Stealing Bases (5 page)

eight

It’s Wednesday. D-day. The day Coach Kate posts the team roster. The day I find out if Amber’s transfer has destroyed my life. And I’m stuck in ninth period pre-calc like someone in prison waiting for parole.

With my notebook spread out in front of me, I watch Mrs. Cunningham frantically grade papers. Then I stare at the clock over the door, tapping my pink pencil eraser to the beat of the skinny second hand as it slowly makes its way toward twelve. Then to three, to six, to nine, and back to twelve again. Ten whole minutes until the end of the school day. Ten whole minutes until I find out if I’m the starting pitcher.

“Psst . . .” Phoenix hands me a folded-up piece of lined notebook paper.

I grab it and smooth it open, laying it flat on my notebook.

Good luck! xoxo Phoenix

Good luck? Why should I need good luck? Great. Even Phoenix has lost faith in me.

“Thanks,” I whisper in reply, breathing in and out to remind myself that she only has my best intentions at heart. Then I look over at Missy’s empty seat. Of all days for Missy to be out with a cold, today is the absolute worst. As much as I’ve been trying to tell myself that everything is going to be okay, the fact is that after three days of tryouts, Amber and I are neck and neck. Or at least what I’d like to think of as neck and neck—her pitches averaged around sixty-two miles per hour, topping out at sixty-six. Mine were around fifty-eight, topping out at sixty. And then there’s her rise ball. . .

But, as I keep reminding myself, regardless of how hard she throws, I’m the one with the Beachwood experience. I’m the one Coach Kate should go with.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of Hannah ripping up a magazine to my left. (Yes, she’s a freshman in pre-calculus. In addition to being a design prodigy, she’s a math superstar.) In front of me, Missy’s ex, Andrew Mason, leans back in his chair, audibly bragging to his friends, Brett Davidson and Nick Solerno, about last season’s basketball record.

“It’s hard being this good,” Andrew announces, folding his hands behind his head.

“I know what you mean. Second in the state is hard to top,” Nick adds, checking his cell.

Brett smirks, and I can’t help but butt in. “Really, Nick? Getting a lot of important messages? Don’t want to miss one from Mommy.”

“Ha ha . . . ” The other guys each start to laugh, but then, with one quick look from Nick, realize whose side they should be on.

Quickly, he attempts to regain control of the conversation. “So, Kylie, how’s the ‘softy ball’ team shaping up this year?” He turns around to face me, snickering. “Word is the program might get cut if you guys don’t shape up . . . . ”

Andrew and Brett chuckle behind him.

“Shut up, Nick,” Phoenix pipes up, eager to come to my aid.

I hold up my hand, telling her to stop. There’s no way I’m letting that one slide. “Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Nick elbows Brett, urging him to do his part. But Brett doesn’t budge. Instead, he shifts in his chair, looking visibly uncomfortable.

Nick takes this as an opportunity to continue. “Not even close, Ky. How hard is it to hit a giant yellow ball?” he jabs.

I meet him insult for insult. “Well, clearly, it’s too hard for
you
. Don’t you remember PE last year?” I ask, letting out a sigh. Then I look down at my paper and pretend to work on the assignment.

Nick is silent.

I look back up. “Oh, do you need to go to the nurse because you’re having trouble remembering things? Let me remind you: I struck you out.”

“She’s got you there,” Andrew says, now glancing at
his
phone out of the corner of his eye. (I’d bet anything that Missy texted him despite all that revenge garbage.)

“Yeah, Nick, I saw her sit you down with three pitches,” Brett adds, jabbing Nick in the arm.

Nick turns to Brett. “Now you decide to talk!” Then he shrugs. “I was having an off day.”

“Then every day must be an off day,” I say, pretending to yawn.

Suddenly, the bell rings. I jump out of my seat, grabbing my belongings. “Catch ya later, boys!” I call out, preparing to run out the door. Then, turning around, I decide to leave Nick with one final thought. “Good luck with that hand-eye coordination. If you need any help, I know of a great Little League team you can sign up for. Not sure if they’re looking for people who can’t hit the ball, though . . . ”

Before any of them can respond, I turn around and tear out of pre-calc, smiling as I hear Andrew and Brett laughing uncontrollably behind me. Then I sprint toward the locker room. A crowd surrounds the bulletin board, but I don’t let that stop me. I push through to the front and scan the list.

I drag my finger down the names, searching for mine, and there it is in black and white at the bottom.

Amber McDonald—starting pitcher
Kylie Collins—alternate

My life is officially over.

nine

I stand openmouthed for a few seconds, attempting to get over the initial shock. Tears begin to trickle down my cheeks despite my attempts to keep them at bay.

“Ky?” I hear someone say behind me.

“Is she okay?” someone else whispers.

“I don’t think she’s starting this year . . .” another person guesses.

The murmurs only add insult to injury. I quickly wipe away the tears to avoid any further embarrassment. Ignoring the other girls, I charge down the hall and right into Coach’s office.

The door slams behind me. “Coach, how could you do this to me? You’ve known me since I was in eighth grade. I’ve been your starting varsity pitcher for the last two years,” I plead, the desperation reaching my face as I cross my arms in front of my chest.

Coach Kate looks up from her desk and motions for the assistant coaches, who are currently seated on the other side of her desk, to leave. They take one look at me and scurry away, like ants. Coach reaches for her mug. “I know I’m all about keeping the doors of communication open, Kylie, but next time you slam my door, you’ll cause the team laps.”

“Sorry,” I mumble.

She takes a slurping sip of her Starbucks.

“Look, you know how much this season means to me.” I fall into one of the now unused fabric chairs in front of her desk. “No D-I scout will ever look at a benchwarmer.”

Coach glances at the clock above the door. “I knew you would have this type of reaction, Kylie. But, I also want to remind you that this year is very important to Beachwood Softball.”

“I know, you told us: tournaments, championships, banners.” I pause.“And
your
job.” I stare at her.

Coach raises her eyebrows. “I know this is hard. And I appreciate all that you have done for B-Dub Softball, but it’s time the program moves in another direction.”

I watch Coach’s lips continue to move, but I’m so shocked, I can’t even make out what’s spewing from her mouth. I must be dreaming. No one suffers this much bad luck in six short months.

I shake my head, focusing my attention just in time to hear Coach Kate say, “Amber has what it takes to take our program to new heights. She’s what we need to ensure that Beachwood Softball has a real future.”

This can’t be happening. This has to be some sort of joke. Like that reality show that punks people. I look around for someone hiding behind the corner plant with a video camera.

“But . . . ” I begin.

“No buts, Kylie. I had no choice but to go with Amber. I realize this is difficult for you, and I’m truly sorry to pull the rug out from under you like this. But you’ve seen Amber’s velocity. And you know as well as I do that her rise ball is unbeatable. It’s terrible that you got caught in the crosshairs, but if you think about the team, you’ll agree that she has what it takes to lead us to the Desert Invitational and quite possibly to a championship.” Coach clears her throat.

My breath is shallow. My hands are shaking. I grasp at straws. “But . . . I can win us a banner with my screwball and my leadership and my knowledge of Beachwood Softball and . . . ”

Coach Kate lets out a deep breath and says the only thing that could make this worse. “I’m sorry, Kylie, but I really don’t think you can.”

ten

I rush out of Coach Kate’s office—there’s no way I’m crying in front of the coaching staff still lingering in the hallway. It’s bad enough they think I’m not good enough to start. I’m not going to let them see my pain too.

I look around frantically for Missy, and then it hits me: she’s not here. No one is. And even if she were, she’s so obsessed with Hannah Montgomery and beefing up her college app that she might not even notice me.

My life is over. My softball buds are going to toss me out like yesterday’s lunch. No more Killer Kylie. No more Captain Kylie. No more anything. Amber will snatch up my spot as team leader just like she snatched up my spot on the mound.

When I turn the corner, I run smack into Martie, Beachwood’s newest athletic director and resident soccer coach. Martie knows me from this past basketball season—she stepped in to serve as assistant coach after one of our regular coaches had to take a leave of absence.

“Kylie, are you okay?” Martie asks, lowering the folder she was carrying.

“Hey, Coach,” I say, diverting my eyes and feeling too keyed up to stand still, let alone chat. As much as everyone in our school loves Martie, she’s seen me at my worst—I wasn’t exactly a sweetheart during basketball season—so I sincerely doubt that she’s on my side.

“Kylie, I really think we should talk,” Martie continues.

“No, really, that’s okay.” I attempt to walk around Martie, but she blocks my way. She has that look in her eye. I’ve seen it before—when Taylor was struggling last season. Here it comes . . . Martie’s magic touch. Martie is known to show up and talk athletes off the ledge.

“Look, I heard about the roster. And I know how hard you’ve worked.” Martie brings the folder up to her chest.

I swallow a lump. Feeling a tear about to roll down my cheek, I pretend to erase mascara from under my eyes. Mom always said it’s better to be a princess than a cry baby.

“Do you still love softball?” Martie asks. Her deep brown eyes stare intently into mine.

“Of course I do,” I say, scanning the hallway for any signs of my teammates. If Emily or Phoenix spot me talking to Martie, they’ll pretend to take pity on me. And I just can’t have that.

Martie ignores my frantic glances. “Then that’s all that matters,” she says, smiling. “All that matters is you love the game. Playing time, teammates, college, you can’t control any of that. All you can control is your attitude, your training, and your respect for the game.”

I roll my eyes. If Martie was any preachier, we’d have to get her a pulpit.

She continues, “Maybe you should try out another position. I heard you’re quite a force at second for your ASA team. You should petition Coach Kate to let you work out there.”

Yes, I do work out at second with my ASA team. But it’s not as exciting as the mound. I’m a pitcher. Period. If I’m forced to warm the bench in college, that’s one thing. Then I’ll think about turning myself into a utility player. But not this year. Not my junior season. No Division I school is going to recruit a pitcher who can’t even start on her high school team. And anyway, what does Martie know about softball? Nothing.
Stick to soccer, Martie.

“No offense, Martie.” I straighten out my shoulders and swallow the tears. “Just because you decided to settle for coaching a bunch of high school kids after your dreams were shattered doesn’t mean the rest of us should just give up.”

Martie’s face falls. She clears her throat.

Before she can say anything else, I adjust my Beachwood bag on my shoulder and stomp down the hallway.

So much for the attitude redo.

eleven

Amazingly, one thing does work out for me today: the locker room is deserted, so there’s no one there to see me bawl my eyes out.

I find a spot on the oak bench in the back corner and hug my legs to my chest, burying my head in my knees. Immediately, the tears start pouring out in steady streams. That is, until I hear the door click close.

“Hey.”

Startled, I glance up and am met with Zachary’s big chocolate eyes. His single dimple pops as he gingerly wipes a tear from my cheek with one finger. A basketball is tucked under his arm.

“How did you get in here?” I ask, using the back of my hands to dab my eyes.

He wrinkles his forehead in concern. “Ky, you’re my girl. I made it my job to check out the roster. And then I saw you run in here. Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m
not
okay!” I yell. And then, realizing that I just gave the dirtball more ammunition, I quickly pull away.

Zachary takes this as a sign that I need his advice. He gently drops the basketball and sidles up on the bench next to me. “Kylie, you’ll get through this. You always come out on top.”

For a second, I almost let myself fall into Zachary’s arms. It feels so good to hear him say that to me. Especially after all this time . . . But then, I catch myself and retreat further in the opposite direction.

Unfortunately, this isn’t enough to stop him. “Remember when you were ten and you didn’t make the club soccer team?” he asks, reaching out to rub my shoulders from a distance.

I attempt to resist. But then, I can’t help it—chills run down my spine. “What does that—”

He continues massaging me. “Everything. Instead of letting it get you down, you tried out for field hockey. And then you know the rest . . .”

“Yeah, I learned that hockey sticks are much more annoying to carry around than you’d think.”

“Ha ha, well, that”—Zach laughs—“and you found out you were a way better field hockey player than you ever were a soccer player.”

I swivel around to face him. “What? Are telling me to try out for another sport? First, Martie wants me to give up pitching and now you want me to switch sports?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.

“No. Not at all. I’m just—”

I interrupt him. “And anyway, I was ten and that stuff wasn’t as important.”

“Well, what about when you were eight and you were so sick and tired of the tiaras and pageants? You thought it was pretty important to tell your mom you didn’t want to do the whole pageant circuit anymore.”

I pick the basketball up off the floor and begin bouncing it ever so slightly against the bench. “What does that even have to do with softball?”

“Remember, your mom accused you of quitting because she said you were frustrated that you couldn’t win?”

Now I know where he’s going with this. I hang my head.

Tenderly, he grabs the bouncing basketball from me and places it back on the ground. Then he cups my chin, gently lifting it with his hand so I’m forced to stare at him. “But you decided to prove your mom wrong, didn’t you? To show her that even though you hated pageants, you could still win. And so you did. A few times.” He grins. “I still remember the look on your mom’s face the first time they crowned you.”

I don’t know if it’s because of how much I want another crown—the one worn by the prom princess—or the mention of my mom, but the flood of tears fills my eyes once again.

“Once you put your mind to something, even if it’s something you hate, like pageants, you can do anything, Ky. Imagine if you focused all your energies on softball what you could do. Amber wouldn’t stand a chance.”

At this point, I’m sobbing so hard I’m shaking. Normally, this isn’t something anyone would do in front of an ex-boyfriend. But Zachary is so much more than a former flame. He’s seen me cry a zillion times before. Even more than Missy. He’s my best friend. Or at least he was . . .

Zachary moves his hand from my chin and wraps his big thick arms around my shoulders to steady me as I sob.

I feel myself give in and sink into his embrace. But then I stiffen.

What am I doing? I can’t do this right now.

No matter what Zachary says, he went too far last season. He just can’t be trusted.

I push him away and start to hyperventilate. “Don’t think you can just waltz in here and start hugging me and take advantage of me because I’ve had a bad day.”

Zachary grins. “Who’s trying to take advantage? I miss you.”

I try to breathe. “You miss me? Good.” I sniffle. “You’re the one who messed this up.”

“And I’ve regretted that every minute of every day since. You’re the only one who gets me. Neighbor.” He tilts his head to the side. “Think of all the time we’re wasting being mad at each other. Who knows how long you’ll be in my backyard?”

“Whatever.” I roll my tired eyes. Tired from crying and tired of Zachary’s ridiculous lines.

“I’m serious, Ky. I just can’t take it anymore. . . .” He looks up at me, then at the clock. And then he quotes “our song”: “It’s a quarter after three and I’m all alone and I need you now.” He grins.

Yeah, he needs me all right. Seriously? Does he think Lady Antebellum will really work on me?
But he keeps singing, and before I know it, I can’t stop myself from smiling back. “You’re crazy . . .” I say, attempting to hide my uninvited grin. That’s something else Zachary could always do. Turn my tears into giggles in minutes.

“Seriously, Ky. Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to knock on your window and talk to you?”

“Uh. You do . . .” I think back to the hundreds of taps I’ve had to ignore since we moved in.

“No, I mean, I really need you. You know I can’t cope in that house without someone to talk to about it all. You’re the only one that knows. . . .”

About his dad. That’s what he means. I’m the only one who knows about his dad—who’s a closet alcoholic.

“And there’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up,” Zachary continues.

What? Is his dad going to rehab again? Did he have a bad night? A bad week? A bad month?
My stony facade melts. I allow myself to stare deeply into Zachary’s eyes. When it comes to his dad, I can’t keep up the charade of not caring.

That’s all Zachary needs to see. He falls down on one knee and grabs my hand. Then he pops the question every girl at Beachwood wants to hear.

“Kylie, will you go to the prom with me?”