Page 74 of Love in Pieces

Distant sirens force my feet to move. No way am I finding out if those are for me.

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Ididn’t stick aroundthe next day to see Abby. Logan and I slept until the very last second after our ‘excitement’ last night and ran out the door with barely enough time to make it to the game on time. An hour of practice beforehand is our only saving grace.

“Where the hell have you two been?” Coach Charlie yells from the dugout as we both take our respective places on the field. The other team is already warming up.

“Sorry. We overslept!” Logan yells from his usual spot at third base.

“Overslept? It’s two in the afternoon!” He shakes his head but seems to move on, yelling new commands at our teammates.

I shoot Logan an appreciative look for taking the brunt of the scolding before refocusing my mind on the game at hand. We have to win this. It’s been over ten years since this first regional tournament game was lost. I’m not about to make this the year. Especially when the scouts in the bleachers are watching my every move.

?CHAPTER 29

Abby

Rose and I slip injust after the game has started. We find an open area near the home dugout. It’s the bottom of the first inning, no score yet, Oxly is up to bat. Our school mascot, Owen the Owl—creative, I know—stands to the left of the dugout, ready to cheer with each hit.

Rose watches intently as a fly ball soars into a gloved hand. When I notice Dallas warming up to bat, I take a deep breath.

I have avoided him for almost two days. I barely wanted to come today, but I was torn between trying to stay mad at him and wanting to support him. So here I sit. I’m not sure if the pit in my stomach is because I want to curse him for the way he reacted in his dad’s office, or if it’s because I’ve been forcing myself to ignore him for over twenty-four hours. Not being able to touch him, talk to him, even simply not seeing him smile has been torture. But I’ve been telling myself it’s for my own good, and his. Whatever we have, this “situationship,” it won’t last if we’re both going to react this badly to something so seemingly small in the grand scheme of things. Neither one of us has tried talking to the other. Dallas keeps leaving me notes or texts, but they’ve been small things like telling me Rose was coming or letting me know he’s leaving for work. No emotion. But the apartment feels heavy. I can feel how dense the air is. The tension is palpable.

But is that anger? Regret? Or lust? Desire? Because I’m feeling all of those. And if I had to guess, so is he.

Rose stands up, arms in the air as someone hits a home run. Connor jogs around the bases, pumping a fist in the air. He blows the crowd a kiss as he comes into home plate.

The announcer blares over the loudspeaker, “A home run from number 37, shortstop, Connor Jenkins. 1-0 Oxly. Two outs.”

“Wooo!” Rose cheers, clapping rapidly.

Connor high-fives Dallas on his way back to the dugout while Dallas makes his way to home plate. He takes a few last-minute practice swings before digging his feet in, the bat hovering over his right shoulder. The crowd silences in anticipation. And just like that, I find myself engulfed in the game just as much as everyone else. Watching him. Observing his every move, every muscle, every slight shift of his feet. A calm comes over me that only two things can now initiate. Dallas swings as a fastball flies past him, landing in the catcher’s mitt. He takes a step back, cracking his neck in both directions before taking his position again. A ball this time. He swings at a curveball, missing by a hair. Two strikes. Two outs. His final swing ricochets off his bat, sending it far into left field. It hits the ground as he passes first base. The crowd cheers around me, but my hands are glued together, praying he makes it to second. My hopes are broken as the ball makes it to second base before he does.

He shakes his head as he walks back, eyes fixed on the ground. He doesn’t look at the crowd and disappears behind the tarp blocking the sun.

As the game progresses, I only see him when he comes out to catch or hit. He never looks to the crowd. His sole focus is on the game.

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