Whatever Life Throws at You (7 page)

Dad laughs. “No, you haven’t and thanks, Ann. Today was rough. I just need a little more time to get Brody to take off and hopefully get some of the other guys on my side.”

“Well, they’re stupid boys if they don’t want to listen to you.”

Lenny’s watching me carefully, a curious expression on her face that makes me hurry up and end my call with Dad.

“So you’re cool to stay all night?” she asks once I’m off the phone.

“Yep.” I raise the duffel bag at my feet. “Your parents really don’t care if you throw a big party?”

“Let’s just say they turn a blind eye,” Lenny says. “But we’re gonna use the guesthouse. I imagine they’ve got their own wild party happening in the main house.”

“But Brody’s staying in your guesthouse?” And surely he has a better much cooler party to go to. What with his years of maturity and non-family appropriate plans for the night.

Lenny pulls into her huge driveway, raising up the garage door. “Don’t worry, I talked to him. If he doesn’t end up out on the town with some loose bimbo, he’ll stay in one of the guest rooms in the main house. He’s got the garage code already.”

I try not to focus on the image of some Royals’ groupie with bouncy size-D boobs putting her hands all over Jason Brody.

I open the car door and lift my bag out. “That could be a problem…”

Lenny stops and turns to face me. “Why?”

“Well, Brody is really tight with my dad, and my dad knows I’m staying here tonight. He might tell him about the high school party that got in his way.”

“And your dad would have issues with this…?”

I can’t believe she’s so confused and surprised by this fact. “Yes, my dad would have major issues with me being at a party with an open bar and horny boys.”

There are already tons of cars parked near the house and loud music coming from the guesthouse. Lenny’s older brother Carl got things started, apparently.

“Don’t worry,” Lenny says, “He’s not going to rat you out to your dad. He didn’t tell your dad when he saw us in the bar that one time, right? Besides, just say you thought we were having a girls’ night and Carl decided to throw a party.”

Maybe that would work?

Let’s hope so ’cause I don’t want to imagine Dad’s reaction if he found out about this party.

Chapter 7

Annie Lucas:
The definition of a perfect game in baseball means not letting anyone get on base. So my question is—why is only the pitcher credited? Does the pitcher shoulder all the responsibility for this feat?

20 minutes ago

Lenny London:
PARTY!! Don’t judge me. I’m still gonna be brilliant even minus a couple brain cells. And what will you be? Exactly.

10 seconds ago

Lenny’s brother Carl is a complete asshole. He’s also completely brainless. The polar opposite of his National Honor Society sister. He’s supposed to be in college, but I highly doubt he’s willing to take a break from his pot smoking, binge drinking schedule to actually attend class. After three hours of loud music, beer, and not nearly enough food, I’m strung out on the celebrating plan.

“Annie! Make sure I don’t sleep with that guy.” Lenny points without even attempting subtlety at a tall, lanky blond dude. “Yes, you! We are so not sleeping together.”

The guy looks at her from across the room, and it’s clear he’s confused.

“He’s a Scorpio,” Lenny explains. “I can’t be with a Scorpio, we’re not compatible.”

“I’ll pry you apart if it comes to that,” I say, patting her on the back. I stand up from my spot on the couch and stretch out. Through the guesthouse windows, a very different party comes into view. I walk closer, and the view inside Lenny’s house lays out clearly for me to see. Everyone is dressed for the Oscars and holding champagne glasses. There are even waiters in crisp white shirts and black dress pants wandering around with trays of things like stuffed mushrooms. Jake London is the highest paid player on the team—though he makes half of what the highest paid in the league makes—and he can probably afford a party like this after every home game.

I spot Brody, the only person wearing jeans to the grown-up party, walking toward a group of his teammates. Even with this window-to-window, pool-between-us view, it’s obvious the four guys stop talking when Brody enters their space. Brody offers a hand to one of the pitchers, like he’s congratulating him or something. But the guy doesn’t move a finger in Brody’s direction. All four faces tighten and then seconds later¸ they’ve turned their backs and headed in different directions.

My neck heats up. I don’t have any reason to feel humiliated, but I do. For Brody’s sake. Maybe for the fact that I saw something I hadn’t been invited to see. But then Mrs. London—sporting the best fake smile I’ve ever seen—stalks in Brody’s direction, steering him to a plate of mushrooms, a glass of champagne, and a few twenty-something women in tight black dresses.

I drop my gaze to my own boring attire—jeans and a sweater. Again. Brody does that eye roaming, boob gawking game that guys do, and in an instant his deflated shoulders rise and he’s Mr. Charming all over again.

I shake my head and turn my attention back to the party. But less than twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I remove it, glancing quickly at the text I just got.

BRODY: Have you seen the pool yet?

I haven’t but obviously I’m about to because my legs have decided to stand up on their own and I’m already heading for the guesthouse door, leading out to the pool.

The sky is clear outside and moonlight is bouncing off the water in the pool. Brody is now seated by the edge, his jeans rolled up and his feet dangling in. For barely a second, I debate going out there. He’s bound to piss me off and ruin my fun. That seems to be our norm. But then I remember the way he looked at me in the tunnel to the dugout right before the game and that feeling I got, that maybe I’d been the only one to tell him he belonged here.

Be polite, Annie. But also cool.
“How’s the water? Any icebergs in there?”

Brody looks up at me and grins. “It’s warm. They probably spent a shit-ton of money heating this giant mass.”

I nod toward the house. “Looks like one hell of a bash. Wouldn’t you have more fun inside than out here?”

“They tried to feed me mushrooms and fish eggs. I had no choice but to bail.”

I slip off my shoes and roll up the bottom of my jeans, taking a seat next to Brody. The water
is
warm. Probably eighty-something degrees. “Then you should be out celebrating. Finding some groupie girls that work at Hooters to hook up with.”

“Hooters, huh? Chicken wings do sound good right now.” He laughs. “How’s
your
party?”

Wow. Civil conversation with Jason Brody. Alert the media. And the
Guinness Book of World Records
. We need an official timer for this event.

“It’s fine.” Through the tall living room windows, I spot two blondes in short black dresses with their noses practically pressed to the glass, eyeing Brody. They look like models. Like they should be lying across the hood of a sports car. Maybe a blue convertible that they’re willing to drive Brody around in. I tear my gaze from the house and swing my feet back and forth in the water, watching it ripple outward. “Lenny’s brother is an ass and Lenny’s IQ drops about a hundred points when she’s drunk.”

“Doesn’t everyone’s?”

“I guess.”

We sit for a few minutes in a comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of two very different parties meshing together until Brody speaks up again. “Jim seems pretty excited about sticking around here for a while longer. How about you?”

“Totally,” I say, feeling that relief all over again. But I’m waiting for him to bring up the fact that he’d been right about our position. And maybe he wasn’t just thinking of himself when he gave me that warning about Johnson.
Polite small talk, Annie
. “I bet your family’s pretty stoked. Did anyone come to the game?” He’s from Chicago, which isn’t that far away, so maybe his family came to watch.

Brody’s face clouds over. “No one came.”

“Well, did you at least talk to them after it was over?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything more.

And then I remember what Dad said a few weeks ago:
“Not everyone is lucky enough to have a parent who forces them to go to school and actually do well. Some kids get into trouble and have no one to help them out of it.”

Shit
. My stomach flutters with nerves and regret, my mouth falling open to utter an apology, but Brody quickly moves on to something else.

“Thanks for what you said earlier…before the game.”

His eyes meet mine and my heart quickens. Guess they
were
magic words after all. “You were amazing. Seriously,” I blurt out despite all my previous harassments regarding Brody’s questionable pitching talent.

“I was a wreck.” His eyebrows lift, a silent reminder of his time spent in the bathroom stall before the game.

“I barfed like three times before state last year,” I admit. “I didn’t tell anyone else, not even Dad. We can keep each other’s secret.”

“Deal.” He stares down at his feet in the water. “And I’m sorry for what I said last week about your dad.”

Right. The part where he declared that he would never let anyone cut off his leg.

“You didn’t really say anything about him, you just said what you’d do if you
were
him.” I pull my hair up off my neck and secure it with the hair tie around my wrist. “It gets old sometimes, explaining his non-leg to people. No excuse to snap at you though. I could chalk it up to PMS if that helps?”

This being-nice-to-Brody direction is easier than I thought, but I still have this feeling things will turn awkward any second now. I mean seriously, what do we even have in common?

He laughs again. “A little. And that’s the thing, I’m not him, so it’s not my place to say what should have been. He’s a great coach. It obviously worked out fine for him.”

Did it work out fine? I don’t really know any different, I guess. Actually, I don’t even know this baseball coach version of Dad much better than the baseball player version of him. But I know he deserves to be this person.

“I was so nervous for both of you today.” I cover my face and groan. “God, that was awful. And your warm-up pitches were so wild I thought you might knock someone out.”

He gives me a tiny shove in the shoulder. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Seriously, the game was amazing. I couldn’t care less that we lost.” I hesitate for a minute and then plunge into a question I’d only be able to ask after drinking two beers. “You didn’t happen to see me, did you? Like in the stands during the game?”

“Yeah, I did.” The smile fades from his face. “That’s kind of what got me to focus and not suck.” He laughs. “Not you exactly, but seeing you reminded me of what you said before. How Jim only got to play one game. I hadn’t let myself think about that possible scenario. But today, I told myself this would be it, and I had to make it count.”

“What are you going to tell yourself next game?”

He exhales. “Fuck if I know.”

I laugh. “You’ll think of something.”

Some random guy stumbles out of the guesthouse and shouts at us. “Hey, baby! Can I get your number?”

“My number or yours?” I ask Brody.

“Looks like a real winner,” Brody whispers, leaning close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine—
I swear he did that on purpose
. “Don’t get up too fast.”

“You look like my little sister’s Barbie doll!” the guy shouts at me.

“Hey, buddy,” Brody says, fighting laughter. “Fuck off.”

The guy turns around and pukes into the bushes. I wrinkle my nose and twist my body to face Brody and not the puking guy. “Disgusting.”

“I bet London pays someone to clean up after them,” he says.

“How did you end up staying here?”

He levels me with a look. “Jake London’s wife insisted on it.”

At first it makes sense, given what Lenny said about her mom being the self-elected “welcoming committee” leader, but the way Brody says it sends my thoughts in a very different direction…

“Please tell me you haven’t…”

“God no.” He drags his hand through the pool and then flicks water in my face. “I just turned nineteen last month. You’ve got me hooking up with forty-something-year-old married women who have had way too much cosmetic surgery. Where do you get these ideas, anyway?”

“Don’t know. Guess I’m stereotyping and being judgmental.” I shrug. “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

“No. I need to focus on making this chance count.” He glances at the guesthouse. “What about you? Did you leave some guy crying back in Arizona?”

“Not even close. I
had
a boyfriend for almost a year. We broke up before I moved.”

Why am I telling him this? He’ll use it later to make fun of me or call me a child.

“He couldn’t handle the long-distance relationship?”

“It ended even before I knew I was moving.” I release a breath, and I’m surprised by the fact that the wound doesn’t feel as fresh as it had a month or two ago.

“So what happened?” Brody presses.

“You really want to know? Like for real, not to tease me about it later?” I ask and Brody nods. “He started going to church all the time and then one day he told me he didn’t want to sin anymore so we couldn’t like, you know…
do stuff
. And believe me, Kenny is not the type to go all Jesus freak, so I had a feeling something else was up. I did a little investigating and found out it wasn’t so much church, as a boy at church.”

“Oh,” Brody says, eyes widening. “Bummer. So did you call him out on it?”

“Nah. I mean, I told him that I knew his secret but he didn’t want people to know. I kind of let him tell everyone that I wanted to leave Arizona unattached once I knew about the move.” Another reason why I’m not jumping at every opportunity to stay in contact with the remains of my past life.

Brody gives me a half smile. “You’ll find someone else. Someone better.”

“Where?” The models are still ogling him from the window, and it’s making me uncomfortable. I stand up and unroll my jeans. “At my all-girls school?”

“Are you leaving me?” His dark eyes lock with mine, and for a moment, he’s that guy again—the one with the sunken shoulders, watching his teammates refuse his handshake and turn their backs on him.

“I was thinking maybe I’ll go home and sleep in my own bed tonight.” I look over my shoulder at the wild guesthouse. “I’ve got a workout to do in the morning and that requires some sleep.”

“What’s the plan tomorrow?” he asks. “Another two-mile sprint?”

“Nope, just five miles, easy.”

He stands up and slips his flip-flops back on. “Want some company?”

Wait…what? I nearly trip over my own shoe. “Company?”

“Tomorrow. Running,” he clarifies.

“Right. Running.” That makes way more sense. “Sure…I mean if you think you can keep up.”

Brody grins. “I’d like to try.”

“My house. Eight o’clock.” I catch myself smiling when he turns around and walks toward the house, but the second he lets the blond models invade his personal space, the smile easily fades. I make a quick exit, so I don’t have to witness any more fan-girling. I can’t decide if I should be honored or insulted by the fact that he can sit and have such a relaxed personal conversation with me and then seconds later, turn into this playboy with models on both his arms. Does he hook up with two at the same time?

I shake that image from my head and continue the half mile walk home. I’ll feel better tomorrow when I kick his ass, running.

Annie Lucas
:
Okay, I lied. Winning isn’t everything. So sue me.

15 seconds ago

Annie Lucas
is now friends with
Carl London
and
22 others

Annie Lucas
likes the page
Jason Brody Royals Pitcher

True to his word, Brody appears in my front yard at five minutes before eight. He’s wearing a red hoodie and track pants, his hair disheveled into a beautiful bedhead mess. My foot freezes mid-step when I see him.

“You look surprised.” He leans against the lamppost in the yard.

I shrug like it’s not a big deal. “You’re the one who claimed you wouldn’t ever be caught hanging out with high school kids again.”