Whatever Life Throws at You

by Julie Cross

  I lean in close to her, away from Lily. “You know he is legally divorced now…”

  She shoots me a look, and I laugh but shut my mouth. It’s only the hundredth time I’ve said those same words to her since we left Kansas City. I figure a hundred more and maybe she’ll be the brave one and ask him out. Brody says single moms are extremely careful with who they date because the guys will be around their kids. But Dad and Lily already get along just fine. Plus, he did raise me pretty much on his own. That has to count for something.

  “Strike!” Lily says, along with the umpire. Oh God. Only one more inning separates Brody from a perfect game. He must be so excited. And scared.

  “Are we done yet?” Lily asks, pointing to the Royals leaving the field to file into the dugout.

  Brody pauses briefly in front of Dad but moves into the dugout when it’s obvious he’s not going to say anything. Instead, Frank and Dad converse privately, their heads close together.

  “No, sweetie,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “We get one more at bat, and then the other team gets another shot at the bat. And if they don’t score? Brody will be famous.” I’m not sure how I feel about that last statement. Excited for Brody, obviously. But also a little nervous about us.

  “You look cold.” Lily hops off my lap and places her blue earmuffs on my head. Then she wanders down the row of seats, stopping to visiting with some of the other players’ wives and kids seated in this section.

  “I did ask him out,” Savannah tells me a few minutes later, keeping her eyes on the field.

  My frozen hands and toes are quickly forgotten, along with the game hanging by a thread. “Wait…what?”

  She looks like she might be blushing, but we’re all red-faced from the temperature. “He said he had to talk to you first.”

  I spin around to face her and feel Lenny leaning in, eavesdropping and probably soon joining in on our conversation. “Why would he say that? Seriously? He’s such a wimp!”

  “You did throw quite a few fits about your mom,” Lenny reminds me. “Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with your tantrums.”

  I elbow her in the side but laugh. She’s got a point. “How did he sound when he said, ‘I’ll have to ask Annie first’?”

  “Did he say anything before that?” Lenny adds.

  Savannah glances at us for a second, then back at the field. “It wasn’t the cop-out answer you’re making it into. It was a grown-up discussion.”

  I roll my eyes when she says grown-up. “I’m eighteen today, remember?”

  Lenny and I sit there waiting for Savannah to tell us more details while Third Base hits a ground ball toward the shortstop and gets the second out for the Royals at the bottom of the eighth inning.

  “I’m not gonna sit here and gossip about your dad, if that’s what you think,” Savannah finally says after noticing Lenny and me still staring at her.

  I face forward again, folding my arms over my chest. “Fine. I’ll get him to tell me, then.”

  She fights a smile. “You do that, Annie.”

  Maybe it’s a selfish thought, but it seems like if Dad dated Savannah, maybe it would be easier for him to accept Brody and me. Because I’m going insane right now from lack of Jason Brody kisses and lack of in-person contact at all. This is the closest we’ve been since I brought him soup last Saturday. And there is a hell of a lot of space between us right now. Literal and metaphorical.

  “I bet they hooked up and haven’t gone on a real date,” Lenny whispers to me.

  “Stop.” I shake the image from my head. I’m perfectly happy living under the delusion that my dad and Savannah will have a G-rated relationship if they do end up dating.

  We both shut up quickly when Lenny’s dad comes to the plate. If anyone is going to hit a homer today, it’s First Base. He’s due for one. And that would lift the pressure off Brody next inning.

  First Base connects with the very first pitch, and our entire row pulls in a deep breath. The ball soars way out into center field.

  But before it can cross over the wall, the Yankees outfielder leaps up to an inhuman height and snatches the ball right out of the cold air. The stadium erupts with cheers, while our section remains seated.

  In the dugout, Brody scrubs his hands over his face, shakes out his arms, then grabs his glove before heading to the field.

  He wanted that home run. It would have taken so much pressure off of him. One tiny run from the Yankees and this game is tied. And Brody’s arm has got to feel like a wet noodle by now…

  Lily skips her way back to her open seat on Savannah’s other side, blocking my view of Brody’s first pitch, but I hear the bat connect with the ball. I nudge Lily out of the way in time to see Brody dive through the air and catch an infield grounder, throwing it carefully to first base.

  “Oh my God, this is awful,” I shout.

  The Yankees fans seated in the row in front of us turn around to give me bewildered looks, and I smile sheepishly. “I meant the weather.”

  Two more outs. Two more outs.

  I rub my hands together, no longer feeling the cold. The entire Royals’ dugout is on its feet, leaning against the fence.

  Brody attempts a few of his newer pitches—a slider and a curveball—gaining the batter two balls and zero strikes.

  “What if he walks someone?” Lenny asks.

  I shake my head, indicating that it would end the perfect game. “He could still get a no-hitter with a walk. But for a perfect game, we can’t let anyone on base.”

  Brody throws a decent curveball this time, surprising the Yankee batter, and earns a strike. Boos erupt as the fans protest the call, but the strike was perfectly clear from our seats behind home plate.

  The booing and the roller coaster of emotions oozing from the fans seem to have rattled Brody. He takes an uncharacteristically long time pulling his cleats through the dirt, adjusting his hat, and rolling the ball around his right hand before finally making the throw.

  Brody throws a fastball that registered at only 86 mph. Not his fastest. The batter connects with the ball, and I almost cover my eyes, my stomach turning dozens of cartwheels. But Short Stop sweeps up the ball from the ground and makes a perfect long throw to first, and Lenny’s dad makes the catch seconds before the batter tags the base.

  “Oh my God! I just had a heart attack,” I say.

  Holy shit. We have two outs.

  “This is insane,” I say.

  “He’s getting tired, isn’t he?” Lenny says. “That last pitch was slow.”

  I exhale and nod. “Slow for him.”

  Savannah opens her mouth to respond but is distracted by Frank calling a timeout. Well, not so much the timeout, but more that Dad—Dad!—is the one walking out to the pitcher’s mound.

  Oh my God, is the first thing he says to Brody in nearly two weeks going to be, You’re out of the game? He’s not that angry, is he?

  “What’s he doing?” I ask Savannah. “Are they pulling Brody out?”

  “Why would they do that when he’s throwing a perfect game?” Lenny protests.

  “It still counts if you switch pitchers.”

  “Oh no, what are you doing, Jim?” Savannah mumbles, but she’s not watching Dad, she’s staring at her phone, shaking her head. “This is not going to work.”

  “What? What’s he doing?” I grasp Savannah’s shoulder, but she brushes me off. She’s not explaining.

  Brody looks up, clearly surprised to see Dad in front of him. He adjusts his hat again, keeping his head down while listening to Dad. Even from our seats, I see his body stiffen, his eyes lift to meet Dad’s, his mouth hanging open.

  What the hell is he saying to him? I have to know! Is he pulling him out of the game or what?

  Dad turns abruptly and hobbles off the field like this wasn’t a huge mega event in the world of Jason Brody and Jim Lucas. Brody’s still standing there like he’s in shock. Savannah covers her face with both hands and groans. “I don’t know if this is a good idea…
”

  She chances a glance in my direction and then refocuses on the field.

  “What?” I demand.

  But both of us are glued to Brody now as he drags his cleats through the dirt. Adjusts his hat. Pulls at his collar and rolls his shoulders. And then he gazes straight down home plate.

  He winds up, a look of pure determination on his face. The pitch is a fastball.

  I don’t even need to hear the umpire or Lily yell “Strike” to know that he hit the mark. I do glance up at the scoreboard to see the speed: 99 mph.

  Come on, Brody. Come on.

  I squeeze my eyes shut after the next throw, listening for the sound of the ball hitting the pocket of our catcher’s glove.

  “Strike two!”

  100 mph.

  I grip the seat in front of me, leaning in to see Brody catch the ball and accept the signal from the catcher. He pauses and lifts his eyes upward until he’s looking right into our section. It’s dark out and the stadium lights are bright. I don’t know if he can see me, but I stare hard enough for both us.

  One more strike. Just one more.

  The game moves in slow motion, Brody inching his way through his pre-pitch rituals, and I’m thinking about Grams and wishing she were here even if she wouldn’t know what was going on. And I wish Brody’s mom were here watching. Maybe she’s watching on TV somewhere, but I wish she were here in person. Witnessing her kid out there looking more like a grown man. One who is kind and selfless and hard-working. Someone she should be proud to call hers. Why is it so hard for people to accept what’s right in front of them? Like Dad with Brody.

  Brody tosses one more glance in Dad’s direction and draws in a deep breath, nodding at the catcher. He winds up and releases the ball. I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to the sound of the perfect pitch smacking the catcher’s glove.

  101 mph.

  Chapter 33

  The field is a zoo of TV cameras, reporters, players, and family. I push through several clusters of people, glancing over shoulders, trying to find Dad.

  I spot him and Frank about three yards away, but before I can get to them, I spot Brody and I can’t move anywhere else. I mean, I literally can’t with all these people on the field.

  An ABC News reporter shoves a microphone into Brody’s face. “A perfect game and the Royals are going to the World Series. Bet that feels great.” Brody laughs because, well, duh. “You looked like you were wiped out on the field before Coach Lucas came out in that last inning. What did he say to you on the mound?” the reporter guy asks. “What did he say to pull those hundred-mile-an-hour pitches out of you?”

  Brody’s eyes search the crowd until they land on me. A grin spreads across his face, and he turns to the reporter and says, “He said if I was good enough to throw a perfect game, I’d be good enough to date his daughter.”

  If I wasn’t frozen in shock before, I am now. My mouth falls open and then before I can process, Brody is abandoning his interview and parting the crowd, reaching for me.

  I’m swept off my feet so fast I almost scream. For about half a second, when my eyes are first meeting Brody’s, I forget about the rest of the world and about internet and newspapers and Twitter and Facebook. My arms go around his neck, squeezing him tight. He returns my feet to the ground but pulls me in closer. Before I can protest, Jason Brody is kissing me like we’re alone in his apartment. The euphoria of witnessing his series-winning, perfect-game-achieving pitch returns and I’m kissing him back, more tears sliding down my cheeks.

  He pulls his mouth from mine after way too many seconds have passed and wraps me up in another feet-lifting hug. “Eres la persona más maravillosa que he conocido. Te amo, Annie.” His voice is rough with emotion.

  “I know what you just said,” I say, unable to hold back my grin. “I’m not that bad at Spanish. And it counts, by the way. No matter what language you say those words in.”

  “I love you,” he says in English this time, proving he knows it, too. “And FYI, we’re going out with your dad tonight.”

  This is a good sign. A very good sign. “Maybe he was pulling your leg with that ‘permission to date his daughter’ deal. Plus, that’s not a real date if my dad is there.”

  Brody leans in and kisses me again. “It is now that I get to hold your hand and call you my girlfriend if anyone asks.”

  “Really?” I squeal. He nods, and I throw my arms around his neck again. “So my dad said we could date and other people are allowed to know about it?”

  “He did.”

  “And we can sneak away from everyone later and—”

  Brody laughs. “Well, he didn’t give me permission for that, but we’re doing it anyway.”

  I pull away and look up at him. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and from where we’re standing, I can see Dad was texting. I glance at the message, not surprised that it’s from Dad.

  DAD: Happy Birthday :)

  I smile and catch his eye before Brody tugs me in the direction of the Royals’ publicity team, where I know he’ll be asked a million and one questions about each inning of tonight’s game. Our fingers are laced together in plain sight for anyone to photograph. Brody stops and turns to me before reaching the next reporter. “You are wearing my number under that jacket, right?”

  After a long, dramatic pause, I slowly pull the zipper of my coat down until the number eleven jersey is revealed. “Of course, although Short Stop was looking pretty good out there tonight.”

  “Brat.”

  Epilogue

  BRODY: can you post this on FB for me? “I am no longer dating a high school girl”

  ME: what happened? Underage girls not your type anymore?

  BRODY: not if they aren’t you

  ME: and I’m not in high school anymore. I get it :)

  BRODY: see you at Lenny’s in 5

  “Why is my name on that cake?” Brody’s forehead wrinkles as he stares at the giant graduation cap–shaped cake the Londons splurged for after convincing Dad the combo Annie/Lenny party would be so much fun.

  “It was Lenny’s idea,” I say quickly.

  Lenny shakes her head. “No way. Savannah did this.”

  “Did what?” Dad and Savannah say from behind us.

  Before we can point blame elsewhere, Jake London stands in front of the huge party-guest turnout (98 percent Lenny London guests) and raises his glass of champagne.

  “Oh my God,” Lenny mutters, “he’s giving a speech. Why the hell is he giving a speech? Who does that at a graduation party?”

  “Wishing you could go back to Spain?” I joke even though I know she missed her parents. A little.

  Lenny grins. “You know me, I love drama.”

  At least nobody is throwing a punch.

  Jake London and Dad seem to tolerate each other these days. Which is a far cry from this time last year. Brody and Jake London…that relationship is even better than Dad and Jake’s.

  Teammates becoming unlikely World Series Champions makes it way easier to put personal differences aside and bond.

  “I would just like to thank my teammates for coming out here to celebrate two of the smartest and most athletic Royals’ kids,” Jake says. Lenny looks at me and rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s surprised by the compliment. She always says her parents rarely mention the fact that she’s a straight-A honor student. “We’ve got a National Honor Society member and a two-time record-holding state champion in the one-mile run—”

  “And the two mile!” Brody shouts.

  I elbow him in the side, but I don’t hate that he brought that up. After handing over the two-mile race to Jackie last year, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get myself back up to the top. I did, and I even shaved a couple seconds from my time.

  “And the two mile,” Jake says, nodding in Brody’s direction.

  Brody’s arm snakes around my waist, and he tugs me closer. He was probably more excited about my state win
than I was. He even made sure the pitching rotation allowed him to watch my meet.

  And then there were negotiations with the head coach from University of Kansas—who offered me a full ride. The way Brody and Dad attacked that woman… Let’s just say I will never run out of clean towels in the locker room. And they have my favorite Gatorade flavors listed on letterhead.

  “So why is my name on the cake?” Brody whispers into my ear while Jake London continues talking.

  “I can’t tell you.” My face heats up, mostly from Brody’s mouth on my neck, but also because I’m now terrible at keeping secrets from him.

  “Is it a couple’s thing? Or future planning? You know, if we were married, technically you’d be Annie Brody…”

  Lenny overhears him and spins around to face us, pointing a finger. “If you propose at my graduation party, I’ll kill you.”

  “You’d have to beat me to the job,” Dad chimes in.

  Ignoring them, I glance over my shoulder at Brody and smile. “You would sound way better with my last name than the other way around. Don’t you think?”

  Dad puts an arm around both of our shoulders, clapping his hands over Brody’s and my mouths. “Enough of this marriage talk. I need to get through sending Annie away to college first.”

  “It’s forty minutes away, Dad.”

  He shrugs, and we both return to listening to Jake London’s lengthy speech. “In addition to my Harvard-bound daughter and Jim’s daughter getting a full ride to University of Kansas, a top women’s track and field school…we have one more academic achievement to acknowledge.”

  Mrs. London rushes forward and hands Jake the envelope Savannah must have given them earlier.

  “My teammate and last season’s Rookie of the Year, probably the main reason we made it all the way to the World Series for the first time in decades, Jason Brody”—Jake holds up the certificate for everyone to see—“is now a high school graduate. And he completed his diploma while playing his first season in the major leagues. That’s quite an accomplishment. I don’t think many of us could have done both of those at once.”

  I back away from Brody so I can see his face—he’s blushing, which is a rare thing for Brody, but he looks ecstatic. I reach out and squeeze his hand. Dad is the first to clap him on the back. But several of his teammates follow. My heart squeezes at how far he’s come in a year—from the kid no one would give the time of day to, to having players treat him like a valued member of the team. One of them.