Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Thank god for that.
After breakfast at Cactus Cafe, I’m browsing the produce section at our local grocery store, trying to decide what I want to make Queenie and me for dinner when I get a call from my brother. He might have disappeared for a little while last night, leaving me alone with Sawyer for far too long, but when I hit the dance floor with Queenie, he was right there with us, spinning us around, dipping Mom so low her head skimmed the floor. God it was fun.
“Hey, sis. Get your butt down to the ballfields,” he says first thing when the call connects. “We need you.”
“Ballfields? What are you talking about?”
“We have a game against Cedar Valley in thirty minutes and we need another girl on our team or we forfeit.”
“So ask Lindsey.”
His wife played softball in high school; she’s really good.
“Lindsey’s already playing. Cassie’s the one who’s out, having her fifth baby. Now what’s she need a fifth—”
Like mother, like son.
“I’m not coming. Find someone else.”
“I know damn well you have nothing else going on. You’re probably standing around wallowing, so get your ass out here right now.”
I drop the tomato I was inspecting—while wallowing—and scowl.
“I haven’t played in years.”
“Who cares? We just need a warm body. See you in fifteen.”
CHAPTER 3
I spent a good chunk of my childhood at the ballfields watching my brother and Sawyer work their way up from Little League to elite travel teams. I can still recite the concession stand menu from memory, and just pulling into the parking lot makes my mouth water for a Frito pie and juicy dill pickle.
I was not a baseball player myself. I preferred soccer, and then later, track and field. David must be forgetting how much I lack basic hand-eye coordination. I’m truly the last person who should be voluntarily stepping onto a baseball field, but at least I look the part. David texted me that the Heatwave team colors are red and white, so I booked it home from the grocery store and tossed on a white tennis skirt and a red workout tank before dragging my butt over here.
On the fields, there are two teams warming up, and upon seeing them, I immediately realize David undersold this commitment. This is not going to be a casual pickup game. The other team has an overly loud stereo blasting “Eye of the Tiger” while a troop of guys does calisthenics in left field. Another group of them are sprawled out on the ground stretching each other’s quads and hammies. And don’t even get me started on their uniforms. They look straight out of the MLB—professional, crisp, absolutely obnoxious. Once I see their mouths frothing with sunflower seeds, I know I should leave and pretend I was never here, but Lindsey’s already seen me.
She beams. “Boy am I glad to see you. Our savior!”
I grunt at her exaggeration. “Savior? Yeah right.” I nod toward the field. “What’s with the other team?”
She blocks the sunlight with her hand as she glances over. “Oh yeah. They’re a bit…much. Most of the teams we play keep it casual—”
“JENKINS, DON’T LET THOSE GROUNDERS GET PAST YOU!” their team captain explodes with fury.
“—and then there’s Cedar Valley,” she finishes with an apologetic smile. “But it’s fun!”
She wraps me up in a hug and tells me how glad she is that I’m here for the summer. I love my sister-in-law. We’ve always gotten along well, though our relationship still leans more toward acquaintances than sisters, but it’s been hard with us being in different states. Before she and David had Cruz, we’d try to set up couples’ trips every so often, but I had to twist Matthew’s arm to get him to agree to them, and he and David never really settled into the friendship I’d wanted for them.
I guess none of that matters now.
My brother comes up behind me and slings his arm over my shoulder. “Don’t worry, this will be more embarrassing for me than it will be for you.”
I shove his arm off. “Oh thanks. That’s helpful.”
Lindsey scowls at him.
He drops an old baseball glove in my hand and I slip it on to see if it even fits. The leather’s so worn it feels like butter. Then he asks, “When’s the last time you put on a glove?”
“I dunno. Sixth grade?”
He winces like he was hoping I’d secretly been honing my baseball skills on the side for the last decade. “Okay. You remember the basics? Like what’s that position called?” He points to the guy on the mound who happens to be Sawyer. “Come on, you got it. It starts with a p-p-p.”
I hold up my gloved hand. “You can’t see, but I’m flipping you off.”
“Nice. Real ladylike.”
“Leave her alone, David,” Lindsey chides before taking my arm. “C’mon, Madison, I’ll show you the only thing that really matters. I’ve got a pitcher full of margaritas hidden in the dugout!”