by Julie Cross
I spot Brody, the only person wearing jeans to the grown-up party, walking toward a group of his teammates. Even with this window-to-window, pool-between-us view, it’s obvious the four guys stop talking when Brody enters their space. Brody offers a hand to one of the pitchers, like he’s congratulating him or something. But the guy doesn’t move a finger in Brody’s direction. All four faces tighten and then seconds later¸ they’ve turned their backs and headed in different directions.
My neck heats up. I don’t have any reason to feel humiliated, but I do. For Brody’s sake. Maybe for the fact that I saw something I hadn’t been invited to see. But then Mrs. London—sporting the best fake smile I’ve ever seen—stalks in Brody’s direction, steering him to a plate of mushrooms, a glass of champagne, and a few twenty-something women in tight black dresses.
I drop my gaze to my own boring attire—jeans and a sweater. Again. Brody does that eye roaming, boob gawking game that guys do, and in an instant his deflated shoulders rise and he’s Mr. Charming all over again.
I shake my head and turn my attention back to the party. But less than twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I remove it, glancing quickly at the text I just got.
BRODY: Have you seen the pool yet?
I haven’t but obviously I’m about to because my legs have decided to stand up on their own and I’m already heading for the guesthouse door, leading out to the pool.
The sky is clear outside and moonlight is bouncing off the water in the pool. Brody is now seated by the edge, his jeans rolled up and his feet dangling in. For barely a second, I debate going out there. He’s bound to piss me off and ruin my fun. That seems to be our norm. But then I remember the way he looked at me in the tunnel to the dugout right before the game and that feeling I got, that maybe I’d been the only one to tell him he belonged here.
Be polite, Annie. But also cool. “How’s the water? Any icebergs in there?”
Brody looks up at me and grins. “It’s warm. They probably spent a shit-ton of money heating this giant mass.”
I nod toward the house. “Looks like one hell of a bash. Wouldn’t you have more fun inside than out here?”
“They tried to feed me mushrooms and fish eggs. I had no choice but to bail.”
I slip off my shoes and roll up the bottom of my jeans, taking a seat next to Brody. The water is warm. Probably eighty-something degrees. “Then you should be out celebrating. Finding some groupie girls that work at Hooters to hook up with.”
“Hooters, huh? Chicken wings do sound good right now.” He laughs. “How’s your party?”
Wow. Civil conversation with Jason Brody. Alert the media. And the Guinness Book of World Records. We need an official timer for this event.
“It’s fine.” Through the tall living room windows, I spot two blondes in short black dresses with their noses practically pressed to the glass, eyeing Brody. They look like models. Like they should be lying across the hood of a sports car. Maybe a blue convertible that they’re willing to drive Brody around in. I tear my gaze from the house and swing my feet back and forth in the water, watching it ripple outward. “Lenny’s brother is an ass and Lenny’s IQ drops about a hundred points when she’s drunk.”
“Doesn’t everyone’s?”
“I guess.”
We sit for a few minutes in a comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of two very different parties meshing together until Brody speaks up again. “Jim seems pretty excited about sticking around here for a while longer. How about you?”
“Totally,” I say, feeling that relief all over again. But I’m waiting for him to bring up the fact that he’d been right about our position. And maybe he wasn’t just thinking of himself when he gave me that warning about Johnson. Polite small talk, Annie. “I bet your family’s pretty stoked. Did anyone come to the game?” He’s from Chicago, which isn’t that far away, so maybe his family came to watch.
Brody’s face clouds over. “No one came.”
“Well, did you at least talk to them after it was over?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything more.
And then I remember what Dad said a few weeks ago: “Not everyone is lucky enough to have a parent who forces them to go to school and actually do well. Some kids get into trouble and have no one to help them out of it.”
Shit. My stomach flutters with nerves and regret, my mouth falling open to utter an apology, but Brody quickly moves on to something else.
“Thanks for what you said earlier…before the game.”
His eyes meet mine and my heart quickens. Guess they were magic words after all. “You were amazing. Seriously,” I blurt out despite all my previous harassments regarding Brody’s questionable pitching talent.
“I was a wreck.” His eyebrows lift, a silent reminder of his time spent in the bathroom stall before the game.
“I barfed like three times before state last year,” I admit. “I didn’t tell anyone else, not even Dad. We can keep each other’s secret.”
“Deal.” He stares down at his feet in the water. “And I’m sorry for what I said last week about your dad.”
Right. The part where he declared that he would never let anyone cut off his leg.
“You didn’t really say anything about him, you just said what you’d do if you were him.” I pull my hair up off my neck and secure it with the hair tie around my wrist. “It gets old sometimes, explaining his non-leg to people. No excuse to snap at you though. I could chalk it up to PMS if that helps?”
This being-nice-to-Brody direction is easier than I thought, but I still have this feeling things will turn awkward any second now. I mean seriously, what do we even have in common?
He laughs again. “A little. And that’s the thing, I’m not him, so it’s not my place to say what should have been. He’s a great coach. It obviously worked out fine for him.”
Did it work out fine? I don’t really know any different, I guess. Actually, I don’t even know this baseball coach version of Dad much better than the baseball player version of him. But I know he deserves to be this person.
“I was so nervous for both of you today.” I cover my face and groan. “God, that was awful. And your warm-up pitches were so wild I thought you might knock someone out.”
He gives me a tiny shove in the shoulder. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Seriously, the game was amazing. I couldn’t care less that we lost.” I hesitate for a minute and then plunge into a question I’d only be able to ask after drinking two beers. “You didn’t happen to see me, did you? Like in the stands during the game?”
“Yeah, I did.” The smile fades from his face. “That’s kind of what got me to focus and not suck.” He laughs. “Not you exactly, but seeing you reminded me of what you said before. How Jim only got to play one game. I hadn’t let myself think about that possible scenario. But today, I told myself this would be it, and I had to make it count.”
“What are you going to tell yourself next game?”
He exhales. “Fuck if I know.”
I laugh. “You’ll think of something.”
Some random guy stumbles out of the guesthouse and shouts at us. “Hey, baby! Can I get your number?”
“My number or yours?” I ask Brody.
“Looks like a real winner,” Brody whispers, leaning close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine—I swear he did that on purpose. “Don’t get up too fast.”
“You look like my little sister’s Barbie doll!” the guy shouts at me.
“Hey, buddy,” Brody says, fighting laughter. “Fuck off.”
The guy turns around and pukes into the bushes. I wrinkle my nose and twist my body to face Brody and not the puking guy. “Disgusting.”
“I bet London pays someone to clean up after them,” he says.
“How did you end up staying here?”
He levels me with a look. “Jake London’s wife insisted on it.”
At first it makes sense, given
what Lenny said about her mom being the self-elected “welcoming committee” leader, but the way Brody says it sends my thoughts in a very different direction…
“Please tell me you haven’t…”
“God no.” He drags his hand through the pool and then flicks water in my face. “I just turned nineteen last month. You’ve got me hooking up with forty-something-year-old married women who have had way too much cosmetic surgery. Where do you get these ideas, anyway?”
“Don’t know. Guess I’m stereotyping and being judgmental.” I shrug. “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”
“No. I need to focus on making this chance count.” He glances at the guesthouse. “What about you? Did you leave some guy crying back in Arizona?”
“Not even close. I had a boyfriend for almost a year. We broke up before I moved.”
Why am I telling him this? He’ll use it later to make fun of me or call me a child.
“He couldn’t handle the long-distance relationship?”
“It ended even before I knew I was moving.” I release a breath, and I’m surprised by the fact that the wound doesn’t feel as fresh as it had a month or two ago.
“So what happened?” Brody presses.
“You really want to know? Like for real, not to tease me about it later?” I ask and Brody nods. “He started going to church all the time and then one day he told me he didn’t want to sin anymore so we couldn’t like, you know…do stuff. And believe me, Kenny is not the type to go all Jesus freak, so I had a feeling something else was up. I did a little investigating and found out it wasn’t so much church, as a boy at church.”
“Oh,” Brody says, eyes widening. “Bummer. So did you call him out on it?”
“Nah. I mean, I told him that I knew his secret but he didn’t want people to know. I kind of let him tell everyone that I wanted to leave Arizona unattached once I knew about the move.” Another reason why I’m not jumping at every opportunity to stay in contact with the remains of my past life.
Brody gives me a half smile. “You’ll find someone else. Someone better.”
“Where?” The models are still ogling him from the window, and it’s making me uncomfortable. I stand up and unroll my jeans. “At my all-girls school?”
“Are you leaving me?” His dark eyes lock with mine, and for a moment, he’s that guy again—the one with the sunken shoulders, watching his teammates refuse his handshake and turn their backs on him.
“I was thinking maybe I’ll go home and sleep in my own bed tonight.” I look over my shoulder at the wild guesthouse. “I’ve got a workout to do in the morning and that requires some sleep.”
“What’s the plan tomorrow?” he asks. “Another two-mile sprint?”
“Nope, just five miles, easy.”
He stands up and slips his flip-flops back on. “Want some company?”
Wait…what? I nearly trip over my own shoe. “Company?”
“Tomorrow. Running,” he clarifies.
“Right. Running.” That makes way more sense. “Sure…I mean if you think you can keep up.”
Brody grins. “I’d like to try.”
“My house. Eight o’clock.” I catch myself smiling when he turns around and walks toward the house, but the second he lets the blond models invade his personal space, the smile easily fades. I make a quick exit, so I don’t have to witness any more fan-girling. I can’t decide if I should be honored or insulted by the fact that he can sit and have such a relaxed personal conversation with me and then seconds later, turn into this playboy with models on both his arms. Does he hook up with two at the same time?
I shake that image from my head and continue the half mile walk home. I’ll feel better tomorrow when I kick his ass, running.
Annie Lucas: Okay, I lied. Winning isn’t everything. So sue me.
15 seconds ago
Annie Lucas is now friends with Carl London and 22 others
Annie Lucas likes the page Jason Brody Royals Pitcher
True to his word, Brody appears in my front yard at five minutes before eight. He’s wearing a red hoodie and track pants, his hair disheveled into a beautiful bedhead mess. My foot freezes mid-step when I see him.
“You look surprised.” He leans against the lamppost in the yard.
I shrug like it’s not a big deal. “You’re the one who claimed you wouldn’t ever be caught hanging out with high school kids again.”
“This is not hanging out.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a baseball cap, yanking it low over his eyes. “This is working out. And working out with you is not something Johnson would ever be concerned with. Or anyone for that matter.”
I busy myself retying my running shoes. “Is that why you’re in disguise, trying to hide your face?” I lift a finger, pointing at his hat.
“I did pitch pretty damn well yesterday. A mob of fans could be lurking around the neighborhood.” He mocks, darting his eyes around, and then presses his back against the only tree in my yard. “Can you check for paparazzi? How does my hair look in case they do get a photo?”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “Are we running or what? It feels like your stalling?” I take off in a jog and Brody catches up with me right away. The swish of his track pants rubbing together creates a rhythm we can both move to without talking.
“So what’s your definition of an easy five miles?” Brody asks after mile one. He sounds a tad winded, but it could be my imagination.
“I don’t ever watch the clock when I run. Only after. But maybe seven and a half minute miles… Sometimes it’s probably closer to eight minutes.”
He pulls his hat up just enough for me to see his eyes. “Can I request an eight minute day?”
“Wimp.” I grin at him and then my eyes betray me, roaming over the length of his body. So much for solemnly swearing not to do that. To cover my slipup, I start tossing technical corrections at him. “Maybe if your shoulders weren’t all hunched up you could conserve some energy for your legs and lungs.”
He grunts out a few choice words, but I see his shoulders drop.
“You look good with a neck,” I say again and then regret the statement immediately. My face flames, and my gaze drops to the road in front of us.
“If you say so.” Brody grins and falls into step with me, much less winded now. He’s probably one of those runners who needs a lot of warm-up to get comfortable. “You’re pretty into this running thing, aren’t you?”
“Not like you and baseball,” I say.
He’s quiet for several seconds then finally replies. “I think it’s exactly like me and baseball. Except maybe more like playing for my Triple-A team.”
“Lower caliber, like I said.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just with Triple-A…my teammates were…”
Nicer? Willing to shake your hand? “Were what?” I ask, afraid to admit to what I saw through the windows last night.
“It’s hard baseball without the show,” he concludes, steering away from mentions of teammates. “Well, actually they do all kinds of weird crap for fans at minor league games, but our number one job is to play baseball.”
“Isn’t that your job here?”
“I don’t know,” he says, staring straight ahead, his expression shifting to what I know as the focused athlete face. “I’m just not sure anymore.”
The awkward silence has finally arrived in time for the beginning of our third mile around the neighborhood. I concentrate on our steps and the sound of Brody’s swishing pants. Pretty soon sweat is dripping down my face, and I’m lifting my T-shirt to wipe it away. From the corner of my eye, I’m nearly positive I catch Brody checking out my stomach, but he looks away so fast I can’t be sure. And I’m not sure I’m ready to know that answer. I kick harder and increase the pace, despite it being an easy day. “Come on, superstar, let’s see if you can really keep up.”
His response is instant, his steps matching mine. And for a little while, we stop being Annie, the c
oach’s daughter, and Brody, the new Royals pitcher. We have the same ability to leave our damaged outer shells behind and float through the streets as nothing more than two athletes.
In less than thirty minutes, the pressure, the doubts and fears, the guilt of built-up lies and past mistakes will return full force, but for now, that weight is off.
pre-all-star
Break
Chapter 8
Lenny London: Good luck to my St. T gal pals—Annie Lucas and Jackie Stonington—who are running at sectionals today. In case you’re wondering, running is like driving only there’s more sweating and less sitting. I don’t recommend trying it if you haven’t already.
2 hours ago
“My dad’s not coming,” I say to Coach Kessler after tucking away my cell phone. “His flight got delayed in New York.”
Coach K pats me on the shoulder. “It’s all right. You’ll have your best run ever today and qualify for state, and he’ll be there for that race.”
I can’t do anything about it, so I nod and keep warming up.
Today’s the first meet that I’m doing the mile and the two mile full-out. I’ve done both in two other meets, but Coach K had me run one race hard and the other event easy and then flip-flopped them at the next meet. Now I need to hit both with my best times so I can qualify for state.
I squint up at the bleachers and spot Savannah and her daughter Lily walking across the first row of seats.
A smile spreads across my face, and I run over to the fence to greet them. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Your dad called and told us you needed a cheerleader or two,” Savannah says.
I high-five Lily, who doesn’t like to talk much. She sometimes likes riding her bike alongside me while I run in our neighborhood.
“Thanks for coming,” I say to both of them. A bullhorn sounds, and I hop down from the fence. “Gotta go.”
“Good luck!” Savannah calls after me.
When it’s time for the one-mile race, butterflies are going batshit crazy in my stomach, but I turn my focus to the track in front of me and up until that last lap, I’m following my routine perfectly. The only person ahead of me is Jackie Stonington. The logical part of me knows she’s taller than me, her stride is longer, and most importantly, I don’t have to beat her to qualify for state, but as we round the last curve, I can’t think about anything but winning. My legs kick harder, my arms swing faster, and suddenly my step overtakes hers and I cross the finish line a full three strides in the lead.