Stealing Bases Page 4

  I turn around to see Chloe attempting to maneuver between me and Jessica. “Are these from last year?” she asks, touching my hair.

  Doesn’t she get it? Once anyone’s tongue enters the vicinity of Zachary’s mouth, we’re no longer friends. EVER.

  “Yeah, Ky. I love the ribbons,” Phoenix adds.

  “Thanks, Phoenix.”

  “Ky, how’s the rise?” Emily asks as she joins us.

  “It’s working . . .” I answer, hoping the panic that I feel doesn’t reach my face.

  “What’s up, Nyla?” I ask, turning toward Nyla instead. “Spending all that time in the pitching cage, I’m missing out on my Ny-and-Ky time.”

  Nyla laughs. “Yeah. Miss ya too.”

  “Speaking of the pitching cage, how’s Amber?” Jessica asks.

  “Does she live up to the hype?” Zoe chimes in, having just finished with her partner.

  Let’s talk about something else. Anything, I mentally plead. But no one hears my silent cries.

  Abby, who I didn’t even realize was standing there, gets nervous. “Ky? You okay?”

  I force myself back to reality. And to Jessica’s question about Amber. “That’s your call,” I say, motioning toward the field like I’m totally in control.

  My friends follow my lead, turning to stare at the gaggle of girls. Some nervously tug on their glove strings. Others stare at the grass. And still others dig at the dirt with their feet. Amber is busy chatting with Danielle.

  “I already have my own opinion about Amber.”

  “Sounds juicy,” Jessica says.

  “Oh, it is,” I reply. Then I realize Coach Kate is about to begin her speech.

  “Just a reminder that teams will be posted on Wednesday,” she says, flanked by the assistant coaches. “Also, please make sure you have the number we gave out earlier today safety pinned to the back of your T-shirts so we know who you are. For the returning players, this is not necessary since all of you remembered to wear your practice jerseys.” She scans the crowd, looking pleased.

  I hope that doesn’t mean I’m not doing enough to distinguish myself. Quickly, I do my own survey, mentally counting the number of teammates who aren’t tucked. I breathe a sigh of relief. Only three of us remembered.

  “Plus, I know who you are already.” Coach grins, locking eyes with me for a split second.

  My stomach doesn’t just somersault, it does a round-off back handspring. I look down at my white-and-blue number seven practice jersey. After feeling anxious (to say the least) about Amber, I’m momentarily filled with a sense of ease. Amber’s going to have to do a lot more than pitch to prove she’s ready for varsity softball at Beachwood.

  Coach continues, “Today is our first official day of tryouts. To understand what we do here at Beachwood, pay attention to the upperclassmen, as we have specific routines when we arrive at the softball field . . . .”

  I take Coach’s endless droning as an opportunity to sneak another peek at Amber. I guess warm-up procedures really float her boat because she’s staring at Coach like she’s two-time Olympic medalist Jessica Mendoza.

  I tug at my glove and remind myself of what Coach always says: “Talent alone doesn’t win championships.” But if it did . . . Amber’s not the only one with that particular skill set. I’ve got it too. Enough talent to start as a freshman and sophomore. And certainly enough talent to crush Amber.

  Having calmed myself with Coach’s words, I force myself to pay attention.

  “I would like to turn everyone’s attention to the outfield fence. Does anyone notice anything worth mentioning?” She points to the fence, and I can’t help but stare at the state-of-the-art scoreboard that sits at the center. The words WELCOME BACK, BEACHWOOD ACADEMY SOFTBALL scroll in red on the bottom.

  The group is silent.

  Then Nyla pipes up. “I do.”

  “Yeah, me too . . . ” Emily announces.

  “Yes, Nyla?” Coach Kate’s lips form a straight line.

  “The fence is empty.”

  “Exactly. The fence is empty. We have no championship or tournament banners.” Coach Kate folds her arms across her chest. “But Wildcats, we’re going to change that this year. We’re going to change that by pushing ourselves like we never have before and by making sure that we have the absolute best talent out here on the softball diamond.”

  I swear for a moment Coach Kate glances at Amber. Fire burns in my stomach and I rub my palms against the sides of my matching mesh royal-blue team shorts.

  I’m not giving up my position that easily.

  “Remember our goal is a winning season—from day one,” she continues. “By the end of the school year, we will have a banner hanging from that fence. And I want to reiterate: no one is safe. We’re putting the best team out there regardless of who you are. So fight hard to win your spot!” Coach shouts.

  The crowd responds with paralyzed silence.

  Coach waits for the nervous looks to peter out. “Today, the assistants and I are going to evaluate you on your fielding. So, infielders, please go with Coach Zimmer. And outfielders, you’re with Coach Dominico. Catchers, please grab your gear and follow Coach Jackie. Pitchers, you’re with me,” Coach says, pointing to the various assigned areas. “Now, let’s get started!” Coach charges toward the pitcher’s mound.

  We all immediately stand up, eager to begin the tryouts. Amber somehow manages to come out of nowhere to stand next to me. Her freckled face flushes and she grins. I attempt to grin back, but I suspect I look like I’m in pain. She turns to say something to Danielle, and, overwhelmed by curiosity, I ignore my own friends and peek behind her to see what number she has pinned to her shirt.

  Instantly, I regret the decision. There, taunting me, is a big number one.

  six

  “This is so not good,” Jessica says, drumming her long concert pianist fingers against her cheek.

  “We have nothing to worry about,” I chime in, attempting to convince the others as much as myself.

  “Yeah, it’s not like this is brand new to us,” Nyla adds, pushing up her Gator hoodie sleeves. “We’ve been here before.”

  “Of course you two aren’t worried.” Emily rolls her eyes. “Nyla, you’re like the best player in Beachwood history. And Kylie, have you ever not played varsity?”

  “Seriously,” Phoenix adds, twirling a skinny braid.

  “Will you guys relax? Coach is talking about the new girls,” I say, taking deep breaths as I watch Amber jog toward the mound. I feel the anxiety beginning to overwhelm me and immediately shake myself out of my stupor. “Come on, girls, let’s go!”

  Zoe, who has been silent this whole time, looks up at me, and I give her arm a squeeze. Then she and Abby—who is also visibly quivering at this point—run out to their spots on the field. The rest of us give each other a final nod and all follow suit. Jessica, Nyla, and Phoenix join the infielders on the dirt between second and first. Chloe jogs toward right field. And Emily joins the catchers to my left.

  That just leaves those of us on the mound: me, three freshmen, last year’s JV pitcher, Sophia, and Amber. Clearly, there’s only one real threat.

  Too nervous to chat, the six of us turn to face our evaluator. I allow myself to revel in my good fortune—Coach Kate is the one scoring us. She knows me. She’s the same person who just asked me to join her at the coaching clinic. She can’t bench me now.

  I hope.

  “Okay, Wildcats. I hope you’re all warmed up and ready to give us your best,” Coach Kate says, holding her clipboard like a lunch tray. A radar gun balances on top. “Today, you’re going to pitch off the mound without a batter. Emily, our returning catcher from last year, will catch you. I will stand behind the backstop fence and clock your speed with this.” She holds up the black radar gun. “Kylie, why don’t you take the mound first since you know the drill?”

  The five other girls trying out for pitcher look up at me in awe. Including Amber. For a second, I feel like everything is norma
l—Coach Kate is still loyal to me. And I’m standing on the softball mound, my home away from home.

  Coach tosses me the ball, and I dig my foot into the familiar soft orange dirt. Lifting her face mask, Emily winks at me from behind home plate. She knows I got this. Then she adjusts her chest protector and knee guards and crouches down.

  Coach Kate, satisfied that Emily is ready to go, looks at the other girls. “The rest of the pitchers, please wait for your turns in the dugout.” Turning to me, she says, “Since you should be warmed up, Kylie, why don’t you throw three practice pitches and then we’ll get started?” She begins flipping through the papers attached to her clipboard.

  Emily gives me a nod and I take a deep breath. Then I step onto the rubber, focus, wind up, take a giant step, and push off, whipping the ball toward Emily’s glove.

  Smack.

  “Nice work, Ky!” Emily’s muffled voice shouts from behind the catcher’s mask.

  Nick and Andrew walk by the far fence on their way to shoot some hoops. “Killer Kylie!” they yell out. “Ow! Ow!”

  Take that, Amber.

  After two more perfect practice pitches, Coach Kate shouts, “Okay, let’s get started.” She points the radar gun at me.

  Emily gives me the sign and calls out, “Fastball, outside.”

  Don’t overthink, just throw. Coach Malone’s words fill my head. I remind myself that I’ve done this a bazillion times before. Then I take a deep breath, wind up, push off the rubber, and fire.

  “Strike!” Coach yells. “Nice pitch, Kylie.” She looks down at the radar gun.“Fifty-nine.”

  My heart stops. Oh my God. That’s nearly what I want to top out at UCLA. I might actually be able to do this.

  I fire two more fifty-nine-mile-per-hour fastballs.

  Beat that, Amber.

  Emily gives me the sign for the screwball. My best pitch. I feel for the seams, wind up, twist my wrist, and fire my favorite pitch. It cuts right.

  “Beautiful,” Coach yells, and scribbles something on her clipboard. “Fifty-eight.”

  As I throw a drop and changeup, I look over at the dugout. Amber just sits there, smiling as she hugs her glove. Enjoy the bench, I silently tell her.

  “Can I see your rise?” Coach asks, holding her pen over the last box on the evaluation sheet.

  “Yeah. I mean, yes,” I say, mustering up as much confidence as I can. Again my pitching coach’s words echo in my ears: Don’t aim, throw.

  I dig my foot in and take a deep breath, attempting to control the butterflies at war in my stomach. I find the seams with two fingers, wind up, take a giant leap, and twist the doorknob just like I’ve been practicing with my spinner. The laces snap across the tips of my fingers. The ball flies from my hand, darting upward. But instead of cutting right before the plate, it rises early and way too high.

  Emily reaches up to grab it. It’s good, but it’s far from great.

  “Fifty-three. Nice work, Ky,” Coach says, looking up from her clipboard. “Sophia, you’re up next.”

  Sophia hops off the bench and tucks her glove under her arm. She leans down, pulls up her socks, and jogs toward the mound, passing me on the way. Let’s see what you’ve got, my eyes tell her.

  When I enter the dugout, Amber jumps down from the bench and holds out her hand for a teammate slap.

  I don’t think so.

  Pretending I don’t see her hand, I pass her and dig into my bag for my water bottle.

  “Nice work, Ky! I just knew you were going to do amazing. Do you need a water bottle?”

  “Thanks, I’m good,” I reply, pulling the bottle out of my bag. After yesterday’s practice, I knew Amber would only be all too eager to take care of everything. And I couldn’t allow that.

  Taking a few more steps away from Amber, I scan for a spot in the dugout, knowing that there’s no way I’m taking a seat on that bench. God forbid Coach see me there and think that I want to stay.

  Ultimately, I decide to stand to the side and watch Sophia in action. Fortunately, there isn’t much to watch. After five okay pitches in the high forties, Coach announces that she’s seen enough. Then she calls for Amber.

  “Yay!” Amber jumps off the bench and excitedly makes her way to my mound.

  Once there, she moves her foot around, manicuring the dirt with her head down. I do my best not to jump up and strangle her right in front of everyone. Nothing irritates me more than when the visiting pitcher digs into my mound. And now Amber has the gall to do it. Ruin my smooth surface.

  I take another swig from my water bottle.

  “Are you ready?” Coach asks Amber, a whopping five practice pitches later.

  “Yup.” Amber beams. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  I roll my eyes, wishing that Missy were here to crack jokes and cut the tension.

  Emily calls the pitch. “Fastball inside.”

  Amber winds up.

  Smack. The ball explodes into Emily’s glove. The power of Amber’s pitch pushes Emily back a bit. Just like it did me yesterday.

  This is not good.

  I contemplate sticking my fingers in my ears so I don’t have to hear the radar gun reading.

  “Strike,” Coach calls out. “Nice pitch, Amber.” She looks down at the radar gun. “Sixty-two.”

  Sixty-two? Are you kidding me? No, that’s not possible. Coach is probably just trying to make Amber feel comfortable by rounding up.

  Emily tosses the ball back to Amber. Then, giving Amber the sign, she calls out, “Screwball!”

  I chuckle to myself. The screwball is my pitch. There’s no way she’s better than me at the screwball.

  Amber sets up, stares at Emily’s glove, and nods at the sign. She winds up, takes a giant step, and fires.

  Smack.

  “Strike,” Coach announces. “Fifty-seven.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Amber can’t touch my screwball. I threw it faster. I threw it sharper. I’ve got it in the bag.

  Amber pitches three more in the high fifties before Coach shouts, “Okay, Amber, I think we’ve seen enough. Nice job.” She looks over at the dugout. “Lauren, you’re up.”

  A freshman brunette with two braids hops off the bench.

  “Wait!” Amber shouts. “I have one more pitch to show you.”

  “Amber, I’ve seen plenty. Nice job.”

  “Please . . . I haven’t had the opportunity to show you my best pitch.” Amber leans forward, clinging to her glove.

  Keep crying, Amber. Coach hates whiners.

  Coach pulls the pen from behind her ear, checks her Nike watch, and scribbles something on her clipboard. “I guess we have time for one more pitch. Go ahead.”

  “Rise,” Amber announces, suddenly confident.

  Amber drags more dirt on the mound, and I have to stop myself from yelling out, She’s acting like she has more poise than Jennie Finch, but have you seen all her nervous habits? Then she lets out a deep breath, winds up, and fires, pushing all her power toward Emily.

  Thud.

  We all watch in amazement as Amber’s blurry pitch cuts up at the last second.

  Coach looks down at her radar gun and her eyes pop. She shakes it and looks again, more closely. Finally, she says in astonishment, “Sixty-six.”

  A perfect rise ball.

  seven

  Still bitter about Amber’s rise ball, I take off for the student parking lot the second tryouts are over. Luckily, one thing does go my way—Missy’s car is still sitting there. At least she stuck around long enough to drive me home. I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t have to call my dad.

  “Thank God this day is over,” I announce as I slide into the passenger seat of her black BMW three series, a birthday gift from Daddy.“And thanks so much for waiting.”

  Missy looks up from the magazine she was reading. “No prob,” she says. “Everything okay?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it . . .” I say, tossing my bag onto her backseat.

  “You sure?” s
he asks, doing the same with her magazine before putting the car into reverse.

  “Yeah,” I say, tersely. I know Missy means well, but right now I’m not in the mood for conversation. I close my eyes and remind myself that I won’t have to bum rides forever. In a few months, I’ll finally take my driver’s test. Then hopefully I’ll get a car, assuming my dad cuts loose with some cash.

  I lean back into the bucket seat, letting the plush tan leather envelop me. As we pull out of the school parking lot, Missy waves to Brooke Lauder in her Benz. Brooke seems pleased to see us, but I don’t have the patience for her right now. The last thing I need to hear is “tales of the life of a tortured model.” I glance her way for a split second and then turn on my phone, checking to see if there are any e-mails with a ucla.edu address in my inbox. (Not that there are likely to be. Especially after today’s performance.)

  “Okay then . . .” Missy looks at me out of the corner of her eye.

  We sit in silence, driving past the huge, stone Beachwood sign and through the campus’s iron gates. Once we reach my neighborhood, crazy thoughts begin to swirl in my brain.

  Oh my God. I’m screwed.

  Oh my God. I’m going to lose my spot.

  Oh my God. I’m going to lose softball.

  Oh my God. I have no future.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

  “Ky, you all right over there?” Missy asks. Clearly, my insanity has become palpable.

  I rest my head against the headrest. “Uh-huh.”

  Missy isn’t buying it. “What’s that?” she asks, glancing at my phone.

  “College stuff,” I say, holding up my phone for her to see. “Or, should I say, what I wish was college stuff.”

  “Seriously, Ky. I don’t know what you’re worried about. You’ve got it in the bag. The recruiters will be knocking down your door. And if they don’t, you can always walk-on at any school you want.” She looks at me encouragingly.