Page 38 of Tagging Bases

There’s no use lying to her. So, I tell her the truth. Just not all of it. “I know them.”

I’dloveto say they’re my friends, but as one can see, I don’t have many of them. And can you even call someone a friend if you haven’t spoken to them in weeks? If the last time you saw them was when you were committing a crime?

Danielle glances back up at the Jumbotron. “They’re hot.”

I snort. “You think every guy in a uniform is hot.”

“Yeah, well…those two are next level.”

She’s not wrong.

The announcer’s voice crackles over the PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Finn Field!” Applause abounds. “Today, the Ashford University Green Wolves will be taking on the Columbia Lions!”

The applause turns into a mix of cheers and boos. A strange flutter tears through my chest. Is it excitement? Anticipation? I can’t be entirely sure it’s not both. I like it, though. A lot.

The teams stand up in their respective dugouts for the national anthem. As everyone’s eyes turn to the flag, mine briefly flit over to Charlie and Daniel. Caps over their hearts, faces solemn as the familiar tune plays over the scratchy speakers.

We’re close enough that I can make out Daniel’s long lashes and the fact that Charlie’s nose isn’t as straight as I thought it was. I wonder how it got that way. Did he take a baseball to the schnoz? Or a fist to the face? Either way, it makes him deliciously handsome.

When the anthem ends, the Green Wolves flood the field. Charlie strides to the mound with a fierce determination in his eyes. He toes the rubber, his cleats digging into the dirt, and then accepts the pitch selection.

He steps back with his right foot. His left leg lifts high, knee bent at a ninety-degree angle. The ball is gripped tightly in his right hand, hidden inside the glove on his left.

As his leg descends, his arm whips forward in a blur of speed and power. His hips rotate, adding momentum to the pitch. Muscles ripple beneath his uniform.

Suddenly, the ball explodes from his hand, becoming a whitestreak in the air. It hurtles toward home plate with dizzying velocity, the seams spinning so fast they disappear.

With a resounding smack, the ball slams into the pocket of Daniel’s mitt, dead center. He barely moves, his arm absorbing the shock like a professional. The umpire signals the obvious—strike one.

The crowd erupts into a round of applause and whistles. I’m on my feet before I realize it, clapping until my hands sting. Pride swells in my chest, though I have no right to feel it. Charlie’s not mine to be proud of.

But God, do I want him to be. He and Daniel both.

As Charlie receives the ball back from Daniel, a small smile tugs at his lips. It’s one of confidence, of a man in his element. He knows he’s good. Hell, everyone in the stadium knows he’s good. Myself included.

Daniel settles back into a squat behind home plate, his muscular legs spread wide, his ass nearly touching the ground. He’s ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. His right hand disappears between his thighs, and to the average spectator, it appears as if he’s doing sign language. In a way, he is. A language only he and Charlie know.

The next batter steps into the box, tapping the tip of the bat on the ground before he brings it over his left shoulder. His eyes narrow, trying to pick up any tells in Charlie’s delivery.

But there are none. Charlie’s poker face is impressive.

Another blinding pitch whizzes toward the plate. The batter swings, but it’s a split second too late. The ball is already nestled safely in the webbing of Daniel’s mitt.

I watch, mesmerized, as Daniel tosses the ball back, a perfect throw, right into Charlie’s waiting glove. No wasted movement, no unnecessary flourishes. Just pure, unadulterated skill.

As Charlie winds up for another pitch, I find myself holding my breath. The anticipation is palpable, electric. Every eye in the stadium is glued to the mound, waiting to see what magic Charlie will unleash next.

He doesn’t disappoint. The ball comes screaming in, painting the outside corner with pinpoint accuracy. The batter’s knees buckle as he flails at it helplessly, nearly falling over as the ball being caught echoes around the field.

The crowd leaps to their feet, a deafening roar filling the air. I’m right there with them again, screaming myself hoarse. Danielle shoots me a bemused smirk from her seat, but I don’t care. I’m too caught up in the moment.

As everyone settles down to see if Charlie can keep the momentum going, I realize something.

I don’t want to be Charlie McManus and Daniel Hollingsworth’s friend.

I want to bemore.

Chapter 15

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