Page 40 of Things I Wish I Said
My muscles tense with anticipation when the pitcher starts his windup, then releases the ball.
It flies down the center of the plate before dropping at the last second, but not before Grayson swings.
The bat makes contact. A thunderouscrackfills the air, echoing through the stadium so loudly, I can feel it in my chest like thunder.
The ball arcs, airborne and moving so fast I can barely track it.
I hold my breath, my limited knowledge about the game telling me that if an outfielder catches it in in the air, he’s out.
“Drop, drop, drop,” I murmur.
Hands clasped, I watch with bated breath, oddly invested for someone who barely knows him or the game.
But the ball keeps going. It doesn’t lose velocity or drop. It was hit too hard, too high, and it soars right over the fence before it disappears from sight.
My eyes widen and I yelp in excitement, cheering along with the rest of the fans. “He hit a home run,” I say to the man beside me, astonished.
He nods and laughs. “It’s not his first, but they sure are fun to watch, aren’t they?”
I turn back to the field with a grin just as Grayson is rounding third base and coming into home. His friends and teammates surround him, patting him on the back and helmet as a pang of longing ignites in my chest.
I remember those on-field victories, the celebrations with teammates. I remember the adrenaline coursing in my veins, and the sheer joy of it all.
God, I miss it.
More than the air I breathe.
More than water. Or food.
More than sunshine.
More than the missing half of my fucking left lung.
I’d give both just to play one more time.
“Way to go, Grayson, baby!” a high-pitched voice breaks through my melancholic thoughts, and I glance beside me at the group of girls I noticed when I came in.
The blonde one is on her feet.
She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a T-shirt, every hair on her pretty bleach-blonde head perfectly in place. She’s absolutely gorgeous, and by the way she’s eyeing Grayson, she has her sights set on him.
Of course she does. I roll my eyes.
She claps, the billion bracelets on her wrist jangling, and a catty, bitter part of me relishes the fact that Grayson doesn’t seem to notice, when in reality, his focus probably doesn’t allow for acknowledging people in the crowd.
The team filters back into the dugout, Grayson a few steps behind when he lifts his gaze and catches my eye. For a single second, my heart skips a beat. Even from here, his dusty-blue eyes pierce straight through me.
I offer him a wry smile, arching one sparsely drawn-on brow beneath my dark shades as I give him a little salute.
Grayson De Leon is a little fecking liar.
He’s not decent at baseball. I can tell that just from the little I’ve seen and the way Buddy talks about him.
He’s incredible.
Chapter eleven
GRAYSON
