Cinderella Steals Home (17 page)

   
My fault.
 

   
At the worst possible time.
 

   
I catch Doan's eye as I pound my fist into my glove. He smiles calmly, shaking his head, as if telling me not to worry about it, as if telling me that I have to forget it happened and have a short memory.

   
He's right, but I feel bad, except Doan's on the mound, and if anyone can fix it, I know it's him.
 

   
The next batter strikes out looking -- three pitches, three strikes. I sigh with relief. We've got this.

   
Everything's going to be fine.

   
What I hope is the last batter approaches the plate then.
 

   
He works his way to a three-two count and Doan stares in, ready to deliver the final strike and get the out.

   
The pitch flies in. The batter swings and the sickening crunch of baseball meeting wood fills the field. I watch as our center fielder gives chase; he's going back, back, back, just like when Justin hit his home run.

   
But now it's just dread in me because I know where this ball is going to end up and then it's flying over Tommy's outstretched hands and lands tauntingly just beyond the fence.
 

   
A home run.

   
And not just a home run, but a two-run home run. All because of me. The game is tied.
 

   
It isn't lost on me that I'm going to be batting in the now-necessary bottom of the inning.
 

   
Doan gets the next batter out with ease. But it's enough damage for nausea to fill my stomach and keep me from wanting to go back out onto the field.
 

   
But I have to.

   
I can't meet my teammates' eyes in the dugout between half-innings and not even Dad comes over to talk to me.
 

   
Not that I'd take him all that seriously anyway.

   
But Doan's in the dugout now that he pitched and he finds me as soon as he can. He pulls me aside into the corner and puts both hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.
 

   
"Don't beat yourself up over this, Holls," he says. "Don't do it. I know you. Let it go."
 

   
I shake my head. "I can't."
 

   
"Well, that's too bad. You're going to have to find a way. It's up to you now."
 

   
"I'm sorry I ruined it for you."
 

   
"You didn't. The home run's on me."
 

    
"But it would've just been one run if not for me."

   
"Doesn't matter," he says. "I still threw the home run pitch after your mistake. It's still my fault. Don't think about it. Stop thinking about it."
 

   
"I can't."
 

   
"You have to."
 

   
"I have to win this."
 

   
"Don't think like that," he tells me. "You have to relax. Remember what I told you."
 

   
I stare at him. He's looking back at me like he needs me to believe him, to listen to him, to trust him.

   
"Do what I told you," he says. "Trust me."
 

   
"Trust you," I repeat under my breath, and I think how crazy it is to hear these words coming from him and how it's even crazier that I do.
 

   
After everything we've been through, after the very first day we met, here I am, hanging on his every word, believing his every word, and needing to hear from him that he thinks I can do this.

   
"You've got this, Holls. And even if it doesn't work out, it's just the second game. We can't lose here. Not in this inning."
 

   
I nod and grab my bat from its cubby.
 

   
Doan reaches in and pulls out my helmet. He smiles, glances around once and quickly bends down and brushes a kiss across my lips. I smile despite the nerves fluttering around in my stomach. He places the batting helmet over my head and taps the brim once.
 

    
"Go get 'em," he says to me.
 

   
I'm batting second. Mike Neese stands at home plate while I take a few half-hearted swings in the on-deck circle.
 

   
But I'm watching the pitcher as he gets ready to deal. Strike one. I shake my head, my fingers balling up into a nervous fist at my side.

   
Come on, Mike, get this hit.
 

   
The tense energy is palpable throughout the field, radiating off of both benches. I'm surprised how much I care about this summer league game.

   
The next pitches come in.
 

   
Strike two.

   
I can't keep a frustrated sigh from slipping out between my lips.
 

   
Mike holds up his hand to the umpire to call time out and steps out of the batter's box. He takes a few aggressive practice swings as if all he's thinking about is hitting a home run.
 

   
He steps back in, squares up and waits.
 

   
And that's when he does something that surprises everyone. The pitch comes in and he quickly switches up to a bunt.
 

   
A perfect bunt.

   
A strange time for it but it slowly, slowly, slowly trickles down the third baseline.
 

   
Mike's a fast runner, and by the time the infielder scoops up the ball and fires it to the first baseman, he's already crossed the bag.
 

   
He's safe.
 

   
Unconventional, but it works. A small smile flickers at the corner of my lips.
 

   
Until I realize it's my turn.

   
My walk to the batter's box feels a little bit like a funeral procession. My legs barely want to move, like they're tied down with weights, but I force myself to home plate.
 

   
This is what I want.
 

   
I want to be a baseball player.

   
This is the moment to take it.

    
And maybe that's the difference between people who like something and people who love it. When you love something, you'll do anything to have it, and failing isn't an option.
 

   
The pitcher looks in at the catcher's signals but I refuse to look anywhere other than his eyes until he throws the ball.

   
And when he does, it's low and outside for ball one. I hear a few encouraging calls and claps behind me.

   
"Alright, Holly, alright! Take that pitch."
 

   
"Come on, Holls! You got it."
 

   
I wait for the next one. It's going to be a strike but I think back to what Doan said. I don't like this pitch, I don't want this pitch, and it isn't mine. Strike one.
 

   
But that's okay.

   
I'm waiting for my pitch, the one I can hit, the one I want to hit, the one that comes sailing in at me whistling my name and only my name.
 

   
I know it'll come.
 

   
And there it is, on the very next throw.

   
I swing my arms back, bring the bat around and watch the ball fly out and over the infield.

   
It isn't a home run but it might be good enough. I take my eyes off the ball and run as hard as I can and I hope Mike is doing the same.

   
When I round second base, I see the left fielder has just picked it up. I look for Mike. He's halfway between third and home.

   
And with the left fielder just now throwing the ball in, he's going to make it. We're going to score. We're going to win!
 

   
I don't bother to keep running. As Mike crosses home plate before the ball and the game ends, I stop where I am and smile.
 

   
It's a strange smile. It's relief, and a little bit of sadness at having lost this game for so long, but mostly I'm just happy to have it back.

   
My teammates stream onto the field to celebrate. Doan finds me immediately, like I knew he would.
 

   
He wraps me up in a hug and kisses my cheek.

   
"I told you," he whispers into my hair.
 

   
I pull back from him and press my lips hard against his.
 

   
"I don't know how you could think I'd do it," I murmur back.
 

   
"Because I believed you could," he says. "And maybe it's time you start believing, too."
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two days later Justin decides he wants to have a pool party in Dad's backyard.
 
Most of the guys from the team are coming. I know Doan will be here and I haven't seen him since the game.
 

He mentioned grabbing beers and burgers but I wanted to spend last night working on my music and see if I could finish that one song I could never find the right ending to.

But I still can't.
 

I'm up in my bedroom staring out over the valley when the door bell rings. I drag myself out of bed, pull on my red bikini and cotton dress and head down to the pool.
 

Justin and Allison are outside with Dave Durden and Mike Neese and a couple of girls I don't know. I say hello to everyone, glance around and realize Doan still isn't here.
 

I head into the pool house to grab some towels, spread them out on a lawn chair and flop down on my back, letting my eyes close behind my sunglasses as I listen to the soothing sound of the waterfall hitting the pool.

I'm not sure how long I doze off for, or even if I do, but when I come to it's because someone's talking to me.

"Hope you've got your sunscreen on."
 

I smile before I open my eyes. "I might need to re-apply." I let my eyes flutter open and grin at Doan who's standing in front of me with a bottle of sunscreen in his hands just like I knew he would be.
 

"I think I can help out with that," he says. "Flip over."
 

I turn onto my stomach and feel Doan's weight pressing down on the lawn chair as he gets on it with me.
 

I listen for the pop of the sunscreen tube and hear him squirt the lotion into his hands. I realize I'm holding my breath in anticipation of feeling him putting it on me.
 

Doan's warm, strong hands spread the sunscreen out across my back as he rubs it into my shoulders before working his way down lower and lower, making sure not to miss a spot, covering every inch with his rough pitcher hands.
 

I try not to shiver when he reaches my lower back.
 

He stops, puts more lotion in his hands and continues onto my legs. I feel his touch on every inch of my burning skin.
 

He lingers for just a bit and then I hear the disappointing sound of the tube closing and the chair springs back up once his weight no longer pushes down on it.

"Thanks," I say, turning back over. "Can I have that please?"
 

I'm not about to ask him to lotion up my front with my brother and our teammates hanging around. He grins and wiggles his eyebrows at me as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking, then passes the bottle to me.
 

He sits down on the lawn chair next to mine and watches as I cover the rest of me in sunblock.
 

"Let it soak in," he says. "Then you and me have a date with the water slide."

"Deal," I tell him.

He smiles and leans back, propping himself up with his elbows. "Not such a bad set-up you've got here."
 

I shrug. "Yeah, it's okay. But it's still my dad's."
 

"Right," Doan says. "And he's still your dad."
 

I look over at him sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"
 

He shakes his head. "Nothing. Nothing."
 

"No," I say, sitting up and pushing my sunglasses onto the top of my head. "It's definitely something."
 

"Family is still family even when you don't want them to be."
 

"I never said I don't want him to be my dad." I'm mad now; I don't like the direction he's taken this conversation. Not today. Not after what I told him at the lake the other day.
 

"I guess that's true," Doan says. "But you don't seem to think of him like your dad."
 

I stare at him. "This isn't your place."
 

He seems to realize he's gone a little too far. "Hey, hey," he says, holding up his hands as if he's surrendering. "Sorry, you're right. I shouldn't have said anything. It's just hard for me sometimes. I don't think people really appreciate what it's like to have a family. And I don't necessarily mean you."
 

 
Something clicks in my head; this isn't the first time he's said something like this to me.