Chapter 6

6

Annika

I am going to strike out so hard.

It's been four years since I held a bat, and that time, I wasn't staring down the one man I mistakenly once thought I'd be able to count on forever, my heart wasn't beating an erratic angry rhythm reminiscent of some solid Alanis Morissette, "You Oughta Know," which might not be fully appropriate since technically, I left, but he tried to take my dream and my independence from me, and I was a complete ten out of ten mess when I left for Basic.

Not to mention all through it when I didn't get the mail from him that he'd promised he'd send before graduation night happened.

His eyes narrow as he pulls the ball back and then swings his arm forward to let the pitch fly. I make myself not swing, even though I want to smack the shit out of the ball, and am rewarded with the umpire's call of ball one!

Grady's lips thin.

"Good eye, Annika!" Bailey yells.

I step back and swing the bat casually while the catcher tosses the ball to the pitcher's mound.

"You're going down," she murmurs to me.

"He wishes," I murmur back.

She snorts. "Keep dreaming, honey."

I square up with the plate and pull the metal bat behind me, ready for the pitch, and ignore her.

Grady tosses me ball two, which I'm not even tempted to swing at.

And now I'm smirking at him .

His lips are so thin that the dark line between them is as ominous as a thundercloud, and I'm not surprised when the next ball is right in the strike zone.

I swing.

And I totally whiff.

Dammit .

"And he's back," the catcher says smugly.

Grady's not smirking though.

He's still thrown more balls than strikes. And I might not have known him for a decade, and it might've been his brother who went on to play professional baseball, but I know those two balls bother him.

He wants to strike me out.

I want to hit a fucking home run.

We stare each other down. The breeze rustles up a patch of dirt behind him. Everyone in the Sarcasm dugout is cheering. All of the Shipwreck shitheads are scowling at me from the field or heckling me from the stands.

And I refuse to blink, even when my eyes start watering, because Grady's not blinking either.

I should've worn sunglasses.

This whole being stared down by Grady Rock thing is making me uncomfortable in places I don't like to be uncomfortable.

My chest.

My knees.

My ovaries.

"Forget how to throw a ball?" I call.

"He's gonna strike your ass out so hard your mama will still be feeling it in her ass a month from now," the catcher says.

I can't decide if I'm pissed that he got the better trash talkers on his team, or impressed that she's willing to talk about my mama.

But I'm glad Grady finally decides to pitch the ball.

I don't swing, because it's low, but the ump still calls it a strike.

The Sarcasm dugout erupts in boos. I cut the ump a seriously? look. I don't recognize him, but then, I don't recognize a lot of people around here anymore.

But I bet he gets his donuts from Grady's shop every morning.

I'm gonna have to do something about that.

As soon as I figure out how to bake muffins and not fuck-up-cakes.

I step back from the plate and take another practice swing while the catcher trots out to talk to Grady on the mound. I played all through high school, and I miss it.

"Remember to keep your swing level," Mama calls, and I smile back at her. She played some too when she was younger, and she knows all the right things to say even if she can't see.

Bailey's undoubtedly describing everything to her though. We're learning how to help her see.

"Kick his hash browns, Annika," Bailey yells.

"You can do this, baby girl," Mama adds.

The catcher trots back, and I step up to the plate.

I'm gonna do this.

I'm gonna smack that ball right out of the park. Show Grady what he can do with his you came back just to open a bakery to compete with mine? ego.

And make my mama proud in the process.

Grady pulls the ball back, then swings it forward, sending it lobbing toward me in a perfect arc.

I step forward and swing that bat with all my might, waiting for that satisfying crack of softball on metal, and instead?—

Swoosh-thump .

"Strike three!" the ump calls.

The Shipwreck stands erupt in cheers.

Sarcasm's fans groan.

I blink at Grady.

He smirks right back.

That's it.

He is going down .