Eight Years Earlier Junior Year #2
They clinked glasses, scowled through the booze, and chuckled.
Abby clung to the warmth in her chest, ignited by the tequila, but fanned in Isla’s presence.
She’d lost almost everything that spring, but gaining a sister, no matter how strange the concept, gave her something solid, steady, real.
Enough to consider returning to other aspects of her life, including the game that had once stood at the center of her world.
October crispened the morning air, turning leaves brittle on their branches. Kate Hutchins plunged into it with gusto, each breath on her run a cleansing bath for her lungs. She cut across campus, past the quad and athletic facilities, winding through town, until she jogged parallel to the water.
This was her year to be the strongest, fastest, best. She took care to lift in the offseason, building her core, pumping up her throwing arm, improving her flexibility.
After two seasons of fighting for her spot against an upperclassman who despised her, Kate’s position on the softball team was finally hers alone.
She arrived home to the blue house in time to shower before morning classes, counting the hours until practice. Not only did she crave the game, but reuniting with all her teammates, meeting the freshmen, and seeing Coach incited the anticipation of a family reunion on an unofficial holiday.
“You know there’s no extra credit for practicing before practice,” Mick, her roommate and the team’s catcher, said as Kate entered the kitchen. She hovered blearily over a bowl of cereal, her short straw-colored hair poking out at odd ends.
“It’s not practice. I run because I like it,” Kate said. “You’re always welcome to join.”
“Please, I have two good years left on these knees, if I’m lucky.” Mick poured another helping of cereal. “I heard the freshman class is going to be shit this year.”
“Can’t be any worse than last year.” T.K. stretched as she entered the cramped, barely held together kitchen and helped herself to coffee as though she lived there. “Have you seen my cleats?”
Mick glared as T.K. plopped into the seat beside her. “No. I’m not doing it this year.”
“Doing what?”
“Keeping track of your shit and mine.”
T.K., the squad’s left-handed hurler, wouldn’t know where the field was if the team didn’t remind her.
She missed practices, chased more than one game day bus, and lost three softball mitts last season.
Mick functioned as T.K.’s keeper, the pitcher-catcher duo more like a disgruntled married couple than teammates.
“I’ll help you look.” Kate sorted through the shoes piled at the door. “But how’d you get in here?”
T.K. poured herself a bowl of cereal. “Shupe never locks the back door.”
“Damn it, Shupe!” Mick shouted.
“What!” a voice shrieked from upstairs.
“You’re going to get us robbed or killed.”
“Have you seen my cleats?” T.K. shouted.
“What?”
“Have you seen my cleats?”
Jillian Shupe thumped downstairs, toothbrush foaming in her mouth, messy red curls fanning her face. She chucked a cleat at T.K., which she narrowly dodged. The next shoe came directly after, and Kate caught it before it smacked Mick.
“The fuck, Jill,” T.K. said through a mouthful of cereal, milk dribbling down her chin.
Jill spit toothpaste into the kitchen sink. “Quit leaving your shit here. I tripped on those clown shoes in the bathroom and almost knocked myself out.”
“You better not be calling me a clown, ginger,” T.K. said.
“Well, the shoes literally fit.”
“How about you quit leaving the back door unlocked, Shupe,” Mick said.
“I didn’t!”
“You’re sneaking out to see Dylan again, aren’t you?”
Jill’s face flashed as crimson as her hair. “I am not.”
“You two are back together?” Kate asked.
“Not that type of back together, Hutch.” T.K. snorted as Jill shoved her. “Jill’s just getting slipped the ol’ Dill.”
Kate cleared her throat and checked her backpack for the books she already knew were there, desperate to hide the blush overtaking her cheeks.
“T.K., return to your own house, eat your own cereal, and find your own gear,” Mick said.
T.K. drained the milk from her bowl and flicked Mick behind the ear.
“Don’t forget practice today. Pitchers and catchers at three o’clock…” Kate trailed as T.K. slammed the door behind her. “And she left her cleats.”
Mick groaned. “Nope. I’m not doing it. Let her pitch barefoot.”
After chasing down T.K. with her cleats, Kate walked to campus with Jill.
As a political science major on a pre-law track, Kate spent most of her time at Cormac Hall.
She sat in the first few rows of every lecture, and now, as a junior, knew most of the professors and peers within her major.
But when she found her usual place that morning, a new face greeted her.
The unfamiliar student made a point to stand up from the end of the first row to flop down closer.
“Hey,” she said.
Kate furrowed her brow. “Hi.”
“You play softball, right?”
“Uh yeah.” Kate pulled out her notebook, making a point to look busy. “How’d you know?”
“Your jacket.” She draped an arm over the seat between them. “I’m Abby.”
Kate ventured a glance. She met amber eyes underscored by shadows.
A stare that radiated fatigue, and yet Kate tilted her head, drawn in by something else.
A flicker that screamed familiar. Perhaps she’d seen her before.
It wasn’t exactly a big school. But if she had, she’d remember the way her breath snagged in her throat.
She’d remember how difficult it was to hold eye contact when she met her head-on.
She’d remember that despite the instinct to draw back at Abby’s forwardness and the faint trace of cigarettes wafting off her, she unconsciously leaned into the space between.
“I’m sorry.” Kate cleared her throat. “Can I help you with something?”
“Maybe. You see, today is—”
Professor Cruz’s footsteps interrupted. “Abby?” She raised a brow and set her briefcase on the lectern.
“Professor?” Abby said back.
Kate narrowed her gaze as she looked between them. The casualness in which Abby greeted the teacher, and the familiarity with which she responded, landed like a joke she wasn’t in on.
“You never sit up here.” Professor Cruz folded arms across her chiffon blouse, squinting as though amused.
Abby shrugged. “Trying something new. Is that allowed?”
“I guess. Just don’t bother poor Ms. Hutchins.”
“Morning, Professor,” Kate said.
“I think it’s too late for poor Ms. Hutchins.” Abby smirked.
Kate bit her lip to avoid flashing a smile back.
One that threatened to spring big and cheesy despite the unwanted attention.
She didn’t know this Abby character, didn’t understand why she went out of her way to sit beside her, or why one of her favorite professors had a soft spot for the smoker who usually hid in the back of the lecture hall.
Kate purposely ignored her for the rest of class, hustling out when it ended in case she tried to speak to her again, unaware that it wouldn’t matter when she arrived at practice a few hours later.
As always, she showed up early. Her visor perfectly straight, ponytail tight against her head, her Insley Eagles T-shirt tucked into her gray softball pants.
A few players clamored in the dugout, Mick among them, fastening her catching gear.
But while they had time to spare, someone was already working out on the diamond, plunging Kate’s heart into her stomach.
It was Abby, coasting with feline grace at shortstop.
Dirt covered her thighs and stomach. A few wild pieces of black hair fell into her eyeline.
Coach Whitley hit her a grounder, sharp and deep.
Abby tracked it in a few nimble strides, scooped it in her glove behind second base, squared up in one motion, and drilled a throw to first. Kate shuddered at how loud it popped.
“Who the hell is that?” Jill asked in the dugout.
“Transfer student, I think?” Mick said.
“Fuck. She’s good.”
Abby dove for a line drive near third base, making a nearly impossible catch look like an easy stretch. The coaches roared in approval. Abby wasn’t just at shortstop. She was in Kate’s position. And she was good at it. She was great at it. Kate couldn’t move.
“You okay, Hutch?” Mick asked.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
Coach Whitley hit Abby a few more balls, all of which she handled effortlessly, every throw on target, her footwork light but precise, like a dancer’s steps.
She didn’t muscle or force it either. Her arm stayed loose, flopping at her side like a limp noodle, and yet she wielded raw power.
Kate could have watched for hours, absolutely hypnotized.
Abby jogged to the dugout afterward, wiping at a light mist across her forehead. She nodded at Kate but didn’t say a word.
“Circle up.” The group tightened around the robust, Australian-born Dana Whitley. This season marked her third at the helm, meaning she’d been with Kate’s class from the start. “Welcome back.”
The team clapped and shook each other’s shoulders. Kate couldn’t bring herself to smile.
“Today we have a few walk-ons trying out with us, but we’re going to treat this like a regular practice.
I also want to introduce a late addition.
” Coach Whitley gestured to the brawny player in the back.
“This is Abby Cruz, junior transfer from UCLA. She plays shortstop and made all-conference last season, and we expect her to have a big impact here. Let’s make her feel welcome. ”
Mick patted Kate’s back and whispered, “Don’t let it get in your head.”
But it was too late. Kate clenched her teeth, overcome with freshman-like nerves. She incessantly drifted to Abby during warm-ups, eyeing her form while they threw, envious of her height advantage and wingspan, hating that her rolled-up sleeves revealed toned biceps and square shoulders.