some studying done tonight.
Holt: Fair enough. Wouldn’t want to take you away from your studies. What about the date? Can I offer you sausage? I happen to know a place where you can find a girthy link.
Harmony: Dear God, are you talking about your penis?
Holt: What? Never. But . . . does that mean you consider me to be girthy?
Harmony: I have about two minutes of my break left. Is this how you want to spend it?
Holt: Reminding you of my dong? Uh, yeah. Sounds productive to me. Now, remember when you were stroking it? What did that feel like?
Harmony: Uncomfortably bumpy.
Holt: Oof, low blow—pun intended.
Harmony: Are we done here?
Holt: No. What are you craving food wise?
Harmony: Chinese. I love beef and broccoli.
Holt: A woman who knows what she wants. I like that.
Harmony: Is that all?
Holt: That’s it. Have a good rest of your shift, babe.
Harmony: Thanks. Talk to you later.
Chapter Fourteen
HARMONY
“Oooh, girl. You look good,” Priya says as I walk down the stairs and into our shared living room.
“I don’t look too slutty?” I adjust my cutoff jean shorts, pulling on the hem.
“A little slutty, but a classy slutty. Like, you don’t mean to look slutty, but your cleavage and shorts length beg to differ.”
I nervously tug on my hair. “Should I go change?”
Priya vehemently shakes her head. “No way. You’re going to blow his mind.”
I turn toward the mirror in our entryway and scan my reflection. Red, tight-fitting T-shirt with a deep V-neck that shows off my cleavage, tucked into a pair of high-waisted jean shorts that barely cover my ass. I paired the outfit with a pair of white Chuck Taylors to be safe and pulled my hair half up and curled the ends. Casual, but looking better than when I go to classes or work at the diner.
The Strike Out Page 8