Pitched by Ella Goode
Chapter Three
Colt
I can hearthe drill-like chants of the track team as they run outside of the weight room.
“We should have an outdoor weight room.” Logan stares out the window. It must be the girls’ track team. He has a thing for one of the juniors. Renoir is her name. Like the painter. She runs cross country and has been dating another runner since junior high. Logan always gets that despondent, dreamy expression on his face whenever she’s near. One time they were conditioning near the baseball field and Logan missed a catch at home plate. No one scored and we won the game, but Coach tore him a new asshole and benched him for three games. Logan was sorry, but he still can’t move on. He’s never going to make it to the Bigs with that attitude, but it’s not my problem.
“Put another ten on,” I say.
Logan jerks his attention back to me. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I need to get stronger.”
“Too much muscle and you’re going to affect your pitching.”
“I’m only going to do a few reps. Want to test myself.”
Without any more objections, Logan slips on the weights. I do twelve reps and then stop when I feel my arms shaking. “You want a turn?” I climb off the bench.
“Nah, I’m good.” He’s still staring out the window.
“Why don’t you just ask her out?”
He visibly shakes himself. “She’s with Matthews, and I’m not that type of guy.”
I swallow back a sigh of frustration. Logan’s going to be distracted this whole season, but fuck, it’s our last one, so I guess it doesn’t matter. I slap him on the back. “Your funeral.”
The weight room doors slam open, and Tommy rushes in. “Party tonight!” he hollers.
I ignore him and walk toward the locker room. Tommy follows, practically bouncing. “Dude, did you not hear me?”
I grab my towel. “Yeah, I heard you, but I don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“Nothing. I know you’re a saint, but we’re interested, aren’t we boys?” The rest of the locker room sans Logan nods. Tommy turns back to me. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply dryly. Parties aren’t my thing either, but I go because we’re a team, and doing things together helps with team unity. I can’t totally close myself off from these guys. A thought occurs to me, and I stop Tommy before he can run off to someone else. “Invite some people from a different school. Maybe South?”
My shortstop’s jaw drops. “What?”
“The West crowd is stale. We’ve been staring at these same faces for the majority of our lives. We need new blood.” Logan’s stuck in this mindset that only one girl can move him, but I think it’s because when you’re playing a sport, it’s all consuming. You don’t have time to meet new people. Maybe someone new could change his mind. “Maybe ten?”
“You want me to get ten smoking hot chicks to the party that we’ve never seen before?” Tommy can’t believe me.
I flash a grin. “I believe in you, man.”
“Fuck you, Slider.” But Tommy is smiling back. He likes a challenge, and he likes that I think he’s up to it.
I take a quick shower and then start toward B pod where my AP history class is. The module is World War II, and our teacher is obsessed with military maneuvers. If he shows up in full camo and tries to blend in with the chalkboard, I will not be surprised. Last night I had to identify thirty different pieces of weaponry and explain their modern counterpart. I’m sure I’m going to have a lot of use for this in the real world. I’m tired of school, tired of classes, and just want to jump forward to the part in my life where I play baseball for a living. I get to the door of AP history when my phone rings.
Dread sweeps over me. There’s only one person who would call me at school, and it’s not my brother.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I look down to see the shiny blond head of Tricia Long. She flips her hair back and bats her lashes. “Hey, babe, you know I love looking at your fine ass, but it’s blocking the door.”
“Sorry.” I step to the side. My phone keeps ringing.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Tricia asks.
Not while you’re standing here. “Tommy’s having a party tonight,” I say as a diversion.
“I heard, but I’ve been to Tommy’s parties before, and it’s the same thing every time. All you guys get hammered, someone pukes in the pool, Frankie is ‘caught’”—Tricia uses finger quotes—“having sex with some jock, and Coraline and Perry get into a fight.”
“Sometimes Coraline and Perry get caught having sex. It changes.”
Tricia huffs. “Forget it. I’d rather watch paint dry. Now if you were going to have a party, maybe it’d be a different story.” She trails a fingernail along the edge of my biceps.
“I’ll be at Tommy’s party.”
Her hand drops to her side. “You being totally unresponsive to flirting is a huge blow to a girl’s ego.”
“I think you’ll survive. See you tonight?”
“I guess.” She makes a face and heads inside but turns at the last moment to say, “One of these days you’re going to regret being such a straight during high school.”
“Maybe so.” My phone starts to ring again. No, probably not. “Tell Teach I’m sick, okay?”
Tricia nods, worry clouding her eyes. “If you need something, I’m here and not just because I want to peel your tight baseball pants off.”
“I appreciate it, Tricia. Go on now before you get marked tardy and your perfect attendance is marred.” I don’t want to see if she does what I tell her because I’m already walking toward the exit. “Yeah, Mom. What do you need?”
