Page 9 of Pitching for Keeps
The crowd erupts. His teammates mob him. And I'm crying behind a concrete pillar at a minor league baseball game because Jay Talley just pitched the game of his life, and I can't even hug him.
I make it back to my seat for the ninth inning, eyes hopefully not too red. Jay's still dealing, his pitch count getting high but his stuff still electric. When he gets strikeout number twenty-one to end the game, the fireworks start immediately.
"That was amazing!" Megan shouts over the noise. "We have to go congratulate him!"
The team is doing a victory lap, high-fiving fans along the fence. Jay reaches our section, accepts congratulations from Greg and the guys, signs baseballs for kids. When he gets to me, he holds out a ball.
"For you," he whispers. "Figured you might want to start a new collection."
I take the ball with shaking hands. He's signed it, but not with his current number. He's written "22"—his college number. The one I have on a jersey in a box under my bed.
"Thanks," I reply.
"Thank you," he says, and I know he's not talking about taking the ball.
The fireworks boom overhead, and the team heads back to the clubhouse. I stand there clutching a signed baseball while my sister pieces together five years of secrets in real-time.
"So," she says as we file out with the crowd. "Twenty-one strikeouts. Is that good?"
"It's perfect," I say, not even trying to lie anymore. "He was perfect."
She links her arm through mine. "Want to tell me why you know his college number?"
"No."
"Want to tell me why he looked at you before every big pitch?"
"No."
"Want to tell me why you're crying?"
"Definitely no."
"Okay." She squeezes my arm. "Want to tell me what you're going to do about it?"
I look down at the baseball in my hands, at the number that means he remembers everything too. "I have absolutely no idea."
"Well," she says as we reach the parking lot, "good thing we have five more days to figure it out."
Five more days. Five more days of pretending I'm not completely in love with Jay Talley. Of him being perfect and kind and still looking for me in the stands.
CHAPTER THREE
I giveup pretending like I’m going to fall back asleep and slide out of bed. Maybe a run will help. Exhaustion will stop me from replaying that moment at the fence when Jay handed me the baseball. And if I run far enough, I'll stop thinking about how he looked at me before every single strikeout.
Yeah, right. And maybe I'll suddenly develop amnesia about his entire pitching repertoire.
I'm lacing up my running shoes in the kitchen when I hear the front door. My heart does this stupid skippy thing because I know—I just know—who else would be up this early after a game.
"Couldn't sleep either?" Jay's voice comes from the doorway.
I spin around too fast and nearly fall off the kitchen stool. He's in running shorts and a faded State Baseball shirt that I remember. Oh boy, do I remember that shirt.
"I always run," I lie. "Love running. Big runner, that's me."
His mouth quirks up. "Since when? You used to say running was only acceptable if someone was chasing you with a weapon."
"People change." I stand and do an elaborate hamstring stretch to prove my dedication to fitness. "I'm very athletic now."
