Whatever Life Throws at You (20 page)

“Twelve and nine,” he says. “And which part would make her proud? Me taking the easy way out and using a God-given ability to avoid education and actual work? And then there’s my secret flings with high school girls. She’d be so proud of that.”

“Flings?” I shove him in the shoulder. “There better not be flings.”

His hand slides up my leg, almost reaching the hem of my very short jean shorts. “I’m kidding. It’s just you.” He reaches for my waist, and then tugs me gently until I’m one step away from straddling his lap.

The newly acquired knowledge and the emotion wrapped around Brody finally telling me about his past causes me to forget my earlier apprehension, and I quickly swing a leg over him, molding us together. I have this strong desire to touch everything—his smoothly shaved cheeks, the curly hair at the nape of his neck, the muscles on his back that bulge when his arms lift up to wrap around me. My fingers curl around the bottom of his T-shirt, gently raising it up and over his head, tossing it right on top of the GED book.

And that concludes today’s study session.

I hold still as he lifts up my hair, piling it on top of my head, and plants kisses from below my ear to my collarbone. I’m doing everything I can to breathe normally, to not let him hear the nerves and desire, to not let him feel the throbbing between my legs because it’s embarrassing and I know I’m not ready to do anything about it. But after his mouth connects with mine, his own desire becomes lodged between us. Before I can stop myself, my entire body stiffens.

I don’t even know why I freeze up. It’s not like I’m afraid of Jason. Not exactly. It just seems so real all of a sudden. In my head, I imagine guys like Brody kiss a girl, get hard, then get off, and that’s that. Whereas in my world—in my experience—the boys (yes, boys) get boners all the time, and there’s no built-in pretense as to what is done about said boners.

Why does this relationship feel so complicated at the worst times imaginable?

Brody must sense my momentary reaction to his…um…
reaction
because he leans back, his eyebrows pulled together. “Too much?”

I swing my leg back over him and plant myself on the cushion beside Brody, my eyes zoomed in on the coffee table, my face hot and hands twisting in my lap. “I’m not…I mean…I don’t know,” I say, and that long awkward silence that I’d been so afraid of before when knocking on the door falls between us.

Brody leans forward, resting his head in his hands, possibly in an attempt to cover up his lap. “I have to meet the trainer in half an hour—”

I spring up from my seat on the couch and hunt down my shoes. “No problem. I have to help Savannah in an hour.”

He lifts his head, draws in a deep breath, and reaches for his T-shirt on the floor. “I was going to say, if you had let me finish…” His eyes meet mine. “Maybe we should talk about stuff like
this
.”

I wiggle one foot at a time into my shoes, already shaking my head in protest of his plan. “I think talking about it is a bad idea.”

He tugs his head through the hole in his shirt. “Communicating is a bad idea? Since when?”

I fold my arms across my chest, turning to face him, attempting confidence. “I see this going one of two ways. Option one—we both spill our past experiences and conclude what I already know, that high school is a very different world than after high school. Or option two—you give me some dignified, noble speech about how you’re afraid of stealing my innocence and you’re willing to walk around with blue balls until, like, forever if that’s what I need.”

He mimics my crossed-arm position and returns my stare. “Or option three—I tell you how I’m very aware of the fact that you suddenly got super uncomfortable, and even though I’m not at all willing to walk around forever with blue balls, I’m also not going to enjoy something that you’re clearly not enjoying.”

I let out a defeated sigh. “This is impossible, right? I’m me and you’re…well, you—”

Brody strides across the room, reaches for my hand, and pulls me against him. “It’s not impossible. I really wish you’d stop saying that. You know me, not the baseball player from the tabloids and newspapers. That’s more than any other girl can say right now, and it’s really going to piss me off if you decide to start seeing me as the public me, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper.

He releases a breath. “Ride with me to the stadium? We can talk in the car.”

Brody hoists his own gym bag onto his shoulder, picks up my bag, and slips on his flip-flops, then holds the door open for me, giving me no other option but to follow him into the hall.

He’s very careful to take the residents-only elevator into the parking garage, making sure no one spots us together before we’re in the confines of his black SUV with the conveniently tinted windows.

“So here’s the truth, Annie Lucas,” he says, flashing me a sideways grin. “Sometimes, when a dude has his tongue in an attractive girl’s mouth, blood travels from his brain to his—”

I snort back a laugh and smack his shoulder. “I know how it works.”

His dark eyebrows pop up. “Then you know that this reaction can occur at virtually any moment and honestly, nothing is expected from the girl who’s allowed the dude access to her mouth.”

I peel my gaze from his. “I guess I know it works like that for me in my world, but it’s different for you, right?”

The sarcasm and teasing drops from his voice. “Hypothetically, if I were to take a fangirl or any random girl from a club or bar home with me for the night, that’s exactly what would be expected for the most part—and I’m not going to lie and say that I’ve never done something like that before. I’ve already told you about the one incident. But last year, I had a girlfriend for a significant amount of time—at least it was for me—and we did things the normal way, kissing on the first date and nothing more, so I went home with a pair of blue balls.”

I glance down at my lap. “Significant amount of time?”

“About three months,” he says.

“So what happened?” I spilled all about my gay ex, like, forever ago, so he totally owes me this answer.

“Jessie’s in college, and she waits tables part-time,” he says. “Dating her was something brand new for me. Before that, I had flings and nothing more.”

“So what happened?”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure it was one specific thing. She had a high school boyfriend who I think she was still hung up on. She didn’t understand the athlete’s life. The fact that I couldn’t blow off practice or stay out all night and expect to be able to pitch the next day. To her, it was a game and not a real job. Which would basically be true had I not moved up—it’s pretty hard to live off the minor league salary without any other work on top of playing ball. It wasn’t a big dramatic breakup or anything. We’re still friends.”

“You didn’t love her?”

Brody pulls out of the garage and stops at a traffic light, allowing him to glance my way. “I don’t think so. We didn’t really toss that word around.”

“Really? After three months?”

“Is that bad?” he asks. “Did you tell your ex you loved him? And when? After getting off the phone or in text messages?”

“Yes to all of those,” I say. “Probably two months, though I don’t really think we were in love like you should be, but at the time it was the most in love I was aware of.”

“Is it cliché to say that I have trouble with that word?” He rests a hand on my knee and hits the gas when the light turns green. “I’ve heard both you and your dad on the phone, and it seems so easy for you to tell him you love him and the other way around. That’s all really weird to me.”

I laugh and throw a couple sideways glances his way to see if he’s being serious. Judging by the color creeping into his cheeks, I assume he is. “It’s not so hard once you get used to using the word. Maybe if you practice a little. Find an excuse to use the dreaded L-word.”

“What, like now?” he asks.

I shrug. “Why not? Say something you love, but it can’t be food related. That’s too easy.”

It takes Brody nearly the rest of the three-block drive to the stadium to reply, “Okay, I love…”

“What?” I prompt. “The smell of new shoes? The feeling you get after running ten miles and then taking a shower and putting on clean clothes? Fireworks? Summer holidays? Sleeping babies in those little front pouch things?” I suggest.

“I love…” he continues, shooting a sideways glance in my direction. “The sound of your voice when you read math and social studies facts.”

My breath catches in my throat, but I try to sound cool when I say, “Really?”

“I got addicted to it after listening to sixteen hours of the recordings you made me,” he admits. “I’m starting to wonder if that was your plan all along.”

I look away quickly. “Yeah, right.” My gaze drifts back to his. “What else do you love?”

“Hmm…” We’ve reached the stadium now, and Brody pulls into his assigned parking space in the exclusive player lot. He hops out of the car and grabs both our bags from the back. When I get out of the car and follow him to the door, he pauses in front of it, not yet swiping his access badge. He moves close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body. “I love how you smell like sunscreen all the time, and I love how your eyes can change from bright blue to gray-blue depending on what you’re wearing.” He pauses to look me square in the eyes, one eyebrow raised. “And I love how you hate to lose, but you threw your two-mile race at state to let Jackie win—”

“I didn’t—” I protest, but Brody lifts his index finger to my lips, causing that whole blood-shifting-from-the-brain-down-lower reaction he so expertly described earlier to happen.

“Yes, you did,” he says. “But it’s our secret. I’ll take it to the grave. I love how you worry about your dad and Grams and even me. And I love your legs in those short running shorts. Makes me want to hold you in place and run my fingers up and down them.”

Oh my God.

And yeah, I have virtually nothing to say, because I started this game and clearly I’ve lost.

He flashes me his best arrogant smirk. “And I love how flustered you are right now. It’s adorable, and even more so because you absolutely refuse to admit that you’re off your game and trying so hard to prove how mature you are.” He leans in, and my stomach flip-flops. Goose bumps crawl up my arms. “Despite the fact that I’ve never told you I thought otherwise.”

His lips touch mine at the same moment his hand lands on my cheek. This kiss is better than all the other ones combined, and even though I hate to admit it, it’s obvious Brody was right about us needing to have this chat.

He pulls away after only a short time, probably due to the fact that we’re technically inside the stadium and not doing such a good job of keeping this thing between us a secret. He rests his forehead against mine. “This is where I’m drawing the line for now, and when you want that to change, all you have to do is tell me. Sound good?”

“What about your blue balls?” I ask, half joking, half concerned.

He nods, all serious. “Let’s just hope medical science finds a cure soon.”

I shove him back, laughing before swiping my own access card that came with my internship. “I’ll donate to the research foundation.” I wait until he opens the door before casually adding, “And just so you know, I’m not exactly inexperienced.”

He stops and stares at me. “No?”

“No,” I say firmly. “I’ve done everything at least once.”

And while I’m watching his expression go from curious to surprised, I convince myself that’s the only lie I’m going to tell Brody.

Chapter 21

Lenny London:
is wondering if Annie Lucas ate my chocolate stash late last night? Make me brownies and you’re forgiven.

13 minutes ago

Annie Lucas:
is in fact guilty of eating Lenny London’s gourmet chocolate and will be baking tonight.

11 minutes ago

Jason Brody Royals Pitcher:
In the rotation tomorrow! Like this status if you’ll be at Kauffman Stadium tomorrow afternoon.

5 minutes ago

Dad asks me to ride home with him after work, even though my car is parked at the school a few blocks away. I have a feeling he wants to talk. Considering the way we left things hanging before California and the fact that I selfishly went straight to Brody’s after practice today instead of going to see Dad at work, it’s probably a task that needs to be dealt with.

“I just got out of a meeting with Johnson,” he says when we’re pulling out of the stadium parking area.

My stomach sinks. “Is it good news or bad news?” I blurt out.

Dad glances at me, smiles, then pats my leg. “It’s good news. The club is happy with the progress I’ve made with three of their pitchers, and they’re going to give me a contract for the rest of the season and for the off months so I can help with recruiting.”

“Are you serious?” I squeal.

Dad’s grin widens. “Completely serious.”

My brain spins and flips, turning all the negatives around in my head. “So they can’t come up with an excuse to fire you or anything like that? We can breathe easy?”

The smile fades a little. “We can absolutely breathe easy, but there’s always a way to let a coach go, Ann. I can’t prevent every scenario. And next season is up in the air still.”

I exhale and nod. “Okay, I can accept that. It’s better than living game-to-game.”

We’re both quiet for a few minutes while Dad maneuvers through freeway traffic.

“Did you enjoy your three-day vacation at Lenny’s?” he asks, sarcasm dripping from every word. He’s still not a fan of First Base and his family, though he tolerates Lenny.

“Hey, it was your idea for me to stay there,” I protest. “Besides, Mom is probably gone now, and I can stay home—” He’s staring straight ahead, no longer making occasional eye contact with me. “Don’t tell me she’s still there?”

“You heard what she said. Her show’s going to last a few months.” He’s still not looking at me.

And oh God, a few months? “You aren’t seriously going to let her stay a few months? Really?”

Dad’s jaw tightens, and his fingers grip the steering wheel more firmly. “You know what? I’m not asking your permission. I’ve never been very hard on you. I’ve never made you do something you didn’t want to, but Mom being here and you staying at home more often than not aren’t negotiable.”

I’m fighting the urge to yell so hard I can barely think straight. “This is insane. She’s awful, Dad. You can’t even see it!”

“Enough!” he shouts, and I clamp my mouth shut. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Annie. This is something you’re going to have to deal with, and I really don’t need to hear you constantly whining and complaining like a five-year-old.”

I sink farther in my seat. A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes burn with tears, preventing me from responding.

When we pull into the garage at home, Dad yanks the keys from the ignition but doesn’t unlock the doors right away. “Your mom’s cooking dinner, and Frank and some of the guys on the team are coming over.”

“What’s the occasion?” I make no effort to conceal my own sarcasm.

“We’re celebrating the fact that I still have a job,” he says, returning to his calm tone. “And no, you can’t stay at Lenny’s tonight.”

I get out, slam the car door, and head straight to my room, texting Lenny along the way. I’d finally confided in her about Mom on the third night at her house. She would only take my weak excuses for staying over for so long before pushing me to tell her the truth.

ME: she’s still here

LENNY: seriously? why?

ME: the gold digger possibilities have intrigued her enough to stick around longer than 48 hours

LENNY: Maybe there’s a way to run her off again. Thinking…give me some time

I close my bedroom door, lock it, and blast music as loud as it will go. I need to cool off before facing anyone else at this celebratory dinner we’re hosting. I ignore the random knocks on my door that happen over the next hour while I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling. I don’t notice the knob being jiggled or the door creaking open, so when Brody’s voice floats over the music, I jump and reach for the speaker, cranking it down.

“Are you decent?” he asks before opening the door all the way.

I sit up and cross my legs. My heart is already speeding up just knowing he’s in my house. Or more specifically—in my bedroom. “What are you doing here?”

He opens the door but stays leaning against the frame. “Having dinner. Your dad invited me. Good news about his season contract, huh?”

“Yeah, sure.” I roll my eyes and finally let myself look at Brody. He’s all hotness and muscle in his jeans and white and navy baseball tee. He gives me a smile like we’re about to pick up where we left off earlier today.

“Oh boy, this should be a fun meal.” I slide off my bed and brush past him. “How did you get in my room, anyway?”

“Picked the lock,” he says. “Your dad sent me to get you, and you didn’t open the door. I’m not big on failed missions.”

“Lovely.” I shake my head, trying not to be amused by his breaking-and-entering skills. “Who else is at this shindig?”

“Frank,” he says, and then lists the names of two other pitchers, both of whom have taken a recent liking to Dad and his coaching ways. Both of whom are young, too, like Brody. Though not teens, more early- to mid-twenties. It’s obvious Dad’s wisdom is absorbed only by the young players. The veterans are too full of themselves to be open to trying new things and correction.

Brody and I walk into the kitchen, where Mom is dumping some store-bought pasta salads into fancy bowls that I’m pretty sure we didn’t own three days ago. Which means she went shopping after all. Did Dad give her a credit card? God, I hope not.

Mom sees me before I have a chance to sneak past her and head into the backyard, where it looks like Dad is grilling something and Frank, Grams, and the other two pitchers are sitting around drinking beer. Well, Grams isn’t drinking beer.

Mom’s gaze travels from my feet to my head, and she reaches for my shoulders, spins me around, and points me back toward the hallway. “Go put on something nicer and fix your hair, and put on some makeup.”

I step right out of her grip, leaving her hands hanging in midair, before turning around to face her. “I’m not going to change just so I can have dinner in the backyard.”

Mom notices Brody standing beside me, and her judgmental expression turns to sweet and syrupy. “Just a little lip gloss, maybe some mascara.” She takes me by the arm and tugs me in the direction of my bedroom again. “I’ll help.”

In one quick motion, Brody hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me in front of him, glaring at Mom. “I think she looks fine.”

“See?” I give her my best fake smile. “I look fine.”

When I open the back door to let both of us outside, I hear Brody release a frustrated sigh, but he doesn’t say anything. At least he’s keeping his promise to not join the Mom fan club.

After saying a quick hello to the other guys, Brody tosses me Dad’s glove and produces his own glove and a baseball. “Want to play catch?”

My eyebrows shoot up. “With you? No freaking way. You’ll kill me.”

He laughs and heads out farther into the yard, even though I turned down the offer. “Come on, Annie, you’re not afraid of the ball, are you?”

“When it’s traveling ninety-eight miles an hour? Yes, yes I am.”

Frank and the other guys laugh, but Brody still nods for me to join him. “I’ll go easy on you, I promise.”

Maybe he’s just trying to keep Mom from luring me inside for a new outfit. And maybe if he knocks me out, Dad will feel sorry for me and apologize for calling me selfish and whatever else he said on the way home. Besides, it’s a good way to force some distance between us and keep me from accidentally bumping legs with Brody or sneaking a kiss or two.

I slip Dad’s old, worn glove over my left hand and tentatively hold it out to the side of my body. I cover my face with the other arm. “Okay, fire away.”

Brody laughs at me but throws the ball anyway. It lands perfectly in the pocket of Dad’s glove without me having to move a single muscle or even uncover my face. And it was more like a toss than a real pitch.

And yeah, I’ve played plenty of catch in my lifetime, but never with a pitcher whose fastball could kill me. I suppose Dad would have fit in that category back in the day, but never when I’d been on the receiving end of his throw.

I return the ball with a good amount of force, and Brody isn’t as easy on me the next time around. Thirty minutes into our game, he’s got me diving in the grass to catch ground balls, getting grass stains all over my white tank top. I’m starting to wonder if baseball is Brody’s form of anger management, because tossing my body onto the ground and throwing an object at someone with as much force as I can muster is way more effective at cooling me off than loud music and studying my bedroom ceiling.

“All right,” I say eventually. “I’m ready for the heat. Give me a fastball. I want to see if I can catch it.”

Brody winds up like he’s going to do it. Dad glances over his shoulder, the grill smoking in front of him. “Don’t even think about it.”

Brody stares at him, surprised. “Of course I’m not thinking about it.”

And while my eyes are bouncing between them, he throws the ball to my right, trying to catch me off guard. My reaction is a couple seconds too late, so I have to really dive for it, reaching out my left-gloved hand as far as possible before my side makes contact with the ground. The ball just barely lands in my glove. I roll over on my back, groaning and laughing at the same time.

I wave my hand up in surrender. “That’s it, I’m retiring.”

Brody walks across the yard and stands over me. “Never take your head out of the game, Annie.”

“Been watching
High School Musical
on your days off?” I say, and both the other pitchers laugh. I follow it up by singing a few lines from the HSM song “Get Your Head in the Game.”

“I was going to help you up, but now I think I’ll just leave you here.” Brody drops his arms to his sides for a full five seconds, then eventually reaches out a hand. But of course he drops it as soon as I’m securely on my feet.

Mom has now placed all the store-bought food in dishes to look like we’ve made it ourselves, and everyone’s heading to the patio table to sit down for dinner. Mom rushes over to me, dusting the grass off my back.

“At least go wash your hands before you eat,” she says, hissing the words into my ear.

I let the screen door slam a little too hard when I head inside to wash up at the kitchen sink. After I return, I have nowhere to sit but right between Mom and Brody. I slide my chair closer to Brody and keep myself busy piling large portions of everything onto my plate. Mom opens her mouth a few times like she wants to advise me on taking dainty womanly portions, but my glare shuts her up.

That is, until the clueless number five mid-relief pitcher tries to make casual conversation. “It’s amazing how much your daughter looks like you, Mrs. Lucas.”

Mom grins at him. “Call me Ginny, please. And I know, she’s just a miniature me. It’s surreal.”

I shovel potato salad into my mouth, scowling down at my plate.

“I bet you have all the boys following you around like little lost puppies,” the other pitcher says, like he’s Frank’s age and he’s trying to tease Dad, but since he’s under thirty, the comment doesn’t go over too well.

Brody and Dad both shoot identical glares at said pitcher. This entire meal is going to be nothing but people glaring and chewing. Frank coughs loudly, as if to give the clueless guy a signal, but Mom interrupts, oblivious to the tension. “She did have a boyfriend back in Arizona. What a cutie…” She turns to me with that stupid smile again. “Whatever happened to him, honey?”

I set down my fork, take a big gulp of Dad’s beer that happens to be very close to my glass of water, and before he can protest, I turn to Mom and say, “He’s gay.”

“Gay?” she says, like she’s never heard the term before, and Dad simultaneously says, “What?”

“Gay,” I repeat. “Homosexual. He likes boys. More specifically, one boy he met at church.”

Awkward silence falls over the dinner table. I pretend to be like Grams, like I have no clue what’s going on in the world, and continue eating and stealing occasional drinks of Dad’s beer, even though I hate beer. It just feels like something I can control. I mean, how many things can he possibly reprimand me for in one day? I figure there’s got to be a cap-off point, and I’ve probably hit it already.

After dinner, Brody finds me in the kitchen washing dishes and leans close to whisper, “Can you sneak out with me for a little while?”

My face heats up. He’s on the other side of the room before I can even respond. I dry my hands and open the back door, calling outside to Dad, “I’m going to Lenny’s.”

“Annie,” he says. “You’re staying home tonight, remember?”

“I know that,” I snap. “I’m just going to return a shirt I borrowed. I’ll be back to tuck myself into my own bed tonight.”

His eyes narrow, giving me that you’re-pushing-it look, but I turn around and head out the front door before he can argue. I walk a couple blocks, and Brody eventually pulls up beside me. I check to see if any neighbors are watching, and then I open the passenger door and hop inside.

“You want to get ice cream or something?” he asks. “We can go through a drive-through, and no one will see us.”

I hold my stomach and groan. “No, thanks. I ate way too much for dinner.”

He laughs. “You might want to explore new techniques in self-control, or you’ll give yourself heartburn from potato salad overload.”

Brody drives out of our neighborhood and down a dirt road that Savannah once told me leads to a lake. The sun has already set, but it’s still warm and clear outside. When Brody parks a good distance from the water, we can still see the path clearly thanks to the lack of clouds and the nearly full moon. I text Lenny as I walk beside Brody, through a dirt path leading to the grassy area in front of the water, where I assume we’re going to sit.