Dirty Curve

The twelve-year-old boy who got up before dawn to run four miles before school. The fifteen-year-old kid who tied an old Honda tire to his waste and drug it up and down the street to gain speed. The seventeen-year-old kid who missed out on school activities because I was busy throwing pitch after pitch into a taped-up tent I bought at Goodwill. The eighteen-year-old young man, who was still trying to learn to be one, but both worried and disappointed his parents regularly because I had no time for friends and one single goal in life.

To be the best at what I did.

To get to where I’m standing now, on this field.

I’m a man who knows what he wants and works his ass off to get it. Who understands there are no handouts when it comes to perfecting your craft, no shortcuts, no half-assing.

Who knows, there’s no way but the hard way. The grind. The focus. The sacrifice.

And yeah, sometimes that includes allowing the people on the outside to look at you and see a fool because the energy it takes to change their mind isn’t worth the time, not when yours is needed elsewhere.

Here, with me on the mound and Echo in his position behind the batter’s box, not a damn thing else matters. We know who and what we are.

Echo’s the guy who makes the call and I’m the guy who makes it happen.

CHAPTER 8

Tobias

I was right. I knew I would be.

The season is moving along, we’re killing it and breaking school records.

It’s intense, fucking awesome, but we’re deep into the semester and shit’s hard.

History isn’t kicking my ass by much, but anatomy is tanking my GPA.

Anatomy!

Fucking ridiculous.

We won’t talk about English.

I fold my palms around the back of my neck, leaning forward with a heavy groan. “This makes no fucking sense.”

“You’ll get it, it just takes time.”

“I don’t have time, Tutor Girl. The test is in two days. My grade is a sixty-seven percent right now. If I fail this, shit, if I get less than a fucking B, I’ll be in hot water. My coach will have my ass.”

“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.” She scrunches up her little nose, judgment bleeding from her next words. “Stop thinking about baseball and what someone else wants of you and think about what you need to do.”

“I need to play in that damn game,” I tell her with a scowl.

“No. You need to pass this test.”

“Fine. I need to pass this test” —my brows lift as my eyes widen— “so I can play in the game.”

With a sigh, Meyer drops back against her chair.

We’ve been studying for this anatomy test for three sessions now and still, I can’t fucking grasp ‘the anatomy of the heart.’

Her focus falls to the tabletop and she chews on that bottom lip of hers. She does that when she’s thinking real hard.

It’s distracting as fuck.

“Spill it.”

Her eyes jolt to mine and she stares at me for a moment before slowly standing from her chair.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I jump from my seat, irritated. “We’re not done. In fact, we just started. I—”

“Relax.” I’m pretty sure I hear a smile in her tone, but she never lets it touch her lips. “I have an idea. Let’s go.”

“Go?” I gauge her.

“Yeah.” Her dark brows lift slightly, almost persuading me she’s capable of humor. “Go. Grab your stuff, this will take the rest of our time.”

I’m not convinced, but I have shit else for choices, so I do as the girl says and pack up.

This week, her location of choice is the garden picnic tables behind the science hall. She’s silent the entire time, leading me along the fencing, around the math building, and only then do I realize exactly where it is she’s headed.

“The field?” I complain, dropping my head back to look at the sky. “Seriously?”

She, for real, doesn’t understand the way an athlete’s mind works.

Meyer approaches the gate, so I reach over her and push it open for her to walk through.

“Look, I know you want to help, but now I really won’t be able to focus.”

“You don’t even know why we’re here.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I look around, Tuesday’s game already playing out in my vision.

Meyer drops her bag and heads to the mound, my mound.

“Careful, Tutor Girl. That’s a precious piece of dirt you’re standin’ on.”

I start toward her.

Her hand shoots up, and she points. “Go to home plate.”

I frown. “But that mound you’re standing on is my spot.”

“Come on.” She rolls her eyes. “Just go with it.”

Waste of fucking time.

But I do as she says.

“All right,” she calls out. “We’re going to call home plate a base.”

“That’s like calling cupcakes, cake, sounds right but technically it ain’t.”

She crosses her arms, her little hip cocking to the side.

Okay, little mama means business ... and has a personality.