Convincing the Catcher (The Good Girls of NE University #2)

Prologue

HARLEY

AGE TEN

With my wet hair soaking the back of my T-shirt, I race down the stairs to ask my mother a very important question. The same one I’ve asked at least ten times today and will ask until I can get an answer. Because she may forget to check if I don’t remind her.

The second my feet hit the last step, my mouth opens. “Did you look, Mom?”

With her back to me, she continues working in the kitchen on whatever she’s making for dinner.

I know I’m already on thin ice from pestering her, but I can’t help myself.

It’s all I’ve thought about for days. And until I find out if I made the minor All-Stars team … it’s all I’ll be able to think about.

The list for the All-Stars team for Little Leagues is expected to be announced today. And even though I’ve never been selected before, I worked really hard all last winter to get ready. And my softball season was pretty good, I thought.

The last time I asked, my mom was in the middle of putting away groceries and told me to go shower because, after spending an hour in the batting cages, I smelled. But now she’s cooled off. That was a solid ten minutes ago.

“Did you hear me, Mom? Did the list get posted?”

Now she stops stirring the sauce she’s making and turns her body slightly toward me.

She doesn’t look at me right away, but when she finally does, I can instantly see it in her eyes.

It’s a look that tells me what I should have come to expect because, by now, you’d think I’d be used to sucking at my favorite sport.

A pain shoots through my chest, feeling like a spike right into my heart.

“I didn’t make it, did I?” I try to stop my face from crumpling, determined to be strong because the best athletes always are, even when things don’t go their way. “I didn’t get selected for All-Stars.”

Reaching out to me, my mom slides her palm against my cheek. “I’m sorry, baby,” she whispers. “I know how hard you worked and how much you wanted this.”

Tears fill my eyes, but I refuse to break down, even if I want to. At least not in front of my mom. She’ll just lie to me and say that I should have made it and that I am good. Obviously, that isn’t the case or else my name would be on that list.

“Did Annie make it?” The words come out practically in a croak as I brace myself to find out if one of my classmates and good friends made the team when she doesn’t even like softball.

“She did,” my mom whispers with a slight nod.

“What about Brianna?” I ask, not sure why because her mom’s one of the coaches. Of course she made the team even though she’d told a bunch of us the other day she just wanted to enjoy the rest of her summer and was hoping she didn’t make it.

“Yes. Her too,” my mom says regrettably.

When she steps toward me like she wants to hug me, I dart around her.

“I’m going to … I have to go clean my room,” I tell her quickly before rushing up the stairs.

The second I get to my room, I collapse onto my bed, and the tears begin to stream from my eyes.

Catching is my favorite position, but I know I’m not the best at it and need to get stronger before anyone takes me seriously. But I’m a great fielder, and if they had chosen me, I would have played anywhere—literally anywhere—just to be on the team and play a few more weeks of ball.

A few moments later, I hear my father’s truck pull into the driveway, and my heart hurts inside my chest as I imagine him coming up to talk to me. Dad knows how much I wanted this.

It takes him a few minutes to get inside, and I can barely hear their voices as he talks to my mom. I flip to my side, knowing he’ll probably come up to see how I’m feeling. Unlike my mom though, my dad will shoot me straight.

The sound of the stairs squeaking is soon followed by my door creaking open.

“Can I come in?” my dad asks softly from the doorway, instantly making more tears fall from my eyes.

“Sure.” I sniffle, keeping the side of my face against the pillow.

After he takes a few steps, the bed shifts when he sits down beside me. I don’t look at him, instead keeping my gaze straight ahead on my desk.

“I’m sorry you didn’t make All-Stars, sweetie,” he whispers, his palm patting my back. “I know how badly you wanted to make that team.”

That only makes me want to cry harder, and my throat burns while I try to keep my emotions in check. I don’t say anything because right now, I don’t want to talk. He knows it too. Because my dad knows me.

“This doesn’t define your future in softball, Harland.” He speaks slow and low. “I know it probably feels like it now, but I promise you, it doesn’t.” He rubs my back slightly.

“You’re ten. You’re still growing. So, maybe a few of the kids have the advantage right now from hitting puberty earlier than you, and because of that, they shine more.

If you continue to work the way that you have been, you’ll close the gap.

” He stops, breathing out a tiny laugh. “Actually, you’ll probably pull ahead.

” He pauses, and I can feel him looking at me.

“No one works as hard as you, kid. And I can tell you, if you keep working your ass off, that will take you where you need to go. And all that work? It’ll put you ahead. And then those coaches will be forced to notice you.” He gives me one last pat on the back before standing.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it now, sweetie. But this moment, as bad as it hurts … it’ll help you in the long run. It’ll make you a better player.”

As he walks away, I continue to lie here. My throat feels raw, and my chest hurts, and even though I wish I could, I can’t be thankful for not making the team because I don’t see how this could ever make me a better player.

I’m tired of being small, weak, and overlooked.

And the one thing I want to do in life—play softball—I can’t even do.

My friends who don’t even care about being at the field and complain at every practice get to spend the next few weeks playing All-Stars softball. And me? I don’t get to be a part of it.

How can something I love so much—a sport I love more than anything—hurt me so badly? I’m beginning to think I’ll never make it onto a college team.