Chapter 33
CALEB
T he atmosphere in the locker room is electric. This is our first scrimmage against another team. Not officially the start of the season, but the start of something.
None of the games we play will count for months, but this game is against Lancaster, one of our main rivals. It’s our chance to set the tone for what sort of team we’ll be this year.
A championship-winning one, if I have any say in it.
Normally, I close myself off before games. I let the world fade to white noise aside from visualizing exactly how fast and how far I’ll throw a sphere of leather-coated cork and yarn.
Today, I let the nerves and excitement roam free. I soak in the atmosphere of my teammates snapping gum and slapping their mitts as I sit on the ledge in front of my locker, bouncing my knee. The scent of leather and mint swirls around with thick anticipation.
Lennon Matthews has never seen me play in an actual baseball game.
Not once, in the seven years I’ve known her.
In person, at least. The local Landry news station has streamed some of my games over the past few years, and I know Earl watched. We’d discuss them when I came to visit.
Lennon probably felt an obligation to sit there as well. But she never came to one of my games in high school. The closest she’s come to seeing me pitch was the pickup game the night we finally got together. Or the summer practice she talked to Cassie for most of. Neither of those really count.
I don’t resent her for it. I know Lennon’s only athletic interest is one you have to be aboard a horse for.
She views baseball as a part of my life to put up with, not a selling point. She’s never made any attempt to memorize stats or act like she understands the sport just to impress me, and it’s one of my favorite things about her.
We don’t put on shows for each other. Never have, and it’s maybe the only silver lining of our romantic relationship being prefaced by years of antagonism.
Doesn’t mean I don’t want to impress her.
Coach Thompson steps to the front of the room for his pre-game talk.
Describing it as including the word pep would be a stretch.
It’s a dry recitation of the words he’s been shouting at practice for weeks.
It does its job, though. The man in front of me is the second reason I chose to attend Clarkson, the first being its proximity to Landry.
Coach doesn’t put on airs or tolerate cockiness.
He leads by example and asks for nothing but hard work from his players.
My coach in high school was the exact opposite. He was just as intimidated by my last name as my throwing arm, and I took advantage.
I’ve grown up since then.
I think.
Our team pre-game ritual ends with a cry of “Go Thoroughbreds!” and then we file out of the locker room toward the field.
Clarkson snagged the mascot every school in the state wanted—for obvious, horse-obsessed reasons—and we rub it in as frequently as we can. I’m sure the cheer will be echoed across the field many times over the course of the scrimmage.
Lancaster’s team is already in the visitor’s dug-out, eyeing us, as we approach the field. I barely spare them a glance, totally in the zone.
The shouts from the crowd and the sight of the field crew preparing the diamond all fades away.
It’s just me and the leather ball I’m holding. I run my fingers along the red stitching, searching for the perfect spot to grip the ball.
I never look for it. I have to feel it.
During her brief foray into sports journalism—my attempt to make her not hate me, which I have to say was a total success—Lennon asked me what my favorite thing about playing baseball is.
It was a question I’d answered many times before. I know Lennon judged my response, but I was more truthful with her than I’d ever been with anyone else.
Lots of things come to me easily. But baseball has always been different. It’s always been mine and mine alone.
People may care more about the fact I can throw a baseball because I’m a Winters. But my ability to throw a baseball has nothing to do with the fact I am.
It’s wholly my own, and it’s part of the draw for me.
People who are jealous of my family’s status never seem to consider I might not want to be known for someone else’s legacy.
Ironically, it’s one of the few things Lennon and I have in common.
It just so happens my family is defined by my grandfather’s accomplishments, while hers is by her parents’ shortcomings.
I follow my usual warm-up routine, first jogging, then stretching before I head toward the bullpen. Our pitcher, Reynolds, follows without me asking him to. I rotate my shoulder, take a deep breath, and let the first pitch fly. It smacks his glove with a resounding snap . I exhale.
After a few throws, Reynolds backs up to the usual pitching distance. I pitch a few more fastballs, then switch to breaking balls. I end with a few off-speed pitches before returning to the bench. Every one was perfect.
I’m ready. These last few weeks I’ve been throwing pitches that would—will—make pro scouts salivate. I’m still climbing toward the peak of my college career, and I let that confidence, that superiority, bleed across my face as I head for the mound.
Like all sports, baseball has a mental component.
Lancaster doesn’t have a prayer of winning this scrimmage, not while I’m pitching, and I let that show on my face.
Momentum has to be set into motion, and that’s exactly what I’m about to do.
* * *
I get some double takes when I enter Archibald Hall.
A few people call out “Good game!”
I smile at those. The stands were packed earlier to watch us annihilate Lancaster. Our opponents didn’t manage a single run while I was on the mound. A lucky bounce allowed them two runs once Anderson stepped in for the final few innings, but we still won with a comfortable lead.
I sprint the stairs, so it only takes me about five seconds to reach Lennon’s floor.
There are more people on the second floor, but I don’t stop long enough to register anyone’s reaction.
I stop outside of Lennon’s door and knock twice.
It opens a couple of seconds later. All the air leaves my body in a harsh exhale.
I’ve always been insanely attracted to Lennon Matthews. It was there the first time I saw her, standing just outside the principal’s office with her chin raised and her shoulders squared. Since that moment, I’ve seen her in fleeces and flannel. Prom dresses and sundresses. Bikinis and naked.
This look is new.
Sexy and daring.
If I had to guess, I’d say she called Cassie about what to wear. Maybe even went shopping.
“Do I look okay?” Lennon asks me, tugging the hem of the lacy tank top she’s wearing. Despite the effort, the shirt doesn’t cover any more skin. I’m both grateful for and tortured by that lack of movement.
I have to clear my throat twice before I can respond, surprise and lust garbling my thoughts. “More than okay. You look beautiful, Len. I— wow .”
She exhales and smiles, relief obvious on her face. “Okay, good. I’m ready to go, then.”
Lennon steps forward, but I don’t move out of her way.
“I’m not.”
Confusion creases her expression as I crowd her until she’s forced to take a step back into her room. I shut the door behind us, then spin and press her against the wall. When her head tilts back to meet my gaze, I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath her jawline.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
Instead of answering, I trail my fingers up her arm. Her breath hitches when I reach her shoulder. Stops when I brush the side of her breast. Quickens as I trail my fingertips down the side of rib cage and settle my hand along her waist.
“Lennon,” I whisper.
“Yeah?” she murmurs back. Her hazel eyes are overflowing with emotion that matches that in my voice.
“Thank you,” I say. “I know I’m not the only reason you transferred. I know it was an impossible decision for you. But having you here—knowing you’re close by, seeing you at the scrimmage today… I can’t really tell you what it meant to me. But thank you.”
Today was the cumulation of three years of wondering what she was doing during every college game I’ve ever played in. For the first time, I knew.
“We’re going to be…” Her eyes flutter closed, her breath catching as I slide a hand under her skirt. “Late,” she finishes, as my fingers tease the top of her thigh.
This is the first time I’ve ever been grateful for harsh fluorescent lighting. I can see every change in Lennon’s face while she reacts to my touch.
“If that’s what you’re thinking about right now, I must not be any good at this.”
Lennon huffs out a laugh that turns into a moan. “You’re very good at this, and you know it.”
She kisses me first.
I close my eyes, getting lost in the moment. Caging her body between me and the wall as we kiss with an urgency that suggests the world is falling down around us.
I’m hyped up on adrenaline from the game and the rush of winning. Relieved everything between us has stabilized after a stretch of uncertainty. And then part of is it just…Lennon.
I still get this giddiness around her that’s hard to explain. It feels like an addiction. No matter how much I’m around her, I always want more time.
That feeling is called love, I guess.
It’s hard to define something so intangible, that emerges in so many forms. That changes and grows. That doesn’t duplicate and is always different.
Lennon melts against me as I fist the front of her underwear and tug, giving her the friction she wants but not actually touching her.
Our kisses become messy. Wild, instead of practiced. Focused on being as close to each other as possible, not careful tongue strokes.
When Lennon suddenly breaks away, I’m not expecting it. Breathing heavily, I study her, resting one palm on the wall just above her head. Her underwear is soaked through and she was just grinding against my hand.
I wasn’t expecting this to be the moment she decided to pull back.