by McKayla Box
And Lila Oakley doesn’t see this coming.
Her swing is quicker this time, but the ball has already dropped by the time she swings and she goes right over the top of it. She swings so hard the bat carries her around and she stumbles as the ball settles into Beck’s mitt.
“Strike two,” Wyatt calls.
The crowd erupts again, yelling and cheering.
Lila steps out of the box, looking at the ground.
“Don’t worry, Oakley,” I yell at her. “I make everyone look bad.”
Beck jogs out to the mound and hands me the ball. “Hey, I know you’re having fun here, but let’s finish it now. I don’t want your arm doing anything funky. Just give me middle heat and let’s go back and finish the party.”
“Got it,” I tell him.
He jogs back behind the plate.
I rub the ball again, waiting for her to get back in the box. She adjusts her helmet, then sets her hands on the bat, looking at the bat. Then she steps back into the box.
Beck drops the index finger.
I nod.
I get set on the rubber and stare in.
Lila stares back.
I step back, wind, and just before I let it go, just before I burn one right over the middle of the plate that won’t be anything other than a white blur to her, I see her feet start to move.
Did she sucker me?
Shit.
Chapter 8
LILA
He is intimidating as hell standing on that mound. He looks nearly seven feet tall, staring down at me. When he throws, it’s like his arm can nearly reach out and touch me. I can’t imagine what it’s like for batters in real games to face him. I don’t see how they ever make contact with anything he throws.
The first pitch he throws is a total joke. Too wide, and I think he is surprised that I know not to swing.
The next pitch I have no chance on. I know it before he throws it. There’s no possible way I can catch up to his fastball. He throws near a hundred miles an hour in games. I know he won’t get near that speed with me, but I know it’s going to seem like a hundred—it does, and it zips past me.
As much as I try to tune out everyone sitting in the stands, I can’t. I hear them laughing and yelling at me. I know how silly I probably look.
I figure if he’s going to throw anything slow it’ll be the second pitch. And I’m right, but his curve is ungodly and it disappears before I even go to swing. I nearly topple over chasing it.
The laughs and jeers get louder.
He’s even smiling on the mound.
Fuck.
I step out of the batter’s box.
This was a bad idea. I’m overmatched and we both know it. I can’t catch up to anything he throws fast and I won’t be able to find anything that he throws with spin on it. He’s the best amateur pitcher in the country for a reason and here I am thinking I can get a hit off of him.
I have one more strike. I have no doubt Beck went out there to tell him to get this over with and to not mess around with me. That’s what I would tell him. So I need to be aggressive. And there’s just one way for me to do that.
And it’s something I’m good at.
Houston Cade has no idea how many hours of softball I played as a kid. He has no idea that I was a terrible hitter. And he has no idea that I figured out how to get on base anyway.
I step back into the box, my hands wrapped tightly around the bat. I take a deep breath. I need to relax to do this right because my timing has to be absolutely perfect. And I’m guessing fastball because if he throws a curve, it won’t matter.
He goes into his windup and just as the ball is leaving his hand, I slide my right hand to the middle of the bat and bring my back foot around.
I’m going to bunt.
I couldn’t hit a softball to save my life, but I figured out how to square myself to the pitcher and punch the bat onto the ball, then run like hell to get on base. It worked for me then.
And I hope to hell it’ll work for me now.
The ball gets bigger as it gets closer. It’s not dipping. Fastball. I guessed right. I try to watch it right onto the head of the bat.
Then…thunk.
The ball hits the bat square in the barrel. It vibrates right up my arms. And the ball bounces out in front of home plate, rolling slowly back toward the mound.
It’s quiet for a moment, like no one can comprehend what’s just happened. Houston is frozen on the mound, his hands on his hips, staring at the ball. Beck is out of his stance, his mask already on top of his head.
And then all hell breaks loose.
People start yelling and screaming in the bleachers. His teammates are laughing so hard in front of the dugout that they are barely able to stand up. People are pouring drinks on people’s heads and stomping their feet against the metal bleachers.
“Fuck YES!” Shea screams, racing up to me. She grabs me by the shoulders. “You fucking did it, Lila!”
I did do it, and now I’m laughing like I’ve lost my mind, the adrenaline rushing through my body like it’s been injected.
I drop the bat and look at Beck. “Contact.”
Beck hesitates, then nods. “Contact.”
I turn toward the mound and I meet Houston halfway as he walks slowly to pick up the ball.
“Contact,” I say.
He picks up the ball, looking at it like it’s betrayed him. Then he whips around and fires the ball toward center field, the ball disappearing over the fence and into the night. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone throw a ball that far with a single step.
He turns back around to me. “We didn’t say bunting was fair.”
“And we didn’t say throwing breaking shit was fair,” I say. “We said contact and contact only. And I made contact.” I gesture over my shoulder. “Even your boy back there said it was contact.”
He glares toward Beck for a moment.
“Don’t you dare back out of this,” I say. “This was fair and square and you know it. You lost. I get you for five days this week so I can write the profile. That was the deal.”
“Fine,” he mutters. “Whatever.”
He walks past me toward Beck.
I turn around. “Hey.”
He stops and turns around. “What?”
I smile at him. “You should’ve thrown the curve again.”
Chapter 9
HOUSTON
The walk back to the house sucks and I let the other guys know the party’s over. I am in no mood.
Beck and I are in the kitchen and I’m rooting through the fridge for a bottle of water. “Don’t we have anything to fucking drink in here?”
“Check the cooler,” Beck says.
I slam the door on the fridge, kick open the lid to the cooler, and pull out a bottle. I rip the cap off, send it flying, and down half of it.
I shake my head. “A fucking bunt.”
Beck nods. “A fucking bunt.”
“She didn’t say shit about bunting.”
“To be fair, you didn’t say shit about not bunting. The word you both agreed on was contact.”
“I fucking remember, Beck.”
He shrugs.
“She’d done that before,” I say.
“Done what before?”
“Bunted,” I say. “The way she squared late. Her hand position. That wasn’t luck. She knew what she was doing.”
He nods. “She got around quick, I’ll say that.”
I shake my head. “Fuck. I should’ve seen it coming.”
“Nah. Didn’t even occur to me. I should’ve thought it through.”
I appreciate him saying that, but he’s wrong. I’m the one that made that bet. I’m the one that should’ve thought about what she might be able to do.
I finish the water and chuck the bottle in the trash can. “I just can’t fucking believe I lost.”
“Rather have you lose this than the game on Saturday,” Beck says.
“I guess.”
“And think about it this way,” he says. “How bad could it really be? She hangs around for a week, asks you some questions, then writes her story. Big fucking deal. And I don’t know if you noticed or not, but she’s not hard to look at.”
Oh, I noticed and I’m pretty sure that’s why I didn’t think about her bunting.
“Distractions,” I say. “I have to eliminate distractions.”
“Lighten up, Houston,” he says. “It’s a meaningless bet. So fucking what? Deal with her and get it over with. This is no different than someone taking you over the left field fence. Shit happens. Move on.”
I know he’s right, but it kills me that she got the better of me.
“What’s up?” Beck asks.
“I think I just told you?”
He shakes his head. “No. You told me that you’re mad that she beat you. But there’s something else. What’s going on?”
I frown at him. “Why do you think something else is going on?”
He laughs. “Dude, I’ve been catching you for four years now. I’ve seen you at your best and your worst. I can read your body language like you’re one of those board books for kindergartners. Your shoulders are hunched, you’re barely breathing, and there’s no way you’d normally be this pissed about losing a dumb bet. I’m not wrong.”
I look away from him. He’s not, of course, for all the reasons he’s just laid out. I can’t hide anything from him. He knows me better than anyone and I should know better than to try and fool him.
I lean back against the counter. “She’s going to do the profile, which means lots of questions.”
He shrugs. “Yeah. So? You’ve done interviews before. And you’re going to be doing a ton more, come draft time. Teams will be all over you. You know that. But you know how to answer questions.”
“This is different,” I say. “This isn’t asking me why I threw a certain pitch to a particular guy. This is gonna be about me.”
He stares at me, then nods. “Got it.” He shrugs again. “But you know how to get around that stuff. The stuff you don’t want to talk about.”
“Doesn’t mean I want her asking the questions,” I say. “And I know her. If she gets even the smallest sense that I’m not telling her something, then she’ll go after it.”
“Then don’t give that to her.”
“If she asks certain questions, I’m not sure I can avoid it.”
“So lay down some ground rules. What you’ll talk about and what you won’t.”
I shake my head. “We didn’t make that part of the bet. She won’t go for it.”
“Just tell her you’ll talk about being at Baymont and baseball,” he says. “Everything else is off-limits.”
He doesn’t get it. I know Lila Oakley. She’ll smell it a million miles away. And that’ll take me down a road I have no interest in traveling.
“You want me to talk to her?” Beck asks. “Just tell her something like how you’re nervous about the piece and to just take it easy?”
I shake my head. “No, because that’ll be like sending up a smoke signal to her. She’ll know something’s up.” I lean forward, laying my hands flat against the island countertop. “I’ll just need to steer around it.”
“Or you could just tell her,” he says.
I look at him like he’s fucking crazy. “Just tell her? No fucking way. And you know why.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “You told me. I remember exactly when, too. A month into our freshman year. You’d just gotten your ass handed to you by Arizona. Nine hits, seven runs.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
He laughs. “Just saying I remember. We were walking back to the dorm afterward and I asked what was bothering you. And you just blurted it all out. The whole thing. And you didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, well, it had been weighing on me,” I say. “I’d talked to my mom earlier that day and I never got my head clear. And I trusted you.”
“So trust Lila.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “I don’t trust her at all. She wants the story. And the more she gets, the bigger the story will be.”
“Then give her as little as you can.” He nods. “It’ll be okay, Houston. Just relax and let it come to you.” He claps me on the shoulder and walks out of the kitchen.
It’s the same advice he gives me when I’m on the mound and I’m pressing. Relax. Let it come to me.
This feels different, though. I know how to pitch out of a jam. I know how to get myself to relax so I can throw the right pitch.
But I have no clue how to keep Lila Oakley away from my secrets.
Chapter 10
LILA
It’s Monday morning and I’m still wired.
I can’t believe I did it. I barely slept Saturday night after I got home and I was bouncing off the walls all day Sunday.
I beat Houston Cade.
Edward Bates stops at my desk. “Is it true?”
I’m in the newspaper office, staring at my computer, amped to get to work. Edward is the editor of the school paper and he looks every bit the part. Sweater vest, glasses on the end of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He’s a twenty-one-year-old senior disguised as a seventy-year-old newspaper editor. But he’s really good at his job, even if he lacks terrific personal skills.
“Depends on what you heard,” I say.
He frowns at me.
“Okay, yeah, you heard right,” I tell him. “He’s gonna do the profile.”
He nods. “Excellent. What’s the timeline?”
“I’m shadowing him this week,” I say. “I’ll have it to you next week.”
“That’s not too fast?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m ready.”
He studies me for a moment. “Alright. Make it good.” He walks away.
I’d hoped for a little more enthusiasm from him, but I should know better. Edward rarely gets excited about anything. But that’s fine. Even he can’t ruin the day for me.
I grab my coffee next to my keyboard, take a sip, then start hammering out questions I have for Houston. I won’t use all of them, but if I get everything out of my head, then I’ll be able to shape them to help give me the right angle for the piece. Thirty minutes later, my coffee is cold and I have a three-page document full of questions.
It’s a good start.
I refill my coffee from the carafe in the small food area in the office, then slide back into my chair. Now I need background info on Houston, so I punch his name into Google.
And there’s a ton.
I find articles going all the way back to when he was in eighth grade and he was being touted as a star. There’s a photo of him in a Yankees hat, standing at home plate of Yankee Stadium. He’s smaller and younger in every way, but I can see him in the younger boy.
And he was cute even then.
I scroll through stories about games he pitched in, stories talking about future professional prospects, and season previews. It starts to feel like maybe there’s nothing new to say about him.
But then I realize that nearly everything I find is about baseball. His stats, his games, his future.
There’s very little about who he actually is. No family details, no history, no stories about him playing Little League ball. It’s only the stuff about him on the field and nearly nothing about him off of it.
I sip my coffee and try digging deeper, trying different combinations of his name and Baymont and baseball into Google. It takes another twenty minutes before I see a headline that I haven’t already seen.
“Star Pitcher Suspended.”
I click on the link and it takes me to an article from his senior year of high school. It’s from a small, local weekly paper that doesn’t do a lot of sports coverage and the website is filled with cheap ads. It’s written by someone named Alfred Johnson and it’s only a paragraph long.
Star Baymont High School pitcher Houston Cade has been suspended for the team’s next two games. The school did not releas
e details regarding the reason for the suspension and would not elaborate when asked. Cade, one of the top high school pitchers in the country, has no history of trouble at the school and is slated to attend Baymont University in the fall. Pirates manager Ron Petty did confirm that Cade was not scheduled to start either of the next two games and that he will not be available in any capacity for those games.
I read the paragraph several times, trying to glean more information from it, but it’s pretty straightforward. I spend a few minutes searching more combos of Houston’s name and suspension, but nothing comes up. That one, small article is the only thing I can find. I print the article out, then make a few notes in my other document.
I’ve been covering the team for four years and I feel like I know most of the players pretty well. I know where they’re from, where they went to high school, what their strengths and weaknesses are. So I know Houston’s from Baymont and then he starred at Baymont High. He’s the local boy making good.
But I don’t ever recall hearing or reading anything about a suspension in high school for Houston Cade.
And I feel like I would’ve. Those stories almost never get buried. If anything, they get too much attention. More often than not, they don’t mean anything. High school guys do dumb things and sometimes they get caught.
So maybe it’s nothing.
But it’s definitely something I’m going to ask him about.
Chapter 11
HOUSTON
Cash grins at me. “Looks like you’re new girlfriend is waiting on you.”
It’s after practice and I’m sweating like a dog. We were sloppy today and I made everyone stick around to run sprints until we were ready to drop. I’d seen Lila standing over near the dugout, but hadn’t acknowledged her.
I yank my shirt off. “She can keep waiting.”
“Maybe she needs some help with her bunting,” Ridge Banks, our second baseman, cracks.
I give him the middle finger and he laughs.
“Nah, she’s got the bunting figured out,” Hayes Templeton, our shortstop, says as he sits down on the grass. “No help needed.”