Stealing Bases Page 3

  “So, why are you here?” I ask, bluntly. I mean, it had to be said eventually.

  “Oh . . .” She continues to smile. “My parents divorced this summer.”

  Ouch. A divorce. I know about those. I can’t possibly torture her now.

  “That sucks,” I say, beginning my wrist snaps.

  “Yeah . . . It sucks all right. And it was totally out of the blue. It’s like one day everything was fine and then the next, my mom said she’s just not ‘in love’ with my dad anymore. Can you imagine?”

  Yes, I can imagine. Great. Now I actually feel sorry for her.

  She stares down at her glove. For a split second, she frowns. “But I guess I’m getting used to it.” She looks up, standing tall. The smile is back.

  She’s lying.You never get used to it.

  Amber wrist-snaps the ball back to me.

  “Nice speed,” I hear someone say to my right. I turn toward the voice and spot Zachary hanging on the fence with a basketball tucked under his arm. He waves his friends Nick Solerno and Andrew Mason (aka Missy’s ex) on, telling them that he’ll meet up with them at the basketball court.

  “You know that Amber threw the pitch, not me, right?” I glare at Zachary.Then I focus back on Amber.

  Zachary ignores me, turning to Amber. “Not only are the Wildcat pitchers hot, but they throw fire.”

  I look past his devious grin and stare at the twisted white and blue strings of the friendship bracelet adorning his wrist. I try not to gasp. I made that bracelet for him five years ago—Why is he still wearing it even after we broke up? I allow my eyes to travel up his arm, past his thick neck and his lips, to his big brown eyes. Then I catch myself mid-ogle. “Talking about the guys or the girls?” I ask.

  “What do you think?” Zachary smirks.

  Shifting directions, I wrist-snap the ball back to Amber. It thumps against the back fence because she’s too busy staring (more like gawking) at Zachary. Her eyes widen when she realizes what she’s done. Looking embarrassed, she runs after it.

  Why do all girls melt at the sight of him?

  I glance at Zachary again.

  Okay, so he’s gorgeous, a star athlete, and talks a good game, but he’s also a huge player. A player that ruined what was left of our relationship by winning the three-B challenge.

  “Still not talking to me?” Zachary asks, his thick lips moving with each word.Why do they look so kissable?

  I glare back, wishing there was a switch in my brain I could flick to turn off the way I feel when I’m around him.

  “Oh, Ky, just give in.” He tilts his head. “Pretty hard not to talk to me when we live so close now. You know all you need to do is say the word and I’ll be right—”

  “Shhh . . .” I look around frantically and lower my voice. “You know I don’t want anyone knowing . . . . ”

  He leans forward and his sweatshirt inches up just a bit, showing off a peek of his six-pack. “Well, can I at least say that I can’t wait to see my girl take the mound again?”

  My heart begins to race, and I realize that I need to put an end to this now. Before I listen to my heart instead of my brain. I opt for honesty. “You’re messing with my concentration,” I say, watching Amber search for the ball behind her.

  “I always mess with your concentration.”

  Understatement of the century.

  Zachary looks over at Amber, who has just gotten her grip on the ball. “Hey,” he says, nodding.

  I push my way in front of Amber. “Whatever.”

  Zachary just shakes his head. “Catch ya at my guesthouse later . . .” he whispers. Then he turns around and winks (yes, winks!) at Amber.

  Amber turns pink with excitement. Her face lights up like the center-field scoreboard.

  Nice.

  I hear the thud of the bouncing basketball grow quieter and quieter as Zachary makes his way to the court.

  Really? I think. He had to flirt with Amber? I can’t believe even he’d stoop that low. On the one hand, he’s telling me that he should come over. On the other, he flirts with the one girl who might actually be a threat out on the diamond.

  “Guess you’re glad he went away,” Jessica says, interrupting my thoughts. She’s standing on the other side of the pitching cage, practicing her swings with Abby. A royal blue batting helmet covers her head.

  “Yeah. What a loser,” Abby adds, shoving her hand into her blue batting glove.

  A flush of heat creeps up my back.

  What my teammates really want to say is that I’m the loser for staying with him for three years. But what they don’t understand is that he really is two people—the guy they see at school and the guy he is with me.

  “Yeah,” I reply, unconvincingly. Then I roll my eyes, pivot, and toss the ball back to Amber.

  Amber retrieves the ball and moves her arms into power position so that her left arm is at three o’clock and her right arm is at nine o’clock. Then, she launches it back to me. The ball slaps into my glove with the force of a tornado.

  How is that possible? Even her half motion is harder than my full.

  “What’s the deal with that guy?” Amber asks dreamily. Then, as if she wasn’t just mentally undressing my ex, she sets up in her power position again and begins to throw. If I thought her wrist-snaps were powerful, they’re nothing compared to when she uses her legs. My palm is already red and throbbing after only a couple of throws from her.

  “It’s nothing.” I instinctively divert my eyes. Then I look up abruptly. “So, why Beachwood?” I ask. “Did you and your mom just move here?”

  She shrugs, completely unfazed. “We didn’t move. I still live with her. My dad left.” Amber pauses. “Wait, how did you know I lived with my mom?”

  “Lucky guess.” Since I’m the only one whose mom ditches her.

  “Originally, I wanted to go here for high school. You know, because of . . . ” She looks out at the outfield and points to Danielle, a junior who rode the bench last year after barely making varsity. Her tie-dyed socks match Amber’s.

  “You wanted to come here because of her?” I ask, shocked that Danielle would be reason enough for someone to change dinner plans let alone schools. (She and I don’t exactly get along.)

  “Well, Danielle goes here and she always told me great things about the Beachwood athletic program overall.” She trails off. “But my dad had different ideas and basically made me go to my old school, Upper Crest.”

  “Why would he do that?” I ask, thinking that if my own father ever tried to pull a stunt like that, I’d move in with Missy and have him arrested for child endangerment.

  Amber beams. “Meet the daughter of the Upper Crest Teacher of the Year!” She points to herself, giggling.

  “You’re kidding?” I deadpan.

  “Nope. Wish I was. So when they divorced, I stayed with Mom.”

  Of course she did. What girl lives with her dad in a guesthouse?

  I guess I get caught in my personal pity party for too long because the next thing I hear is Amber asking, “So, what’s your story?”

  No way I’m letting the conversation go there. “Isn’t it against California High School Athletic Association rules to change schools?” I ask, shifting gears. “I mean, can’t you get suspended from play for switching midyear?”

  She shrugs again. “Yeah, I know the rule you’re talking about—how you can’t change schools to play on a different team once the school year’s already started. But according to the CHSAA, a hardship is a free pass.” She lets out a breath. “And the divorce is considered a hardship.”

  “Uh, sorry about the—”

  Amber cuts me off. “I’m just so happy to get away from Upper Crest. It’ll be nice to be a normal student and not just someone’s daughter. Seriously, my dad knew everything I was doing. Every guy I talked to. Every grade I got. Every convo I had with my coach. It was humiliating.”

  Hmm . . . I allow my mind to wander into sabotage territory. “What if your dad lost his job?
Would you go back?”

  “What?” Amber’s forehead wrinkles.

  “Never mind.”

  Amber jogs toward me. When she’s a few inches away, she leans in close, as if we’re suddenly BFFs. “I wouldn’t say this to other people,” she whispers. “But I’m also just insanely psyched about playing for Beachwood. We could turn the program around! Can you imagine? I’m always a sucker for the underdog.” She beams, hugging her glove.

  Is she for real? She’d rather play for us than for a team where playoffs are a shoo-in? “I didn’t know Beachwood was so pathetic,” I snap.

  But she doesn’t hear me. Or at least, she acts like she doesn’t. Instead, she turns around and takes off back to her spot.

  When she’s settled, I fire the ball back her way with as much power as I can muster.

  Amber catches the ball and immediately starts to set up for her response. No wincing, no hand wringing, no nothing. My pitch—which must have been at least fifty miles per hour—has as little effect on her as a two-year-old carelessly placing a crushed flower into her palm.

  I suck in a breath and begin to pray to anyone who will listen. Please deny the hardship. Please be banned. Please make Amber go away. And then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I decide to figure out whether she has any D-I plans. “Any idea which college you want to go to?” I ask.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m getting some interest and stuff . . . . ” She gazes up at the cloudless sky. “But honestly, I think I’d love to go to UCLA.” She raises her arm and, in one fluid motion, whips the ball back to me, dragging her leg and touching her shoulder with her bent arm.

  I manage to catch the ball, but the force of her throw disrupts my balance, and I take a few steps back.

  “How about you?” she asks, like nothing even happened.

  “Oh, you know—to be determined.” No way I’m giving Amber the satisfaction of knowing we share the same dream.

  I set up on the rubber, wind up, and push off, firing a fast pitch that has been known to make catchers’ hair stand on end.

  The ball lands squarely in her glove. “Nice,” she says. “You’re good.” Then she takes a giant step and fires the ball right back at me. I don’t even see the thing coming before it smacks into my glove. My hand throbs in pain. Without thinking, I toss my glove to the ground and shake out my hand.

  “Are you okay? I’m so sorry,” she says, rushing toward me.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer through gritted teeth. I’ve been nailed before, but I can’t believe I let Amber get one over me like that.

  Amber glances around frantically. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s my fault. I should have told you that the pitchers I warm up with usually wear padded gloves,” Amber says, attempting to grab my hand.

  I swipe my hand back. “Thanks for the tip,” I say, using my good palm to stretch out my bruised one. There’s no way I’m wearing a padded glove. I’m tougher than that.

  “Are you sure you don’t want ice?” Amber asks.

  “No, really, I’m okay,” I say, glaring at her.

  “Okay, but if you change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Oh, okay.” Her eyes search mine, desperate for me to accept her apology. “Seriously, Kylie, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Just get back to your side.” I shove my hand into my glove. That must have been the cue Amber was waiting for because she finally jogs back to the other side, still spilling I’m-sorrys.

  As soon as she makes it to her spot, I wind up and unleash my response.

  Amber easily catches my pitch.

  Is there anything this girl can’t do?

  This time, before she winds up, I take a few steps back into the cage to allow her ball some time to lose some fire.

  Smack.

  Again, my hand screams for mercy. But I don’t let it show. One time was embarrassing enough.

  “What other pitches do you throw?” I ask, eager to give my hand a chance to rest.

  “Fastball, curve, screwball, and drop. But my best pitch is the rise,” she says.

  Figures.

  four

  After school the next day, I head to the cafeteria to fill up my water bottle before tryouts. On my way, I try to convince myself that despite what Coach Kate said about this year being a clean slate, and despite Amber’s killer rise ball, my spot is still mine. But no matter how many times I tell myself Coach Kate will stay loyal, I can’t get the what-ifs out of my head.

  What if Coach replaces me with Amber? What if she forgets about our history? What if instead of remembering how she approached me as an eighth grader, she decides to go for a pure power pitcher? What if she heard about last season’s basketball drama? What if she ignores her own code of loyalty?

  I can’t allow any of that to happen. Between Zachary and Mom, I’ve been rejected enough lately. I don’t think I can handle it if Coach dumps me too.

  When I finally reach the caf, I shove my hand into the side of my Under Armour bag and pull out an empty Aquafina bottle—a dig at my dad. (He’d chafe at the plastic.) If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that there’s no way I can handle trying out against Amber without some serious fluids. I quickly fill up my bottle and look up to see Missy standing next to me.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, looking at the pile of magazines hugged tightly to her chest.

  “I . . . uh . . . What are you doing here?” Her periwinkle eyes bug. “And, uh . . . why are you holding a plastic water bottle?” She glares at me in mock accusation. “Hasn’t your dad taught you anything? I thought he banned plastic.”

  “Very funny. Seriously. I thought you’d left already.” I think back to when Missy stopped at my locker after the final bell. I swore she said she was going home.

  “I was going to leave, but . . . ” She nervously scans the cafeteria like she’s looking for someone.

  I follow her gaze and see Hannah Montgomery roll past us on her skateboard.

  “I’m working with Hannah.” Missy lets out a breath. “Remember I told you? For prom. And I joined Ms. Sealer’s Fashion Club.You know, to gain some marketing experience for college. Not only do I get to add an extracurricular to my resume, but I get a cut of Hannah’s profits if she ever makes it big. Smart, huh?”

  I give her a look like: Really? That Hannah?

  She whispers, “I know what you’re thinking, but who better to promote than the winner of the Spring Fashion Show?”

  “Are you really that desperate for extracurriculars?”

  Hannah rolls her skateboard between us, stopping in front of Missy. “Ready Freddy?” She unwraps a Hershey’s Kiss and pops it in her mouth.

  “Yeah . . . I’ll be there in just a bit,” Missy says, twisting a strand of platinum blonde hair with the index finger of her unused hand. Turning to me, she silently pleads for me to be nice to her newest meal ticket.

  “What’s up, Han?” I ask. “Didn’t know our caf was a skate park.”

  “It’s all about the inspiration, Ky. Chocolate and pushing my limits on the board gets me going.” She rolls the skateboard with one foot.

  “Oh . . . ” I take a swig from my water bottle to stop myself from laughing.

  “I’ll meet you in Ms. Sealer’s room in five,” Hannah says to Missy. Then she rolls out of the cafeteria.

  The second Hannah’s out of sight, I let loose with my frustration. “Really, Miss?” I ask.

  Missy just shrugs.

  “How can you stand it?” I shove the bottle back into my bag.

  “Um . . . hello? She won the Spring Fashion Show.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So—and I couldn’t say this to you before because she was around—but I’m just looking for someone to kind of do the work for me, you know?” She smacks her gum.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And anyway, I just put in my headphones when she starts her skater babble.” Missy shrugs, motioning to her ears.

  “Okay, fair enough.
” I raise my eyebrows and throw my bag over my shoulder. “Just as long as you don’t start wearing metal bottle caps around your neck as ‘jewelry,’ we’re good.”

  Hannah rolls back into the cafeteria, popping the front end of her board and launching into a perfect ollie. It’s so strange to see someone skateboarding in the cafeteria, I can’t help but stare.

  “Forget what I just said,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  Missy rests the magazines on a table. “I thought you were going to try to take it down a few notches. Hm?”

  “When I’m around my friends, sure. But, you can’t expect me to be good around Taylor’s BFF.”

  “You? G—”

  I cut Missy off. “Sorry, Miss. I gotta go. It’s time for tryouts.”

  I start to make my way to the exit when I hear Missy call out, “Wait.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, stopping mid-stride.

  “What are you going to do about prom?”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about revenge. We gotta make Andrew and Zach regret humiliating us last season.”

  I glance at the white-and-blue Beachwood clock. “How about we hash this out after you’re done with your new BFF? I’ll meet you at your car after practice.”

  “Ugh. Fine. But, seriously, where are my friends when I need them?” She makes a big show of looking around.

  I chuckle. “They’re at softball tryouts—where I should be. But don’t worry, I’ll tell them you said hi.”

  Before Missy can pull me deeper into her vortex, I jog out of the cafeteria, excited to take the mound again.

  There’s no way I’ll lose Missy, my mom, Zachary, and softball all in the same year. The world isn’t that cruel.

  five

  “Bring it together, girls,” Coach Kate calls from the pitcher’s mound after we’ve all had a chance to warm up with our freshmen partners.

  Glad to be given a reprieve from Amber duty, I sprint over, quickly finding a spot between Jessica and Nyla. My appearance interrupts a heated discussion about the differences between the SAT and the ACT.

  The sun is warm against the back of my heather-gray Beachwood Academy Softball tee, and I’m feeling surprisingly good about my prospects. Knowing that Coach likes a neat appearance, I tuck my tee into my mesh shorts. As I’m about to reach up to adjust my lucky blue-and-white hair ribbons, I feel a tug on my ponytail.