Stealing Bases Read online

  My teammates burst into cheers. If I thought I was having a hard time keeping my feet on the ground before, it’s nothing compared to the way I feel now. Coach essentially just said that I saved the day.

  For a moment, I’m in heaven.

  But then I notice the fiery determination in Coach’s eyes, and I realize it’s not over yet.

  “Incredible outing against Bel Air today. I was so impressed with our teamwork, communication on the field, and overall performance.” Coach eyes me as she grins. “Kylie’s amazing game on the mound was just what we needed.”

  I was right. I’m so the number one starter.

  “But we’re just at the beginning of the biggest fight in Beachwood history. It’s time to bring it up another notch. And to take the momentum of today into tomorrow and the rest of the week.”

  Coach pauses and I can’t help it—I wonder if the other shoe is about to drop.

  It does.

  “And with Amber’s presence, we’re unstoppable!”

  Did Coach just mention Amber the same day I pitched the greatest game of my life?

  “It’s our turn! We’re going to bring home our first Beachwood Academy banner in almost a decade. With all this effort, we might even come away with the district title.”

  Everyone cheers again, except for me. It’s like no one even noticed what just happened.

  “Get a good night’s sleep and be ready for practice tomorrow.” Coach grabs her scorebook from the whiteboard edge. “I’ll see you then.”

  Did she seriously just say that?

  I wait until my teammates vacate the team room, then barrel up to Coach Kate, interrupting her conversation with Coach Jackie. “Can I talk to you for a second?” I ask.

  To Coach Jackie she says, “Why don’t you meet me in my office in five minutes?” And then to me, “Yes, Kylie?”

  “I just wanted to double check what you meant when you mentioned Amber.” I shift nervously.

  Coach’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

  “I just thought that after the game today you would see that I’m the one who should be starting.” I pause for a second and then I let it all out. “You saw my screwball today. I dominated Bel Air. And you know how important Division I is to me. It’s all I . . .” I stop myself when I see Coach Kate’s bottom lip jut out just a bit. And before I sound just plain pathetic.

  Coach Kate’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, Kylie. I know this is really hard. And I know we’ve been working together for a number of years . . .” She lets out a breath. “But you know, Santo Bay isn’t Bel Air. They’re not the same team. Have you been working on your power and the accuracy of your rise ball?” She tilts her head to the side.

  I face her head-on. “Of course I have. And you know it’s not all about the rise ball. I have movement on my pitches. Accuracy. My screwball.”

  Coach Kate crosses her arms. “You’re a very good control pitcher, Ky, and I’d love for you to start again. But with Amber’s rise ball being over sixty-five miles per hour, how can I possibly bench her? Without that kind of power in your arsenal, I just can’t permanently move you to the starting spot.”

  “But that spot was mine for—”

  Coach Kate interrupts me. “I know, Kylie. That spot was yours for two years. And I can only imagine how this must hurt you. But you know as well as I do that this is the best thing for the team.”

  “I—” I cut myself off when I feel the hot tears start to build. The problem is Coach Kate is right. I turn around and sprint out of the team room.

  twenty

  I push off the rubber again and again and again. This time the stands are silent. Everyone else went home two hours ago, but I’m still here, standing on the same rubber I just pitched the best game of my life off of two hours ago. Little good that did.

  I push off again. Before I release, I twist my hand like I’m opening a door and attempt to bring forward as much power as I can muster from my legs. I can do this. I can throw a rise ball as hard as Amber.

  The ball thumps against the padded fence. I grab another ball out of the royal-blue bucket and look up at the pink sky, wiping the sweat off my forehead. As I do so, the wind picks up, sending a chill through my white number seven jersey. But I’m not stopping. Not until I get it right.

  The first thing I did after Coach Kate criticized me for not playing as well as Amber was text Coach Malone to ask for some additional sessions. The second was to come out here. If Coach Kate doesn’t think I work hard enough, I’ll show her.

  I push off the mound again and the ball tails up.

  Thump.

  Still not hard enough. Still too high.

  I reach into the bucket and grab another ball.

  Explode off the mound recites in my head. Words Coach Malone uses over and over. Use your hips. It’s all in the legs.

  I push off again.

  Thump.

  Still not hard enough.

  I bend down to grab another ball from the bucket.

  “Hey, hottie!” someone catcalls from the stands.

  Since it’s not the first time I’ve been heckled, I ignore it. I don’t have time for silly games.

  I wind up and fire as hard as I can.

  Thump.

  Damn.

  My arm is heavy. So heavy, it feels like it’s been dipped in concrete. I wipe the sweat off my brow again. When I do, my fingers tingle.

  “Ky!”

  This time I look over at the stands.

  Zachary.

  I quickly wave, bend over, and grab another ball out of the bucket. I don’t have time for him right now.

  “Why are you working so hard? You just nearly pitched a no-hitter,” he yells.

  I shrug and stare at the bucket next to me. “I don’t have time to talk.” I grab another ball.

  Zachary must realize that this strategy isn’t going to work because he jogs out toward the mound. “Ky,” he says, grabbing my arm.

  I can’t help myself—I look up. And. . . butterflies. Even in black mesh shorts and a sweat-stained gray Beachwood Academy Basketball tee, Zachary sends flutters through me. I pull my arm from his grasp.

  “Don’t you think you should take a break? This can’t be good for your arm.”

  “Why do you care? You always say you don’t like softball.”

  “Don’t you mean cotton ball?” he jokes.

  “Really? Like that’s going to win my heart. Don’t you have a freshman girl to go kiss for points?” I accidentally on purpose throw the ball at Zachary’s abs.

  He catches it. Then he walks up to me, making as if he’s going to hand the ball back. But as he’s about to reach me, he whispers, “There’s only one girl I want to be kissing. . . .”

  “Shut up.” I jokingly push Zachary away. “How about you set up in the batter’s box? That way I can strike you out. I could use the pick-me-up.”

  Zachary puffs out his chest like a peacock. “You never strike me out.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, I do. I’ve done it like a hundred times, and you know it.”

  “A hundred times?” he asks, taking note of my exaggeration. His brown eyes twinkle.

  “Well, maybe not a hundred times, but you know what I mean.” I playfully push him again.

  Zachary steps in front of me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Look, I came to your game today because I know how much you care about the starting position.”

  “Guess you’re the only one . . .”

  “A, that’s not true. And B, even if it were, come on, we’ve always been there for each other.” He pauses. “You just helped me get through all the stuff with my dad the other day.”

  “That was different. That was . . .”

  “No, that was us. That’s what we do.” He gently rubs my cheek with the back of his hand.

  The thing is he’s right: it is. I remember how Zachary was the only one there for me three years ago when my mom just “had” to go away during an ASA tournament. And when the first cr
acks in my parents’ marriage began appearing. And when . . . The memories are too numerous to count.

  Zachary senses I’m getting lost in my thoughts. “It was great to see you out there again,” he says, smiling.

  I’m melting.

  “And I know how much all this means to you.”

  I’m a puddle.

  “You’ve been working so hard at cotton ball since you were a kid.” He gives me a playful knock on the chin.

  “You were doing okay until you mentioned cotton ball.” I pick up the bucket and begin to carry it toward the team room.

  Zachary tries to grab the bucket from me.

  I don’t let go. “What? Do you think because I’m a girl I can’t carry the ball bucket?”

  Zachary shrugs. “Nah, I just thought a little chivalry might win you over. Speaking of which, are you going to the prom with me or what?”

  I hold my hand to my heart in mock rapture. “How can I refuse an invitation like that? So well thought out and with such concern for me? Wow. You’re such a romantic, Zachary Murphy.”

  Zachary smirks. “I make up for it with my good looks . . . and other natural abilities. . . .” He jabs me in my side, winking.

  “Whatever.” I wiggle away from his touch. “Race you to the team room!”

  I sprint as fast as I can before Zachary even has a chance to realize what’s happening. The grass crunches beneath my feet. Even though I have a head start, I can feel him gaining behind me. Finally, I pull open the door to the team room with every ounce of strength I possess. That’s when I see a blur rush past me. My arm suddenly feels light. I look down. The bucket is gone.

  “Beat ya!” Zachary calls out. He’s placed the bucket where it belongs.

  “That’s because you cheated!”

  “So did you!”

  “Come on,” he says, pulling me along.

  We tread back across the field, giggling along the way. I look up at the stars now glimmering in the dark sky and press my index finger to my chin. “Hmm . . . Let me think about the invite.”

  “You know you want me.” Zachary chuckles.

  “You’re making this really easy . . .” I tease.

  “You and me, babe.”

  “Ah. No.” I smile and begin to jog ahead of him. “Rematch?”

  Zachary yells to me. “I don’t know what you’re running away from. You live in my backyard.”

  I laugh and pick up my pace.

  “I’m not giving up on you yet,” he shouts. “And I would still look into Amber’s transfer if I were you.”

  “Whatever,” I yell, jogging backward. “Don’t worry about me and cotton ball anymore. We’re doing just fine.”

  twenty-one

  I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, fiddling with a series of pretend updos for prom exactly two weeks before the big night. Not that I’ve decided to go with Zachary or anything. But just because prom is supposed to be “the most special moment of a young woman’s life,” or so my mom says. And I figure it can’t hurt to prepare.

  I’m interrupted by the buzzing of my phone. I check the screen. Missy.

  “I’m parked out front of that house where I’ve been dropping you off. But it’s dark. What gives?”

  “Uh. Uh. I’m not there. . . .”

  “Whatever. Anyway, want to check out prom dresses with me tonight in Beverly Hills? I’m in desperate need of some inspiration for the marketing ideas I’m working on. I can’t let Hannah take credit for everything now that Banana Fad is taking off.”

  Ugh. I balance the phone against my ear and peek out the guesthouse window. Zachary’s room is dark. He left me an hour ago to work out.

  I should have skipped playing with my hair and spent the time practicing my pitching.

  Meanwhile, Missy continues to babble. “I need to hit the stores stat and brush up on my fashion.” She lets out a dramatic sigh in my ear.

  With everything that’s been going on lately, I’m tempted to tell Missy that I wish her and Hannah a happy life together. But then I think, what would Vi say about my staying home on a Saturday night?

  After all, the last Saturday night Vi saw me out, she thought I was pretty lame to be grabbing frozen yogurt. And it’s not like I’ve been out much lately.

  I pretend to catch my breath. “Look, I’m out running. Meet me on the corner of Beach and Driftwood.”

  “See ya in two,” Missy says, and hangs up.

  Quicker than Amber can say rise ball, I don full running gear. I pull my hair up in high ponytail, replace my skinny jeans with black Nike shorts, and pull a white Henley over my tank. Then I slide on my running shoes, shove my white iPod buds in my ears, and run into the bathroom to throw some water (aka instant sweat) on my face. I manage to sneak out the door before Dad even notices.

  I take off down the street, sprinting as fast as I can, and pull the brakes at the stop sign.

  A few seconds later, headlights flash across my face as Missy pulls up in her black BMW.

  She rolls down the window when she spots me. A breeze of Dior perfume hits my nose.

  “What are you doing, Sporty Spice?” Missy asks. “It’s Saturday night.”

  I rest my hands on my knees, pretending to be out of breath. “You can never be too in shape,” I say, faking heavy breathing.

  She unlocks the passenger side door.

  “Forget something?” Missy pulls a pink petal out of the back of my ponytail as I settle into the passenger side. She shows it to me. “Don’t Zach’s parents have cherry trees in their backyard?”

  “Oh . . . it must have been the wind. And what, are you a botanist now?” I grab the petal and toss it out the window.

  “Please tell me this didn’t come from Zach’s place.” Missy stares at me, her mouth wide open.

  “No, I already told you. I was running. And the wind must have carried it over.” I smooth down the back of my hair, trying to root out any straggling petals.

  “Nice try, Super Fly.” She tilts her head. “And anyway, why would you be rolling around Zach’s backyard when you could be macking it with Brett Davidson?”

  “I don’t know why you always bring Brett up. It’s not like he’s into me.”

  “Not into you? Kylie Collins, do you see the way he looks at you?”

  “Yeah, like: Can you please help me with my math homework?”

  “More like: Can you please have my babies?”

  I pause, thinking about whether there could be any truth to what Missy’s saying. He did try to talk to me the other day. . . . But then I realize the obvious response. “If he likes me so much, then why hasn’t he asked me to prom?”

  “Maybe because you’re always shooting death rays from your eyes.” Missy does an impression of me.

  “Ugh, seriously, Miss? Now, you’re just making things up.”

  “Ky . . .” she says, her eyes narrowing.

  “Okay, so maybe I have been a little standoffish lately.”

  Missy bursts out laughing. “I don’t even know where to begin with that one. A little? Standoffish? Lately?”

  “Very funny. So, what shops do you want to hit tonight on your so-called quest for fashion inspiration?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

  Missy sees right through me. “Maybe we should start with you telling me what’s really going on between you and Zach.”

  I look at the window so that my eyes can’t give me away. As much as I want to tell her the truth, I can’t risk her blabbing to Hannah. “There isn’t anything to tell,” I say.

  Missy lets out a loud breath. “Whatever,” she says. Then she hits the gas and merges onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

  A few hours later, Missy has decided to ignore my indiscretions and focus on the matter at hand: clothes. “I’m loving this one,” she says, pointing to an electric minidress. “I just adore the color.”

  “Yeah, it’s great,” I say, sipping the Frappuccino I just bought with a gift card. To distract myself, I pull out the straw and lick off th
e whip cream—thanks to my dad’s stupid rules, I won’t be buying any items during today’s excursion. Apparently, I have “more clothing than any girl my age could possibly need.”

  “Can you believe the pre-prom assembly is this Monday?” Missy says, pulling her sketchbook out from her oversized Tory Burch bag. “It’s crazy to think that prom is actually almost here.”

  My Frap crawls up my throat. “I know. We’ve waited our whole lives for this. . . .”

  “Remember when we used to lie on your bed and talk about who we were going to go with and what we were going to wear and how we were going to be on prom court and . . .”

  Under my breath, I say, “And how we were going to go shopping with our moms . . .”

  Missy hears me anyway. “Yeah, I know. Isn’t it funny how things work out?” she exclaims. “Who would have thought that I’d end up part of a design team?”

  “Not me,” I say, snidely.

  Missy doesn’t catch my tone. “Not me either!”

  I decide to play nice. “Well, you always knew who you’d be going with. Right?”

  She looks guilty, but she doesn’t say anything.

  Missy’s not budging, so I decide to change the subject. “You’re so going to make prom court on Monday,” I say, biting my bottom lip.

  A new expression appears on Missy’s face. Excitement. “Hello?” she says. “We’re totally going to be on it together. Like the eighth grade Snow Ball and Toddlers & Tiaras. Remember the pageants?”

  I release my lip. “Pageants weren’t my thing.”

  “They were your mom’s thing.” She grins, but then frowns. “Sorry. How is the mom?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it.” I pick my Frap off the table and sip the last of it.

  “Gotcha.” Missy pulls the drink from my grasp.

  As she does, I realize that I’ve been mindlessly scraping the bottom of the cup with my plastic straw.

  She places her sketchbook back into her bag and ushers me out of the store. “Okay, so then let’s just forget about Mommy Dearest for a second and say that you’re so going to win prom princess.”