Page 2 of Pitcher Perfect
“As in, the professional hockey team?”
“Yup.”
Her incredulity reflected back at her from the mirror. “How and why?”
Elton had the nerve to sound impatient. “I’ll explain on the way. How soon can you be downstairs? We’re here.”
She rinsed and spit as quietly as possible, barely refraining from chucking the phone into the toilet. “Ten minutes.”
“Five.”
“Ten, shithead.” She yanked her long brown hair up into a ponytail. “You’re lucky I only set aside this morning to work on next week’s to-do list.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Inadditionto this one?” she sputtered, running to her bedroomcloset and hunkering down in front of the stackable drawer holding her multitude of sports bras.
“Yeah. When you get into the car, sit as far away from me as possible just in case sucking is contagious.”
“I’m going to sit close enough to choke you to death. You won’t even see it coming.”
“Choke me after the game. Save your energy for pitching.”
“We’ll see.”
Nightshirt off. Quick underwear change.
Sports bra on. Yoga pants up.
Socks.
It was that weird turning point between winter and spring when the temperature was chilly in the morning and absolutely baked Boston in the afternoon, so Skylar wasted a full minute trying to decide between a tank top or a sweatshirt, finally pulling on both. Then she snatched up her sneakers, keys, phone, and her softball glove where it sat on a shelf of honor by the front door. A minute later, she sailed out of the building, flashing her brother the middle finger through the windshield of his car, a gesture that he gleefully returned.
“Hi, Madden,” she said, climbing into the back seat. “That bird wasn’t for you.”
She watched his profile for that signature lip twitch, her stomach turning over when she got it. “Good morning, Skylar.”
“Whydoesn’tMadden get flipped off?” Elton complained while pulling into traffic. “You’ve known him too long to be polite.”
Heat crawled up the back of Skylar’s neck, carrying into her cheeks, so she ducked down to lace up her sneakers—and hopefully hide her infatuation at the same time. “I don’t know. It probably has something to do with the fact that he’s a decent human being. You should be taking notes.”
“Take note of this.” Elton hit the brakes and Skylar almost tumbled off the seat.
“Hey!” She rubbed her noggin where it had connected with the back of the driver’s seat. “Are you trying to injure me right before the season?”
“That was too far,” Madden said evenly. “She could get hurt.”
Elton continued to drive, unperturbed. “You’re right. Then who would pitch this morning?”
Madden grunted.
It took all of Skylar’s concentration not to hurl herself down onto the seat in a full body swoon. And to keep her eyes from cataloging the breadth of Madden’s catcher shoulders, that little whorl where his dark hair ended just above the nape of his neck, the utter stillness of him. The solid dependability he’d projected from the moment he arrived to live with their next-door neighbor when Skylar was fifteen.
Elton and Skylar both lived in Boston now, but they’d lived most of their lives in Cumberland, Rhode Island. The summer she earned her learner’s permit, the elderly Irishwoman who lived beside their two-story colonial had knocked on their door to introduce her grandson, Madden, who’d come all the way from Belfast to visit her in Cumberland for the summer.
For some reason, he’d never actually left Rhode Island.
Or her heart—which he’d owned since the moment his guarded eyes met hers.
