Whatever Life Throws at You

by Julie Cross

  I watch him drum his fingers against the steering wheel, thinking. “Does what I just asked to do to you make you uncomfortable?”

  Yes. But I shrug and attempt a cool attitude. “In my previous experience, things just kind of happened and we didn’t talk about it much. So that part’s weird…maybe even a little embarrassing,” I admit.

  He turns all fake serious. “Huh…okay, I guess I’ll just have to embarrass myself then.”

  I roll my eyes. “Like that’s possible.”

  He angles himself to face me. “We’ve already gone over the normal male reaction to being turned on, so maybe I should spell out exactly how that problem is often dealt with when I’m alone.”

  I clap a hand over his mouth. “No! I do not need those details.”

  He winks, not looking even a little bit embarrassed, then removes my hand from his mouth. “I wasn’t planning on describing the act, just the fact that I do it, and lately that’s been because I’ve been around you and left before any finish lines were crossed.”

  My hands instinctively go over my face, hiding the blush and the fact that I can’t stop laughing. Brody’s kind of adorable when he goes all I’m older than you, therefore I will be giving regular sex ed lessons. “Except for last night.”

  “True,” he says., “But when I got home, I kept replaying it and then several times today as well, so it kind of made things worse.”

  I drop my hands and stare at him. “Then I’ll refrain from doing that again.”

  He grabs my hand and holds it to his heart. “It’s worth all the trouble. Seriously. As much as I enjoy thinking about you touching yourself, I figure I’d rather leave you satisfied than hanging if possible.” He gets all fake-serious. “It’s how I was raised, Annie. Respect women and their wishes.”

  I grin. “God, you’re, like, the corniest nineteen- year- old in the history of nineteen- year- olds. I plan on being way cooler when I’m your age.”

  He glares at me, then opens his car door. “Time for you to go home.”

  Instead of driving closer, we walk the rest of the way to my house in silence, our hands swinging at our sides, the word yes and then yes again ready to spill from my lips, yet stuck there at the same time. As soon as I am standing beside my open bedroom window, Brody spins me around, pressing my back against the house. His lips are at my ear, whispering in a low, sexy voice, “Me persigues en mis sueños. Nunca puedo tener suficiente de ti.”

  I don’t know what he said, but I turn all self-conscious and spit out the first words to form on my lips. “Can you come back tomorrow?”

  Brody laughs, and the warmth of his mouth presses into mine. “I’ll be in Toronto, remember?”

  I reach out and take his face in my hands. “Then I’ll just have to ask you to quit for me. No more road trips. No more baseball. Just this. You and me, a few too many mosquitoes, and the moon.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were drunk.” He kisses me again, long and slow.. Then he pulls back, like he’s yanking himself away. “I need to leave.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I know what you’re going to do when you get home.”

  “It will be a long drive,” he says into my ear, causing me to blush again when a mental image forms in my head of him—

  Yeah, um…time to go inside.

  “Good luck at the game tomorrow.”

  His gaze darts toward Dad’s bedroom window and then back to me. “You know what? If I can stand this close to Jim Lucas’s window while talking about getting off, I figure I’ve got the balls to try some new pitches tomorrow.”

  I shake my head. “That’s what I’m here for. Moral support and all.”

  He gives me one more quick kiss on the mouth before backing away. I lift myself through window and, after landing safely onto my bedroom carpet, I watch Brody jog down the sidewalk toward where his car is parked between my house and Lenny’s.

  Both excitement and anxiety swirl around inside my stomach. I’m getting so attached to this boy it’s not even funny. And the lie is doubling in size every day. I know it can’t go on forever, and when the haziness of our amazing evening wears off, fear takes over, just as I’m drifting off to sleep.

  post

  Season

  Chapter 24

  Lenny London: Wishes Lisa Frank folders were still cool. Fu*k it. I’m sporting some pink glittery kitty cat folders today. Deal with it.

  12 hours ago

  Annie Lucas: SUUUUUMMMMEEER. Why did you dump me? Why? Are we never ever ever getting back together?

  11 hours ago

  Annie Lucas: Just learned that kangaroos aren’t in the bible but unicorns are? I’m confused. How is this not mythology?

  55 minutes ago

  Jason Brody Royals Pitcher: Who’s got the top division spot? Yep, that’s right. We do.

  2 minutes ago

  BRODY: My place again tonite?

  ME: Yep. For studying.

  BRODY: Rite. Studying. You’re cute.

  ME: Stop staring at me! Lift your damn weights.

  BRODY: I can see up ur skrt :)

  ME: Oh. My. God. Please tell me you delete these texts?

  BRODY: Why? Not like I hve parents snoopin around my phone.

  ME: You haven’t deleted any?? Seriously? We do this like every day, how many inappropriate texts do you have to/from me?

  BRODY: Hundreds. Lite blue panties¸ huh? :)

  ME: This would be way more fun if you were shirtless

  BRODY: done :)

  ME: Wait! The new trainer is coming to see me in 5. Put it back on!

  BRODY: No :)

  ME: would you stop with the damn smiley faces!

  BRODY: you know you love them :)

  ME: maybe a little :)

  “Word of advice, Annie. When your knee hurts and suddenly looks larger than the other one, don’t run four more miles.”

  “Really?” I roll my eyes. “Who knew?”

  Kevin, the new Royals’ assistant trainer, leans down, brushing his fingers over my bare knee. I grip the hem of my pleated red skirt, holding it down tight, leaving him nothing to view underneath. From the corner of my eye, I catch Brody holding a set of dumbbells mid-lift, shooting a glare at Kevin.

  It took ten minutes of this close-up exam for Brody to go from amused to…well, to this.

  I narrow my eyes at Brody, and he resumes lifting weights, but the glare doesn’t fade. Luckily, Dad breezes in before Brody can throw a punch. He sees me on the table, my knee being examined, and his eyes go wide. “What happened, Ann?”

  “Did you feel a pop or anything give out on you?” Kevin asks.

  I shake my head. “It’s just sore and a little swollen. No big deal.”

  “Is it her ACL?”

  Kevin proceeds to find more ways to put his hands on my skin by pointing out various ligaments and tendons. After a couple minutes, weights slam to the floor, making all of us jump. And then Brody’s sticking his arm between Kevin and my leg. A bag of ice lands on my knee.

  “Gotta get that swelling down, right?” Brody stands beside me, arms folded over his chest as if he plans on physically watching the swelling reduce.

  Cut it out, I say with my eyes.

  He might as well makeout with me in front of Dad.

  But Dad’s too worried about me to pay attention to his star pitcher. “Think she needs an MRI, just in case?”

  Kevin laughs like he’s an overly concerned father, which he is, but he does know a thing or two about athletic injuries. “It’s just a little fluid buildup from overuse. No need to bring on the fancy expensive tests.”

  Dad’s concern doesn’t fade. I rest a hand on his arm. “I’ll sit out the meets tomorrow and Saturday. It’ll be fine.”

  I like to do well, but I’m only running cross country to stay in shape for track. Especially this year, when I’ve got scholarships on the line. I need to be in top form next spring.

  Kevin’s eyes bounce from me to Dad. “That’s an exce
llent plan. Five days rest, and then I’ll take a look and see if she needs some rehab or, if there’s still swelling, maybe an MRI.”

  Dad accepts this plan, and Kevin finally packs up his stuff and leaves, allowing Brody to fully concentrate on his workout again.

  “Are you heading home now?” Dad asks me.

  I’m careful to only nod toward Brody without actually making eye contact. “We’re gonna study.”

  “Great.” Dad’s focused on the dozen pink slips that he had in his hand when he walked in the training room. Messages Savannah just handed him, most likely. “What are you two studying tonight?”

  Brody chokes on the big swig of water he just took, spraying drops all over one of the treadmills. I fling open a textbook, duck my head, and hope my hair covers the redness on my face. “Equations. Lots of equations,” I mumble.

  “Well, better you than me.” Dad smiles and gives my uninjured leg a pat, then he holds up the pink slips of paper. “I’ve got some calls to return. I’ll be in my office.”

  The second he exits, leaving Brody and me alone, I lean back against the wall, close my eyes, and let out a huge breath. “Jason Brody, are you trying to give me an anxiety attack?” I say in a low voice.

  He walks over and adjusts the bag of ice on my knee. “Come on, that dude’s a creeper. Tell me you were not creeped out?”

  I shrug. “He likes to invade personal space, but I’m sure he’s harmless. Plus, he’s old.”

  Brody glides one hand down my skirt, his fingers slowly walking in and out of each pleat. “I’ve been looking forward to peeling one of these skirts off of you all day,” he whispers.

  Despite our hundreds of slightly dirty texts messages, we hardly ever get any time alone. All the baseball-related travel plus the fact that Jason Brody, Royals’ pitcher, is in contention for Rookie of the Year puts a damper on our secret makeout sessions. And if I’m being completely honest, I haven’t seen Dad much lately, either. When Brody is traveling, he’s traveling, too. Both of them returned from a five-day trip this afternoon while I was finishing up my first day of senior year.

  I catch Brody’s hand and move it away from my skirt before someone walks in. He’s all post-workout sweaty, and I’m so ready to peel off his layers, too. I’m just not as free with admitting these things as Brody is.

  “You owe me a practice test.” I hold out my hand and wait for him to retrieve the papers from his gym bag. After he does, Brody sits at the end of the training table. It only takes a few minutes for me to check his answers with the code in the back of the GED book. I scribble a big 96 percent on the page and slide it in front of him. “Seventy is passing. You’ve never gotten below an eighty-five. I think it’s time for you to take the damn test for real.”

  Brody frowns, then nods like he’s done the other two times I gave the exact same argument. I know what the problem is. We both know. He doesn’t want to contact his mom and get the paperwork that proves his dyslexia so he can have an oral exam. Not to mention the fact that we’d have no excuse to study together if he got his GED.

  I’m very close to asking Savannah again about surprising players by inviting family members to games. I know she has her rules, but Jesus, he’s obviously done his time, and all he needs is an ounce of support from his own mother and copies of some paperwork so he can add high school graduate to his résumé. This is not something Brody should have to stress over.

  “I’ll do it soon,” he says, placing a note of finality on the topic. He wraps his fingers around my ankle and then looks up at me with his brain-melting smile. “Let’s practice Spanish. I’d hate for you to get behind.”

  Oh God, if only we could right now…

  I take a deep breath and inhale the scent of cheese and pepperoni. “Do you smell pizza?”

  I’m off the table, carting my bag of ice and heading toward the locker room before he can answer. My nose didn’t fail me. Savannah is directing a dude with a huge stack of pizza boxes. A few players and most of the publicity team are milling around. Lily is trailing behind Savannah, her red hair in two braids, hands stuffed in the pockets of her green plaid jumper.

  Her face lights up when she sees Brody and me, and within seconds, she runs right into his arms, demanding to be lifted on his shoulders.

  “What’s with the pizza?” I ask Savannah.

  Her heels are clinking around the locker, helping to set up tables and giving orders. “The Dateline special starts in a couple minutes.”

  Oh right, the corny promo about players and their families. “I’m recording it at home.”

  Dad’s emerged from his office and is already fishing through pizza boxes.

  Savannah opens a cooler full of soda and beer. “Well, my people and I decided it might be fun to watch it live from the locker room. Especially considering the number of people I had to sleep with to make this happen.”

  “You went to a slumber party?” Lily asks from her seat on top of Brody’s shoulders.

  Savannah has that oops-forgot-the-kid-was-in-the-room look. “Nope, no slumber parties. I was just kidding.” Dad and I are both staring at her, and she finally rolls her eyes and adds, “I’m really kidding. But I did slay a few dragons, metaphorically speaking, and that entitles me to an extra thousand calories today and a pizza party on the Royals’ tab.”

  One of the interns flips on the big-screen TV, and everyone starts grabbing plates and pizza slices.

  “I would like just cheese, please,” Lily says, pointing Brody toward the table. He hands her a slice, and already the cheese is dangling in his hair.

  I snort back a laugh, and Savannah reaches up and grabs her daughter, bringing her back to ground level. Dad’s drifting in the direction of his office, balancing a beer and a plate of pizza in his hands.

  “Where are you going?” Savannah nods at the TV. “The show’s about to start.”

  Dad turns around to face the room again. “I think I’m gonna go home and make that dentist appointment I’ve been putting off.”

  “You’d rather take care of dental matters than watch your interview on national television?” Savannah asks.

  “Absolutely,” he says without hesitation.

  I make a move to stop him and drag him back, but Savannah shakes her head. She’s smiling at Dad’s retreating form. “He’s infuriately stubborn, isn’t he?” Savannah asks, though she doesn’t sound even a little bit angry.

  My eyebrows have lifted up, lots of theories spinning through my head. I catch Brody’s eye from a few feet away and see that he’s thinking it, too. Put today’s little nuances together with the conversation I eavesdropped on, hearing Savannah chew Dad out about letting Mom back in our lives…But now Mom is out of the picture. The divorce papers are signed.

  Butterflies flap in my stomach. I can’t quite grasp how I feel about this newfound insight. Yeah, I planned on trying to find Dad a new woman, but sometimes those concepts are so much easier in hypothetical form than in reality.

  And Savannah is awesome. And beautiful. Dad would have to be an idiot not to see that, and he’s not an idiot. Which means…

  I’m about to grab my school bag and take off so I can pester him until he gives me some answers, but I can tell the publicity team is excited to have some players around to join the party and at least one family member. I swipe two slices of pepperoni pizza and a bottle of water, then take a seat beside Brody on a locker room bench.

  Brody leans in close to me and whispers, “She totally wants your dad.”

  I stare at the big screen, leaving my pizza neglected in my lap. “Can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”

  When I first heard about this Dateline program, I figured it would be about many players and their families. I figured the interview Dad and I did together would get ten seconds or maybe thirty if the Royals were still winning games. Never in a million years did I expect the program to open with video footage of Dad on the pitcher’s mound in a Yankees uniform. Dad as young as Brody is right now.

&
nbsp; Dad with two legs.

  Tom Brokaw’s voice-over narration fills the locker room, surround-sound speakers kicking in all around us. “Jim Lucas became a New York Yankee before he even started college. Scouts got wind of not only his fastball but a slider that held up with the best of the best. They used every tactic aside from camping out on his parents’ front lawn to try and sign the high school boy. And the future star embraced his role without hesitation, turning down offer after offer until his price nearly broke records for major league baseball rookies.”

  I set my plate on the bench beside me and leaned forward, glued to the screen, watching Dad throw pitch after pitch. He looked like a star.

  The program cuts to an interview of young Dad, still in uniform, following a preseason game, seated in one of those fancy director’s chairs. “You can’t be afraid to ask for what you think you deserve. If I’m the best, I want the biggest number. That doesn’t mean I don’t love baseball. That I’m only in it for the money. Status is status, and I plan on breaking some season records, and I’d like to be paid accordingly. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Holy shit. Who is that man? Did aliens abduct my real dad, and I’ve been living with a body snatcher all my life?

  “But Jim Lucas didn’t break any records. In fact, his pitching career ended abruptly after one regular season game.”

  The footage of Dad at practice sessions and preseason games continues along with more voice-over explaining his cancer diagnosis and the immediate surgery that followed. I glance around. The room is completely still, everyone entranced. Brody has also ditched his pizza and is now leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his face intense.

  I hear another publicist mumble to Savannah, “Where did they get this footage?”

  Savannah just shrugs, her eyes never leaving the screen.

  And then Dad’s leg is gone. Just like that. He’s in the middle of a fancy physical therapy room. He’s much thinner, and wires are hooked up to his chest while he attempts to walk on a treadmill with his new prosthetic leg.