Page 53 of The Pass
Tanner doesn’t comment or offer any advice. I don’t look back, but out of my peripheral, I can see his arms overhead, fingers hooked into the fence as he watches on. I narrow my focus and concentrate hard. I’m able to make contact with each pitch, but they look nothing like his perfect hits straight down the line.
Is it ridiculous to be frustrated that I can’t hit a baseball as well as a division one college baseball player? Yes. Am I anyway? Also yes.
I don’t realize how tightly I’m gripping the bat or how sweaty I am until strong arms wrap around me from behind. “Easy, killer. This is supposed to be fun.”
I loosen my hold as I watch one go by. “Yeah, yeah, I just want to hit one really good.”
“You’re swinging too late.” He steps back. “Get ready. I’ll tell you when.”
Letting out a deep breath, another ball flies by while I prepare.
“This one’s yours, babe. You got this.”
I nod. His words light up something inside of me that my own pep talk didn’t. The ball appears along with the sound the machine makes as it releases each pitch.
“Now,” Tanner says.
It feels too early. I want to hold back, but my body is more cooperative than my brain. I swing, connecting with the ball and sending it sailing straight down the middle. A zap of pride and joy shoots through me just like when I make a perfect serve in volleyball. There’s no other feeling like it.
I turn to him while practically bouncing with excitement. “I hit it!”
“I saw.”
“Like really hit it.”
His blue eyes are twinkling with laughter, but he holds it in. I go to hug him and forget about all the accessories. My helmet bangs against his and I nearly get him in the groin with the end of the bat.
“Oops, sorry.” I step back but I’m still giddy. “That is amazing. I want to do it again.”
We move from the machine to an area where Tanner can pitch to me. He stands behind a safety screen per the rules, but it’s almost laughable because I don’t stand a chance of hitting anything he sends my way. And actually I don’t mind. Not much.
He looks too good to complain. He’s carefree and happy.
“All right. This one is for you.”
“What were the last twenty?”
He holds the ball up. “Me showing off for my date.”
He throws a couple much slower pitches until I get a few good hits. Back outside of the cages, we return our bats and helmets.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Your pick.”
We wander past the cages. The different games are set up in a semicircle that arcs around the parking lot.
“I feel like I should get credit since they do have mini golf here,” I point out as we pass the course with bright colored obstacles and fun water hazards.
“I avoided anything where we had to play against one another for a reason. Tell me, when you’ve gone on dates with guys what did they say when they saw sweet, beautiful Sydney turn into the gold-medal monster?”
“I may have played it down. It wasn’t easy.”
Chuckling, he squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to hide anything from me.”
My heart rate speeds up and my stomach flips. “What about you? Do you let girls win on dates?”
He doesn’t answer right away and looks a little guilty.
