by McKayla Box
I stuff the rest of my gear in my bag and hang it on my shoulder.
Lila sees me and holds up a hand.
I don’t wave back.
But I head in her direction.
Chapter 20
LILA
I do my best not to look at Houston’s arms as he strides across the grass toward me. I have a thing for arms and his are magnificent. He’s wearing an old Baymont T-shirt and the sleeves are gone, so I can see his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms, his wrists. They glisten with sweat in the sunlight.
Utterly magnificent.
He reaches the fence and drops his bag. “Hey.”
“Hey there,” I say. “I wanted to tell you something.”
He stares at me. “Okay.”
“Last night,” I say. “With everything that…happened. I didn’t really get to say this to you and I wanted to make sure I say it.” I pause. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For chasing off Clay Dickson,” I tell him. “I know he’s an asshole and I hated that he was touching me like he owned me or something and, yeah, I could’ve just walked away from him, but you…did what you did and got me away from him. And I just wanted to say thank you for that.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine.”
I’m not sure what I’m expecting him to say, but it’s not that. He won’t look at me and he seems distracted. Maybe aloof. I’m not sure.
“Okay, then,” I say. “I watched your bullpen.”
“Did you now?”
I nod. “Yeah. First half wasn’t so great. Second half seemed a lot better.”
“I did what I needed to do,” he says.
“What did you need to do?”
“Pitch.”
It hangs there between us and something’s off. His body language, his tone, all of it seems wrong.
“Your control came back in the second half,” I say. “What did you adjust?”
“My control was fine the entire time,” he says. “Maybe your eyesight is off.”
Now I know something’s off. “What’s the problem?”
He shakes his head. “No problem at all.”
“Houston.”
“Lila.”
It’s the way that he says it, like I’m some little kid who’s irritating him and he wants nothing to do with me.
“Is this about last night?” I ask.
“It’s about you,” he says. “Period.”
I’m not sure how to take that, so I don’t say anything.
“If you’ve got a question, maybe just ask me,” he says. “Don’t go behind my fucking back.”
It takes me a second, then it comes to me. “You talked to Petty.”
“Yeah, because he’s a friend,” he says. “Because he thought I deserved to know that some chick was sticking her nose in my business and trying to get an answer from my old coach about some old bullshit.”
“I’m not some chick sticking my nose in your business,” I say, anger rising up inside of me. “I’m a reporter trying to do my job. Which you know about. I didn’t go behind your back.”
“So you just learned about the suspension this morning and decided to run right over there and talk to Petty?” he asks. “You didn’t know about it last night and couldn’t have asked me then?”
“I…it’s not like that,” I tell him.
“Answer the question,” he says. “Did you know last night or not?”
I sigh. “Yeah, but—”
“But you would rather go behind my back,” he says. “Tell me this. You think you’re going to write some hit piece on me? Some bullshit hack job that makes me look like something I’m not?”
“No,” I say. “No, absolutely not. I wanted to ask you about it last night. But we were with Beck nearly the whole time. I didn’t want to bring it up when he was there because I didn’t think it was appropriate. I’m not trying to embarrass you.”
He shakes his head. “I think you’re full of shit.”
Now I’m mad. He’s made a ton of assumptions about me that aren’t fair.
“You can think whatever you want.” I glare at him. “But here’s your chance. Were you suspended for two games your senior year of high school and if so, what was the reason?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I can’t hear you,” I say. “Do you need me to repeat the questions?”
“I don’t need you to repeat shit,” he says. “What I need—”
“What I need is an answer,” I say, cutting him off. “You don’t want me going behind your back? Fine. Here’s your chance. I’m asking. You need to answer.”
“I don’t need to do anything,” he snaps.
“I’m a fucking reporter,” I tell him. “I have to ask questions. I was doing background research on you. I found this tiny story about the suspension. Thought it was weird. Now your old high school coach won’t tell me anything and you’re freaking the fuck out. Now I have to dig in on it. This is your shot to tell me what you want to tell me.”
He eyes me. “Or else what?”
“There’s no or else,” I tell him. “I just keep working on the story. And that means asking questions. And getting answers.” I pause. “Just tell me what happened and save us both the trouble of wasting any more time on this.”
For a moment, I think I see something in his eyes that indicates he’s going to tell me. At the very least, tell me something. But then it passes and it’s replaced with something that looks more like hate.
He picks up his bag and moves closer to the fence, so he’s right in my face. I’m tempted to take a step back, but I don’t want him to think I’m afraid, so I stay right where I am. His nose is an inch from mine.
He stares at me for a long time.
Then his eyes narrow.
“I don’t have shit to say to you,” he says.
Then he stalks off.
Chapter 21
HOUSTON
It’s all I can do to make sure I don’t jam the accelerator to the floor as I drive away from campus.
Her attitude just pisses me off.
Like she’s some reporter for The New York Fucking Times or something.
She writes for the damn school paper.
And the only reason she’s getting the profile of me is because she got fucking lucky.
So it’s some kind of bullshit that she’s making this into something more than what it is.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel of my truck.
I’m done being nice to her. She can ask her questions and then fuck right off.
No distractions.
I pull up to my mom’s house and cut the engine. I unclench my hands from the steering wheel and take a deep breath. I look at the house. Same as always. One story. Small front porch. Green lawn. Lots of memories.
I get out and go inside. “Mom? You home?”
I hear the water shut off in the kitchen. “Houston?”
“It’s me, Mom.”
She walks into the living room, a dishtowel in her hands. “Hey, sweetie.” She smiles, her eyes lighting up. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”
“Spontaneous check in,” I tell her, sitting down on the couch. It’s the same couch we’ve had for years, a brown micro-suede that has definitely seen better days. Everything in the house is like this: cared for, but used. “Wasn’t sure if you’d be home or not.”
“I went in early today,” she says. Even though she’s lived in California for nearly thirty years, there is still a hint of Texas drawl in her voice. “Took a half day and came home at lunch. Are you hungry? You want something to eat?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” I say. “But thanks.”
“Didn’t expect to see you at all this week.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and eases down next to me. The couch barely moves under her feather-light weight. “What with the game and all on Saturday.”
“You coming?”
She frowns. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just
asking.”
She studies me for a long moment. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s rude to lie to your mother, Houston,” she says.
She’s right. It is rude. I never lie to her. Well, maybe I leave some things out, but I don’t lie to her. We’re close. It was just the two of us in this house when I was growing up, so she’s been my mom, my dad, and my friend. Part of the reason I want to make the majors so badly is so that I can get her out of this little house and give her anything and everything she wants.
Everything she deserves.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She frowns again, bit this time there is motherly impatience, too. “I’m fine. You know that.”
“You sure?”
“I would tell you if there was a problem,” she says. “I have a clean bill of health. Do not go worrying about me.” She pokes me in the arm. “What is bothering you, Houston?”
I rub my chin. “There’s this reporter. At school. She’s doing a story on me.”
“That’s nice,” she says, smiling.
“Not really,” I tell her. “I don’t like being interviewed and I don’t like her.”
“First off, you better get used to being interviewed,” she says. “When the draft comes around, teams are going to be interviewing you all day and night.”
“That’s different, Mom.”
“Is it? Seems to me that talking to someone is talking to someone,” she says. “Now. Second. Why don’t you like the reporter?”
“Because she’s…just annoying,” I say. “And she’s asking a lot of questions.”
“I think that’s in the job description.”
“She’s asking about the suspension,” I tell her.
She leans back in the couch. “Oh. How did she—”
“Apparently, there’s still some small article on Google,” I tell her.
“I thought they were all gone or removed or whatever the lawyer did,” she says.
“Me, too,” I say. “But she found one. She went to talk to Coach. He didn’t tell her anything.”
“I wouldn’t expect him to,” she says, nodding. “That man thinks of you like a son.”
“She asked me about it, too.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“To mind her own business,” I say. “And some other stuff.”
She laughs. “I don’t think I want to hear about that other stuff.” She pauses. “So are you here to warn me?”
“I guess,” I say. “I don’t know. I just thought you should know.”
“It’s fine, Houston,” she says. “It’s in the past. If she—”
“She won’t,” I say. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t.”
“Alright,” she says. “But I’m just letting you know. I’m fine. You’ll be fine. And we knew that at some point this might come up.”
“Yeah, with professional teams,” I say. “With people who are used to keeping things under wraps. Not some college reporter who thinks she’s smarter than everyone else.”
She pats my knee. “She’s probably just doing her job.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Well, then, that’s what she’s doing,” she says. “Don’t fault her for that.”
I know I already fault her for that. My mom is a lot nicer of a human being than I am.
“I just don’t want you to be embarrassed,” I tell her.
“I won’t be.”
“But—”
“No buts,” she tells me, shaking her head. “We’re past all of that. Do you want my advice?”
I don’t, but I know that will hurt her feelings. “Sure.”
“If she brings it up, be honest with her about it,” she says. “Tell her exactly what happened and why you did what you did. Is this girl smart?”
“She has a smart mouth.”
She chuckles, her eyes lighting up again. They are startlingly blue, one of the only physical features we have in common. “Well, then you probably like her a bit more than you’re letting on.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve always liked girls who push back a little.”
“Well, this one pushes back to much.”
“Either way,” she says. “I will be fine. We will be fine. I won’t be embarrassed by a thing. I think…” Her voice trails off and she looks down at the floor.
“What?” I ask.
Her mouth tightens into a firm line for a moment. “I just think we handled it all wrong. We were looking at it all wrong and afraid and…well, I would do all of that differently again if we had to.”
“I’d do it again,” I tell her. “Same way.”
“I know you would.” Her smile is so genuine, so filled with love that my throat gets a little tight and I have to look away so I don’t lose it. “I just don’t want you to ever be in that position ever again. To have to make those kinds of decisions.” She pats my knee. “So you tell this girl whatever you want to tell her. But I wouldn’t try to lie to her. There’s no point now.”
I’m not sure I agree with her. Maybe if Lila had talked to me about it first before going to Petty, I’d feel different. But she didn’t.
So, right now, the last person I want to know the truth is Lila Oakley.
“I just don’t want you be embarrassed,” I tell her.
She kisses my cheek. “Houston. That’s not possible.”
Chapter 22
LILA
“Do you do this every day?” I ask. “The sun isn’t even up.”
Houston ties the laces to his running shoes. “Couple times a week.”
It’s Wednesday morning and we’re standing in front of the baseball house. It’s five-thirty and I feel like I’m not even awake. I tried calling him on Tuesday after he stormed away from me at the field, but he wouldn’t answer and he wasn’t returning my calls. So I started texting him every fifteen minutes, reminding him that we had a deal for me to be able to shadow him, and that I needed to know his schedule. Three hours later, he finally texted me back.
I’m going for a run at 5:30. In the morning. Leave from my house.
I’ll be there.
Joy.
I know he’s hoping that I’ll sleep in or that it’s too early or that I won’t run, but there’s no way I’m giving him that kind of satisfaction. So I set three different alarms to make sure I was up in time, set my clothes out before I go to bed, and then spent the whole night waking up every hour so I didn’t miss my alarm. By the time the actual alarm went off, I was already awake and pouring coffee. I changed into my running clothes, dug my shoes out of the closet, and was standing at the curb in the dark when he walked out the front door.
He finishes with his shoes and stands up. His hair is all over the place and he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. He’s in a long-sleeved Baymont T-shirt and black running tights. Even in the dark, I can see how well he fits into the tights.
Jesus.
“I’m not going slow for you,” he says, twisting at the waist to stretch. “I’m doing my normal workout.”
“You don’t need to go slow for me,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”
“We’ll see about that.”
We spend a few minutes stretching in the dark and then he takes off without warning. But I’m ready for his bullshit today. I know he’s still pissed at me and I know he’d rather be anywhere but with me.
Tough shit.
So I quickly catch up and fall into a rhythm next to him.
We’ve been running for about twenty minutes when he quickens his pace. I match it. As the sun starts to poke through the dark sky in the east, we down the hill toward the harbor on the west. When we reach the water, the sky is a kaleidoscope of pinks and oranges. He slows as we get to a grassy patch near the edge of the water, then sits down on the grass. I’m grateful for the rest but I don’t say anything. I ease myself down next to him on the grass, my heart pounding against my chest. I’m in decent shape
but haven’t done a run that intense in a long time.
“I usually stretch for a few minutes, do some push ups and crunches, then head back,” he says.
“Always right here?”
“Always.”
I nod.
“Are you a runner?” he asks.
“Used to be,” I tell him. “Cross country and track in high school. I only get out once or twice a week now.”
He nods.
“Probably have to try harder to shake me,” I tell him.
“Wasn’t trying to shake you,” he says. “That’s my normal pace. My routine is my routine.”
“What other things are part of your routine?”
“Things.”
“Like?”
He stretches his legs out in a V-shape and reaches for his right foot. “Like things.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Yes.”
I wait for something else, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Okay, let’s try this,” I ask. “When did you realize you liked baseball?”
“When I was a kid.”
“What age?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“Ten.”
“Did you know you were good then?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because I was.”
“Because you could throw harder? Hit further? Run faster?”
“Yes.”
He’s being a pain in the ass and I know he wants to fluster me. But I do my best to stay cool and not go off on him.
And I’m a little distracted by the stretching and the tights, if I’m being honest.
“Are you nervous about Saturday?” I ask.
“No.”
“Is that normal?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t ever get nervous?”
“Not really.”
“Not really or not ever?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I sigh. He’s not going to give me answers. But without answers, it’s going to be a hard piece to write. I need harder questions, the kind he can’t just blow off with a couple of words when he answers.