9. Jackson

CHAPTER 9

JACKSON

ONE WEEK LATER

H alfway through eating our noodles, Freya looks at her watch, then picks up her phone to scroll back in her messages and swears as she stands up. "Shit, I'm going to be late."

"Where are you going?" I blink at her.

"Matt's got a baseball game after school. I promised I'd go and watch."

"Aren't you on nights tonight?" I ask.

She tilts her head slightly, cocking an eyebrow at me like she can't quite believe that I'd remember that kind of detail about her. "I am, yeah. But I slept all morning. And he'll understand if I have to leave a bit early to get to work. Not that I'm expecting high school baseball to last for that long. They're a good team, but they're not that good."

I have to suppress a laugh. I don't want her to misunderstand what I'm laughing at — not her brother and his team, but the whole concept of high school sport. It's a time in my life that I don't miss at all. "Sounds nice," I say weakly.

"You should come."

I do a double take, thinking I've misheard. "What?"

"You should come to the game with me." She grins at me with that pure sunshine face she's so good at, then adds, "It's free," like that has any kind of meaning to me whatsoever.

"I'm not coming to watch high school baseball. I can't think of anything worse."

"You can't think of anything worse than to watch the sport you love?" she says with a raised eyebrow.

My mouth wobbles open in uncertainty, because whatever comeback I try and throw at her next is going to be hit straight into the stands and give her a win. "How long is it going to be?" I ask. "I don't want this to be a waste of time."

"Not too long. Couple of hours max." I grimace, and she adds, "You know it's good for you to get out of the house. And besides, if I have to leave, you can drop Matt off at home."

With a heavy frown and a sigh that tells her everything, I say, "Fine, I guess."

This time she doesn't even try to disguise her smug grin.

In the car, she tells me all about Matt's school career, about how he started as an outfielder and decided to give pitching a go after one game where the pitcher was out sick. I stare out the window so I can smile without her seeing. Her brother sounds cool. Nothing like my brother at all; my brother couldn't care less about sports. Or me.

Freya drags me through the school to the pitch, and I pull my cap down over my eyes. "No one's going to recognize you," she scoffs.

"You never know," I mutter. I really don't feel like dealing with fans today.

We head out to the bleachers, and as we pass the food stand, Freya grabs some snacks. I fold my arms, unimpressed. "They don't even do pretzels here."

"What kind of school did you go to where you got pretzels?" she asks in disbelief. "I think it's wild enough that they get crackerjacks and hot dogs here. We didn't get anything at all at my school."

"It's not a ball game without a pretzel," I say instead of answering the question. In reality, my school wasn't this fancy either, but she doesn't need to know that.

Though when she offers me some of her crackerjacks after we take our seats, I don't say no.

"Who are they playing?" I ask with my mouth full as the teams get ready to take to the field.

"One of the other local schools. They're not our biggest rivals, but they sure don't make our lives easy. This is going to be an interesting game."

Then a kid in a full fur suit waddles out onto the pitch, and the name of the team clicks into place for me. "The Beavers," I mumble to myself, and then out loud to Freya, I say, "That kid must be boiling in there."

"That's Matt's friend, Benny. He volunteers to do that."

"Crazy kid." But the thought of it makes me smile. I can see from the side of my eye that Freya is giving me a look, but I ignore it. This woman is really doing something to me, more than I could have ever expected. Here she is, making me smile and tricking me into going to see high school ball games.

A long time ago, I swore I would never go back to high school. And here I am again — and it's all for her. It's with that thought that I realize exactly how much I would do for her if she asked.

I'm about to start complaining again, but then the umpire comes out onto the field, and I hold my tongue, settling in to watch the game. Despite myself, I am a little bit excited. I've missed the game, live and real and exciting in front of me.

Baseball is my life. And I've been missing it.

The kids settle into their positions on the field, and the home team gets a roaring cheer of encouragement from the crowd. They're polite enough to applaud the away team too, but the favoritism here clearly isn't a secret. As the pitcher takes to the mound, Freya elbows me to look as she points out her brother. He has a similar look to her. A Scandinavian kind of pale skin and fair hair.

He throws his first pitch, and I bite my tongue to stop myself from criticizing. It wasn't a bad fastball, but it goes wide because his elbow isn't quite in the right position. It'll take a lot of practice if he really wants to get better.

It's so hard not to comment through the game on the players and all the things they're doing wrong, but I feel like I owe it to Freya to at least be slightly nice to her brother. And, in fairness, he does make some pitches that even I can't fault.

"He's got a good slider." I lean into her as he throws. "Oh, strikeout! Nice one!"

She gives me another one of those wry smiles, and automatically I frown hard in response, not wanting her to think I'm enjoying myself too much, even if the truth is obvious.

Instead of engaging, she just says, "You think so? I don't know that much about it. I just think he looks cool."

"The pitcher is the coolest job on the field, obviously." I say it with such contempt that it makes her laugh — and damn her, she has such a cute laugh. I have to stop noticing things like this. It's seriously starting to affect me. Just 'cause she's the only person I've spoken to recently doesn't mean I suddenly have to get a crush on her. That would be stupid.

All too soon, the umpire waves his arms to signal a halftime break. "This isn't typical," I say to Freya, folding my arms.

"They're fifteen. Give them a break. Come on." She jumps to her feet, then reaches out to grab my hand, sending an electric spark that runs right through my arm, all the way down my spine, leaving me feeling fuzzy and warm all over.

"What? Where are we going?"

"They're losing right now. You'll be just the boost they need."

"What?" I say again, but I don't get an answer as she starts dragging me towards the school.

As soon as I realize we're heading into the changing room, I dig my heels in again. "Wait. Is this even allowed?"

"They all know me. It's fine," Freya assures me, though I don't feel very assured. I feel like this is going to be a really, really bad idea. She's never seen me interact with kids, and she probably doesn't want to. But she has such a tight grip on me that I can't wiggle away from it, despite my struggle.

As we approach the changing room, she looks at me, an intensity in her eyes that freezes me to the spot. "You don't have to if you really don't want to," she says, softening. "I just think it would be nice for the kids."

"Fine. Let's get it over with," I groan.

She opens the door to the changing room and pushes me inside, leaving me at the mercy of one confused coach and a whole bunch of teenage boys who glare at me for a second before all their mouths drop open as they recognize me.

"Oh. My. God," whispers Matt, punctuating every syllable hard as he glances between me and Freya. He gives her a strong look, and she shakes her head hard back at him. I'm not one hundred percent sure what this communication is supposed to mean, and I can't help feeling a pang of envy. My brother and I never achieved that level of psychic communication.

But I'm going to guess it's got something to do with his suspicions about where she's been for the last few nights. I throw Matt a look of disapproval too, just for good measure. It's cute that he's got the wrong idea, but he definitely does have the wrong idea. So there .

I give the best smile I can muster and take a step forward. "Hey, everyone. My name is Jackson. You probably all know me as the pitcher of the Prairie Dogs."

They all nod in agreement, staring up at me with wide, expectant eyes. I clear my throat and continue. "I just wanted to say, you guys are doing great. I mean, obviously you're losing, which is not great. But you've made some good plays. Pitcher: your slider is cool, but your fast ball needs work. Careful with the positioning of your arm before you throw. First base: watch the pitcher, not the batter. Don't get distracted by posturing. Second base: you're doing good. But…"

I continue around the rest of the team, giving them all little pointers, kicking myself internally every time I'm slightly too mean to a child. This is nothing compared to what our coach says to us, but I'm trying to remember that these are just kids. They don't need to be bullied by me so they can win a school game. It's not really that deep.

Hell, even if a college official was here, it wouldn't matter if they lost. They don't care if people win; they just want to see how you play.

"So, get back out there and kick the other guys asses," I say in conclusion with an awkward thumbs-up.

The kids burst into applause that I don't think deserve, and I nod slowly, wanting to escape. It's not that I'm not used to this kind of attention — the press are way scarier than a room full of fifteen-year-old boys. But there's a reason I refuse to do school talks and charity games and all that feel-good, heartwarming inspiration shit. I'm not really sure what to do with that. I'm just not cut out for being a nice person.

I've always known that I need to focus all my energy into the game. That's how I'm going to be the best. That's all that counts.

"Thank you for those words," stammers the coach, still clearly confused that a baseball star has found his way into her locker room. "We'll be sure to take all your comments on board."

I nod at her in a smile-less recognition, and then Freya ushers me back out of the changing room and back to our place on the stand. "Thank you for doing that," she says genuinely, her hand still on my arm as we sit down. "It will mean so much to them."

"It was nothing. I was just saying it how I saw it."

"Yeah, but it's not every day a professional star comes to your school and gives you a tip on how to be a better player."

For a moment, our eyes lock, her hand leaving a burning imprint on my skin, my heart rate increasing like I've started jogging. Even I'm not so stupid as to not know what this means. But I can't allow it. "I guess not. We still gotta see if they win first, though."

She smiles, finally taking her hand away, leaving a cold vacuum where she was. "They're only two runs down. I wouldn't count them out just yet."

I shrug again, not willing to open my mouth and say something else. She's right, of course, and there's still plenty of time for everything to change. But she's already had way too many victories today. I'm not letting her have another one, especially when she's already having such an effect on me.

Still, I don't say no to the snacks she offers me.

The boys bounce back out onto the field, seeming to have a new energy that they didn't have before. Matt glances up at us before taking his place on the mound. Freya throws him a thumbs-up, and if he sees, he doesn't react. He's playing it cool.

It's tense all the way through the eighth inning, with neither team scoring, just keeping the tie that they've built, but Matt comes through in the ninth, striking out the first two batters perfectly. I feel like I'm holding my breath as he goes to throw for the third batsman.

He does a good slider, and the batter hits it high into the air. It comes back down into the midfield where one of the guys catches it with ease.

Freya jumps to her feet, whooping and clapping at the victory, calling out in celebration for her brother. I get to my feet too, applauding, even letting out a tiny whoop to be supportive. Fortunately, I don't think Freya hears because she's too busy waving and making signals at her brother, who rolls his eyes at her. Fifteen-year-olds are so easy to embarrass; it's hilarious.

And then Freya looks over at me and smiles, her face slightly flushed with excitement, and I feel that rush again, the warmth that spreads from my scalp to my toes. Something is happening to me. Something that I shouldn't be enjoying.

But I think I do.