Cinderella Steals Home

by Syms, Carly

  "And you knew he was my brother?"

  "We didn't figure it out until last weekend," Justin cuts in. "We kind of realized it by accident."

  "Justin," I say through clenched teeth. "A word."

  "Um," Natalie says. "Does this mean you're not going to play?"

  I swing around to look at her. "Not tonight. Sorry. I'm sure the crowd is going to be disappointed." The last customer in the place -- a middle-aged man working on a laptop in the corner -- actually has earbuds in as he taps his converse sneakers to the beat of the music he's listening to.

  Natalie nods once. "Okay. Don't worry about closing up. I was going to do it myself anyway."

  "Great," I say, too flustered to realize that I don't want to leave her hanging. "Justin."

  I stomp outside without looking at him and wait a few feet away from the entrance. A few seconds later, the bells above the door jingle as it's opened once more.

  I have my back to him, but even though he doesn't say anything, I know he's there.

  "You know I hate him," I snarl. "I can't believe you'd bring him with you to something like that."

  There are a few beats of silence.

  "Maybe he was interested in seeing more of what you're all about."

  For the second time in as many minutes, I freeze. I may not have been back in Arizona all that long, but I still know the sound of my brother's voice, and that isn't it.

  Slowly, I spin around.

  Doan Riley is standing there, staring at me, no cockiness, no arrogance, no amusement etched anywhere on his face. Even his eyes aren't twinkling that annoying sparkle I'm so used to seeing in them.

  "I said I wanted to talk to Justin."

  "He was busy trying to tell Natalie that she didn't do a terrible thing by letting him know about you coming here tonight to sing," Doan says, lifting an eyebrow. "She feels really bad about that."

  I shake my head, already feeling some of the tension seep out of my body. It isn't Natalie's fault that Doan is here right now. She didn't know I wouldn't want anyone to show up to see me for the first time, and you know what? I don't even think I'd have been all that mad if only Justin came. Maybe just -- I don't know -- surprised or something. But for him to bring Doan? Doan Riley? After everything? After we talked about this?

  Yeah, I'm definitely not okay with it.

  And Doan just so happens to be right in my line of fire.

  "What are you doing here?" I demand.

  "Justin invited me," he says again.

  "That's great," I shoot back. "Maybe tomorrow he'll invite me to jump out of an airplane over Mount Everest without a parachute. Doesn't mean I'm going to say yes, you know."

  Doan just shrugs. "But I wanted to."

  "Yeah, clearly. Why?"

  "I didn't have anything else going on tonight."

  "You know I don't want you around me."

  "You know you're not in charge of everything, right? I can show up wherever I want to."

  I roll my eyes. "I didn't think you were the clingy type."

  He flinches ever so slightly and I try to hold back my smile. Round One to Holly.

  "Just the type with nothing better to do is all," he says. "Better than sitting around alone at home."

  I'm not sure I believe him, but I don't tell him that. "Whatever, Doan. Why not just go race through the streets of Scottsdale some more? I bet there are lots of people out there who can't wait to run into you."

  "Dammit, Holly! Will you let that go already?"

  This explosion is more than I'm expecting and I take an involuntary step away.

  "I already told you I won't do that."

  Doan runs his hand over his mouth and sighs. "You really don't want me around?" There's no anger in his voice and his eyes only look tired.

  "Everyone keeps saying you have all these reasons for why you act the way you do, but no one will tell me what they are. If I don't understand it, I can't get over it. It was just so stupid."

  He drops down into one of the chairs at a table in front of the cafe and rests his elbows on his knees.

  "They're right," he says, looking me straight in the eyes. I fold my arms across my chest. "I have reasons, and I have stories. Everybody has a story. But, Holly, what you have to understand is that not all of our stories are meant to be told. Mine are like that."

  I stare down at the sidewalk. "No, I don't buy it," I say. "Because sometimes even if we don't want to share a story, it doesn't mean that we shouldn't. Sometimes, that's the best thing for us."

  Doan looks up at me, nothing but sadness on his face, and I'm surprised. "Not this time," he says, his voice quiet. "You're just gonna have to trust me on that one."

  Just a couple of minutes ago, I would have laughed in his face at this, but now all I do is drop down into the seat next to his and say nothing.

  "I know that's a crazy thing for me to say to you," he goes on. "And there's no reason why you should. I get why you think I'm an asshole and you're not wrong because I think I'm an asshole, too. But I'm not all bad. I wasn't always all bad, anyway. I probably don't have any right to say this to you but I want to get to know you, Holly. You're not exactly making that easy for me, but I understand why. Just kind of hope maybe now you can give me a shot."

  I raise my eyebrows. "A shot? At what?"

  "Being your friend?" he says with a shrug of his shoulders. "I don't know. Not even that. Just maybe you don't have to hate seeing me all the time. We could start with that."

  My eyes haven't left his face as he speaks, and I think back to what Justin told me, about how Doan wasn't always a bad guy and that the guy he once was is still somewhere inside him.

  I think maybe I can sort of see that now.

  I don't know, really. But it's not so crazy anymore.

  Part of me -- more than the part that can't stand him -- wants to find out.

  "I guess we'll see," I say at last.

  He cracks a smile -- a real smile, not the cocky, arrogant grin I'm so used to seeing. "Good choice, Holls," he says. "You won't regret this."

  He gets to his feet and walks away before I can say anything else.

  And when I finally snap back to reality, I realize that I haven't even told him not to call me Holls.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next afternoon brings about my very first practice as a member of the Phoenix Scorpions. Justin had given me a T-shirt last night to wear to practice today, and as I slipped it on over my head and glanced in the mirror while getting dressed an hour earlier, I'd realized that I don't hate the way it looks on me.

  It may not look right, but it isn't wrong, either.

  It's clear now that maybe baseball isn't such a bad fit for me anymore.

  And that isn't something I expected to find when I moved back here.

  There's a pit in my stomach when Justin brings his BMW to a stop in the field's parking lot. I don't know if it's because I'm about to play baseball again or because I'm going to see Doan for the first time since open mic night at Gemma's, but I suddenly feel like I'm going to throw up all over the passenger seat of his car.

  "You look pale," Justin says as we climb out and I reach into the backseat for the glove he let me borrow.

  I glance down at myself. "You're just noticing this? You know I can't tan."

  "No, I mean, you don't look good," he says, and I raise my eyebrows.

  He sighs and kicks at the dirt. "You know what I mean."

  I grin. "Yeah, but if this is how you talk to women, no wonder you're single."

  "Is that what my problem is?"

  I grab my gym bag out of the backseat and smile at him. "That's a longer conversation than what we've got time for right now."

  Justin laughs, and I can't help but feel the uneasiness wash away. It's been so long since I've been able to relax and joke around with my brother; I missed it, a lot more than I thought I had.

  My eyes scan the parking lot as Justin and I make our way over to the small cluster of guys gathered near the d
ugout. I don't see Doan's black pick-up truck yet, and part of me is relieved. I still don't know how I'm going to handle that situation.

  Because I guess now I've agreed to be nice to him, and being nice to Doan Riley isn't going to be easy.

  "Hey, Holly," Dad says, walking over to me and interrupting the conversation. "I have an idea. I'm sure you're pretty rusty on hitting so I thought I'd send you and one of our pitches out to the batting cages this afternoon so you can spend some time on your swing. Sound good?"

  I frown. "I can't do that here?"

  "You could," Dad says. "But I always like the cages, and I always send my guys out there when they're struggling at the plate."

  "I'm not struggling at the plate."

  He raises an eyebrow. "No, but you're not new to the game, either. You know what it's like when you don't have a groove."

  I let out a sigh. "Sure, okay," I say. "I'll go."

  Dad grins. "Great! Hey, Riley! Can you come over here for a second?"

  I freeze and suddenly find myself hoping that there's a guy on the team whose first name is Riley.

  But when Doan trots over to Dad and me with a huge grin on his face, I swallow hard.

  I don't like where this is going.

  I hadn't even realized he was here yet!

  "You and Holly are going to spend the day at the cages," Dad says. "I want her to get used to swinging the bat again. It's been awhile since she's played. You good with that?"

  "Whatever you say, Coach." He turns to me and smiles. "I hope you're ready for this, Holls."

  I suck in a deep breath.

  I'm pretty sure I'll never be quite ready for Doan Riley.

  ***

  Doan opens the passenger side door to his pick-up truck and offers me a hand. I glance down at his outstretched palm, then hoist myself into the cab of the truck without his help. I look at him as he stares back at me, a crease in his forehead, before he closes the door and walks around to the driver's side.

  I'm not sure what came over me, why I don't let him help me get up. It's a nice gesture -- maybe sweet, even -- and definitely unexpected coming from Doan, but I can't bring myself to put my hand in his.

  I'm nervous, my palms sweating, as he buckles his seatbelt and revs the engine. I'm instantly brought back to the first time I ever saw him, his black pick-up truck screaming down Scottsdale Road and careening to a stop in a cloud of smoke, no care for anyone around him.

  I have to imagine that he's thinking about the same thing I am. It's a quiet, awkward car ride to the batting cages. Despite how important baseball had been to me for so much of my life, I've never been to one before and I have no idea what to expect, or what it'll be like.

  And the fact that Doan's going to be the one who teaches me doesn't really do a lot to put me at ease.

  "This is my favorite place in Phoenix," he says as he guides his truck into the parking lot of a driving range.

  "I don't need to work on my golf game," I reply. He parks the truck and cuts the engine; I let out a sigh. He turns sharply and looks at me.

  "What was that?" he asks.

  I glance over at him and raise an eyebrow. "What was what?"

  "That sigh," he says, eyes boring into me. "You didn't trust me to drive here, did you?"

  "I got into the car, didn't I?"

  He rubs his forehead between his thumb and his index finger. "Let's just go hit."

  I jump down from the truck, grab my bag and walk around to the driver's side. He's still sitting in his seat, and with the tinted windows, I can't see what he's doing inside. I'm about to turn and walk in without him when the car door opens and he hops out, baseball bag slung over his shoulder.

  He tucks a pack of cigarettes into the pocket of his shorts, and I'm surprised to see it, but don't say anything.

  I've never been to this place before but it's clear from the whirring red lights and buzzing chimes and clangs of the carnival games that there's way more to it than just being a simple driving range. Picture any game you can imagine; I'm sure you'll find it here. Screaming children run in every direction and the sickening sugary smell of cotton candy turns my stomach.

  I'm not sure if it's from the sweetness of the food or the nerves I seem to get whenever I'm around Doan.

  But I feel my head start to pound almost instantly. Doan leads me through the maze of games and kids, and out back to a patio where we get in line to buy tickets for mini golf, bumper boats, sand volleyball courts and the batting cages.

  "Oh, mini golf," I say without even really thinking about it. I turn to see if I can spot the courses. "I love it so much. I haven't played in such a long time."

  He looks over at me. "Really? I do it all the time on weekends."

  I don't know why, but this surprises me. Doan doesn't really strike me as the type to spend a Saturday night on the putt-putt course.

  I'm about to say something else when the customer in front of us steps aside and Doan walks up to the window, pays for the cages and hands me a helmet.

  "I have money," I say, reaching into my bag for my wallet.

  "Don't be dumb," he replies, holding the helmet out to me.

  "Seriously?" I ask, looking at it in his hand.

  He nods. "Same thing as in a game. Those balls are still coming at you fast, you know."

  I sigh; I'd never balk at wearing a batting helmet in a real game, but I feel incredibly dorky putting it on over my hair now.

  Doan tucks his own helmet in the crook of his elbow and I follow him over to the batting cages.

  "Start with this one," he says. "The pitches will come at you at 80 miles per hour." We walk inside a chain-link enclosure and he shows me where to stand on the home plate.

  Doan feeds a machine several tokens, then takes a step back.

  "Are you ready?" he asks, shooting me a small, unexpected smile.

  I take a deep breath. "Ready as I'll ever be."

  Doan gives me a funny look, but I'm barely paying attention to him right now. My knees are bent, arms about shoulder-high, bat raised above my head, eyes trained on the machine that's about to send balls flying at me from across the park.

  The rotating arm winds up and fires the first yellow ball at me. I keep my eyes focused on it as it flies toward me. I bring my arms around and swing as hard as I can.

  The ball hits the vinyl screen hanging on the fence behind me with a thud and I realize that I completely whiffed on the pitch.

  I can't stop a small, frustrated sigh from squeaking out between my lips. I don't know what happened to me; I used to be money with a baseball bat in my hands. Now I can't even make enough contact with the ball to foul it off.

  "It's okay, Holly," Doan says from my left. "Just get ready for the next one."

  I square up to the machine a second time and wait for the pitch. It flies toward me and I close my eyes and hack at it.

  I'm not surprised when it slams into the vinyl behind me.

  Doan's chuckling softly when I open my eyes.

  "That's a different strategy," he says, and I look at him sharply but there's no malice in his eyes, just a friendly, easygoing twinkle I'm not sure I ever remember seeing from him before. "But maybe we should try one that's a little bit more, uh, effective."

  I laugh despite my frustrations. "I don't know what's wrong here."

  He walks over to the token machine and hits the red pause button. "Okay," he says. "I know you didn't really ask for my help but I'm here and I think I have a few ideas."

  I shrug. "It's not like I can get any worse."

  He nods, and I think about being offended that he's agreeing that I suck but decide it isn't worth it.

  Besides, he's not wrong.

  He comes up and stands just slightly behind me, close enough that I think I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, but I'm also not sure if that's just the warm desert breeze.

  "Right now, your batting stance is pretty typical," he says, and I look at him over my shoulder as he mirrors my pose. "Let'
s change that up and see how it works. So line up as you were on home plate. We're gonna close off your stance for more power."

  He waits as I get myself into the position I'm so used to assuming whenever I'm about to hit a baseball -- even if it's been years since it's happened. For me, I guess, playing baseball is like riding a bicycle; it's something I'll never forget how to do, even if I'm not good at it anymore.

  "See how you have your feet squared up to the plate?" he asks, and I look down, then nod. "Try taking your foot that's closest to the pitcher's mound and place it a little bit closer to home."

  I do as he suggests and I'm surprised when he bursts out laughing. "Not like that," he says. "Too much. Move it back a little."

  I glare at him slightly as he directs my movements until I'm settled into a stance that he thinks looks good.

  "And that's it?" I ask as he takes a step back toward the machine to resume the pitches.

  He nods. "We'll see if it works. I have a few other ideas, too, though," he says, then presses the green start button.

  I take a deep breath and wait the pitch. As it flies toward me, I swing and make contact, but the ball sails straight up in the air and bounces off the vinyl behind me.

  "That's okay," Doan says, clapping his hands together. "At least you hit it."

  He's right. It's more than I've been able to do since I picked up my bat again.

  The next pitch comes at me; I wiggle the bat above my head, eye trained on the ball and at just the last second, I swing through the pitch, putting all of the power from my legs into the hit.

  And sure enough, the ball flies out toward the machine and clangs into the chain-link fence on the other side.

  "Well, I don't know about you," Doan says, "but I'm pretty sure if that fence wasn't there, you'd have just hit a home run."

  It didn't feel like a home run swing to me, but I smile at him anyway, and he returns my grin.

  For the first time since I've known him, I don't really want to fight with Doan.

  ***

  "I think I'm done," I say after my fifth hit in a row. I've settled into a groove and I'm feeling pretty good about baseball right now.