Pitched by Ella Goode
Chapter Thirteen
Colt
The bus rumbles home,and the dust of the road feels like it has baked into my skin. There’s grit in my eyes from the sand that I can’t rub out, and my ears are still ringing from the sound of the aluminum bats making contact with the ball. In front of me, Tommy is talking about the latest hype sneaker drop that he lost out on, and now the shoes are selling for three times their retail on StockX. Dean is whining on the phone to his old man about how we need motivation. Our spirits are lagging due to the two and six record we chalked up on our two consecutive weeks of road games. In the seat next to me, Logan’s playing a mobile game, cursing out the characters on the screen and muttering about how his thumbs are too big for this stupid ass of a game.
As for me, I’m re-reading reports. I haven’t had more than a few glimpses of GG since our kiss in the supply closet at the mall. Baseball, the sport that I loved more than breathing, is consuming my time. I used to love that about the spring and summer. I could throw myself into the game, live on the field with fresh cut grass, the dirt on the mound, the sun beating down on the top of my head. It was an escape and a paradise all in one. But now it feels more like a chore that I have to get through before I can arrive at the good stuff. Maybe that’s why my pitching has been off. I did get those two wins, but they were hard ones, and I threw almost three hundred pitches. My arm’s going to be dead going into the summer if I don’t get my head back in the game.
Even as I tell myself this, I can’t stop scrolling through my texts. An army of underclassmen have kept me advised of GG’s activities. She takes basic courses—none of the AP stuff—but isn’t required to do any of the midterms or finals. She’s already tested out of all the courses, so she’s just here for the experience. But what experience? The thing is she doesn’t do much unless she’s with Tricia. They shop and study at the coffee shop, and they saw a girl gang movie. One underclassman lives on the same block and told me he didn’t even realize her grandparents had a grandkid. He’d never seen her before.
I like that she’s not hanging out where a bunch of guys could be sniffing around, but the reports make her out to be lonely, which I’m not a fan of. Tomorrow we have a day off from practice. I’m going to take her somewhere—not as a date, because I don’t date—but just as a nice neighborly thing. Even though I’m not her neighbor.
I know the perfect place, too. It’s one of my favorite spots in the city. I know she’s going to love it.
* * *
“You hate this, don’t you?”I say to GG, who keeps looking down at the bat in her hands like it’s a foreign object.
“No. Not at all.” She drops the end of the bat to the ground and drags herself to me. “It’s just that the ball is too fast.”
“Too fast, huh?” I lowered the pitching speed to 40. It’s a miracle the ball is even making it over the plate at that rate. Stray tendrils of her hair dangle around her face, and I have to sit on my hands to keep from sweeping them behind her ear. “When you hear the ball being released, start your swing and then keep going, even after you make contact.”
“What if the ball hits me?”
“It won’t.” I get to my feet and position myself in the batter’s box. “This is a machine so it’ll pitch the same ball over and over unless you tell it differently. There’s no wild human here.”
She doesn’t look convinced. Her not liking baseball is not something I’d accounted for. I love baseball. My brother loves baseball. Even my mom loves it. Everyone I know lives for this game, but GG looks at the bat like it’s about to turn into a snake. I take it from her, turn the pitch speed up to one hundred, and motion for her to get behind the net. When she’s out of harm’s way, I step on the start button, and the ball machine whizzes to life. Chicks love the long ball, they say, but I guess they meant from a distance.
“So you’re not a fan of the game, huh?” I ask as I ready for the next pitch.
“I’ve never seen one.”
I’m so surprised that I forget a hundred mile per hour pitch is coming my way until it’s almost too late. I jump back, and GG gives a little squeak.
“You said that you couldn’t be hit,” she accuses.
“I forgot what I was doing. What do you mean you’ve never seen a baseball game before?”
“I’ve never seen any game.” She gives me a wide-eyed look of chagrin. “Not baseball or football or hockey ball.”
“Hockey ball?” I’m dumbfounded.
“The one with the ice skates.” She makes a motion with her hands which I think is to mimic skates moving across ice.
“It’s just hockey,” I correct. “No ball. They use a puck.”
“Oh.” Her hands go up again. “See? I don’t know anything.”
“Baseball’s the best sport,” I say but inside my mind is spinning. I’ve never heard of anyone so sheltered. The reports about her lack of test-taking make a tiny bit of sense if she’s been homeschooled this whole time. I heard that home-schooled kids are mad smart because they don’t watch TV and shit like that. But all of this reinforces my thinking that she’s an innocent that needs protection. I don’t have time in my life for this, but I can’t see myself walking away either.
