Page 7 of Things I Wish I Said
Mom throws her arms out, releasing an insufferable sigh. “Fine. Tomorrow, then. But I’m waking you at eight, whether you’re miserable or not, and we will discuss this.”
“I look forward to it,” I deadpan, then head toward the car, knowing I have zero intention of being there.
I pinch the shirt clinging to my sweat-dampened chest and flutter it to cool myself as I take a few practice swings. It’s hot as fuck, thanks to the heatwave that moved in this week. Record highs with heat index warnings. Pair that with the hangover I’m sporting and I’m questioning my decision to sneak out of the house at 6 a.m. for our 8 a.m. game nearly an hour away.
Facing my mother’s lecture might have been easier.
I inhale, focusing on the pitcher as I take the batter’s box. Our team, The Aces, are down by three, bases loaded in the last inning with two outs. As it stands, the entire game sits on my shoulders. If I strike out, we’re done. Game over. Tournament lost.
I used to thrive on scenarios just like this one. The old me would crush one out of the park, winning the game, and we’d go home champions. But these days, I’m just as likely to crash and burn. If my throbbing head is any indication, the latter is more likely. Still, that doesn’t stop my teammates from calling my name and cheering me on.
I ready my stance, rolling out my shoulders and digging my back foot into the dirt, bat wagging as I home in on the pitcher while willing the drill in my brain to quit for five fucking minutes so I can focus.
The pitcher nods his head—once, twice, to the catcher—picking his pitch before he starts his windup and it leaves his hand, arching with a mean curve.
I swing and miss.
Fuck.
I was late on the ball, my timing off.
I spit on the ground at my feet and take my place again, stance ready, eyes narrowed, going through the same exact motions while I remind myself to fucking breathe and focus.
The second the ball leaves his hand, my vision blurs, and I see double.
I stumble, the bat flailing wildly beside me as I do.
The umpire calls it a strike.
Shaking my head, I gape back at the ump. “It was outside.”
“You swung,” he says, tone clipped.
“I did not fucking swing!” I yell, taking a step toward him.
“Looked like a swing to me, kid.”
Kid? The word boils my blood.
“That looked like a fucking swing to you? It was a check swing, asshole. Maybe you need your eyes examined.”
“Grayson!” Coach snaps from the sideline. “Let it go,” he warns.
Let it go.
Let it fucking go.
The ump is making an ass of me, and Coach wants me to let it go?
I turn back to the base, stance ready. “Dickhead,” I grumble under my breath.
“What’s that?” the umpire shouts. “What did you say, boy?”
I sigh, and turn to find him staring at me, his mask off, eyes wild. “I said you can’t see for shit, dick. Head,” I say, enunciating the words.
“You’re out of here!” The ump points to the bench, and I scoff.
“You’re kidding?”
