Turning Two
The week before their first tournament, Abby and Kate focused on perfecting their timing.
Granted, working as one instead of competing took getting used to.
Not just because a hint of envy lingered when Kate eyed Abby at shortstop, but because their styles clashed harsher than before.
Abby’s wild feats and risky throws versus Kate’s desire to do it clean, correct, and consistent.
To no one’s surprise, Abby turned two like an art form.
When receiving the ball from the second basemen, she floated.
She’d brush the bag with her toes, fearlessly jump or twist out of the runner’s path, and fling a bullet to first. On the reverse side, she never just threw the ball to the second baseman.
She delivered it underhand, behind her back, flipped it out or on top of her glove, occasionally between her legs.
While the team laughed, Coach Whitley yelled at the circus-like feats. “Quit faffing around, Cruz!”
More than once Kate would scoop a grounder and glance up to find Abby not covering the base. Instead of throwing, she double clutched, letting the runner breeze safely by.
“Why didn’t you throw it?” Abby asked.
Kate’s mouth dropped. “Because you weren’t there!”
“I’ll always be there! Just trust me.”
“How can I trust you when you’re not where you’re supposed to be? Why can’t you just do it right?”
Abby smacked her glove before turning away. “It’s not going to be perfect every time, Kate!”
Their arguing became such a normal part of practice that Jill took to sitting on first base while they hashed things out.
Once, they didn’t even notice Coach Whitley dismiss everyone for a break, until it was just the two of them bickering on the empty infield.
The problem was that they both staunchly believed that they were right.
That and maybe they secretly enjoyed it.
When Mick suggested as much, Kate shook her head and slammed her locker shut, but her cheeks flamed bright red.
Before Abby, Kate never yelled except to call a play or cheer for her teammates, never cursed or argued, never lost her composure or said an unkind word—so much of which was instilled in her as a child—but she unloaded on Abby daily.
And Abby never flinched. Kate discovered unexpected freedom in it.
In saying what she wanted. In the way she never had to apologize to Abby and Abby never apologized to her.
In how it lit up her chest when Abby’s vigorous eyes met hers and paused there, even with practice fluttering around them as if daring Kate to tear away first. Or daring her to stay.
In the way it all made that perfect double play sweeter, because it was purely theirs. Pure Abby and pure Kate.
“Just try it from here.” Abby grabbed Kate by the forearm to adjust her positioning at second base.
That also became a common occurrence. Abby demonstrating better ways for Kate to throw or change her footwork, never hesitating to grab or graze her in the process.
Kate always tugged her hand back, but she enjoyed Abby’s closeness, the calluses on her palms, the rough but assured movements.
Kate shook her head. “If I do that, the runner’s going to take me out.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “Don’t play so scared.”
“I’m not!”
Kate peered into Abby’s copper gaze, sweat on her forehead, and fought the unbearable urge to take her face in her hands and shake her. She wanted something to shout in return, to even the score somehow, so she shifted to her consistently unkempt appearance.
“You should tuck in your shirt,” Kate said.
“You should untuck yours.” Abby smacked the bill of Kate’s visor, dropping it to her line of vision.
Kate’s mouth fell. While she typically responded to teasing with a passive laugh or unbothered shrug, she sought retaliation in a rush of maddening desire.
She lifted her visor and chucked her mitt at Abby, who chortled.
When Kate stammered an apology, Abby closed in, grabbed her shirt, and untucked it from her waistband.
“Stop!” Kate pushed her.
Their teammates scrambled to break them up, but there was no need. Abby laughed, hands on her knees, howling so loud that everyone stopped. Kate’s mouth broke into a beam, and then she laughed too. And when Abby returned her glove, grinning on her way back to shortstop, Kate forgot to breathe.
The day before they left for the tournament, they stayed late for additional practice.
Mick hitting grounders, Jill at first base.
They turned two at various angles, Kate so accustomed to Abby’s tosses that she no longer required a glance.
She lobbed the ball to the perfect position, knowing that Abby would magically appear.
In the privacy of their own practice session, Kate admired Abby’s moves at shortstop, asked her how she did it, and in unparalleled glee, Abby scrambled to show her.
They switched positions, Kate at shortstop, Abby at second.
Kate mastered new tricks and flips, threw tosses behind her back, understood the thrill of playing without the need for perfection.
Another new freedom found thanks to Abby.
“Okay, I’m calling it a night!” Mick said as the two of them slapped hands under the lights. “We’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow!”
“Want to stay a little longer?” Abby asked Kate.
She nodded. Even though she was tired and plenty prepared, she wanted more of the game. More of Abby too.
“You don’t listen to the ball, do you?” Abby asked her when Mick and Jill left.
Kate furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”
“You see. You know where it’s going based on where it hits the bat. But the speed of sound is unbeatable.”
“Actually, the speed of light is faster.”
“Of course it is.” Abby chuckled. “Here, let’s try something.” She peeled off her outermost layer, a baggy Padres T-shirt over her sweatshirt, and ripped it in half.
“What are you doing?”
“Just humor me.” Abby tore the T-shirt into strips with her teeth.
Kate’s stare locked on to her mouth and fingers, and she swore the ground shifted beneath her feet, leaving her lightheaded.
She cleared her throat and glanced away, as Abby chose the longest strip of fabric and stepped behind her. “You trust me?”
Her breath on Kate’s neck, and her chest hovering at her back, sent her spinning again. She barely managed to mutter, “Yes.”
Abby wrapped the fabric around Kate’s head as a blindfold. Then her hands gripped her shoulders. “You think a lot. You’re mechanical. Stiff.” Abby rubbed Kate’s biceps a few times, then squeezed her shoulders again. “Relax.”
But Kate couldn’t relax. The touch started a fire in her lower abdomen. She choked on a gasp as Abby’s hands swept down the middle of her back. Her neck and chin unconsciously lifted as if trying to ascend somewhere higher. Somewhere she might understand the power of a simple graze.
“You don’t have to be so perfect.” Abby’s mouth must have been close to her ear because Kate detected heat on her skin. “Let it go.”
“Okay,” Kate whispered.
Abby disappeared, leaving Kate blind and bothered. She buzzed inside like she needed something—or someone—to hold her down. Another new sensation courtesy of Abby, only this didn’t feel like freedom. This threatened to keep her hostage until it decided to mercifully release her.
The metallic pop of ball against bat brought her back. Kate tensed, worried that it might come straight at her.
“I’ve got you! Just listen,” Abby said, smacking another.
She steadied herself and adjusted to the darkness.
The sounds sharpened. She sensed if the hit traveled to her right or left based on the ping of the bat.
Soon she knew if it was a grounder or line drive.
After a game of pointing to the correct side, she ventured a few steps, attempting to beat the ball before it skimmed the dirt.
By the end, Kate didn’t just understand the game, she heard it too.
When she removed the blindfold, Abby’s smile greeted her, and Kate froze.
They’d known each other awhile now, but she looked different.
Different from just hours ago. Her eyes shinier, her features gentler, her broadness not a threat but a marvel that Kate could stare at endlessly.
She didn’t know why the difference emerged, but she thought it might be because Abby made her feel something real.
Something free. Kate wondered if she looked different too.
If Abby noticed Kate’s heart hammering when she rubbed her back.
By the time they left the field, stars sprinkled the dark. Kate used the walk home to gather her composure. Abby stayed quiet too, but it was an easy solitude that filled the space between them, a welcome change from their stiff silences.
“It’s almost unfair how good you are,” she said.
“I’m not that good.”
Kate scoffed. “You are that good. I wish I could play like you.”
“I wish I loved it like you do.” Abby’s plump lips hitched between a smile and a frown.
Kate stared at her as their steps kept a peaceful rhythm on the damp pavement. “I think you do.”
“Maybe.” Abby kicked a rock down the road. “I just don’t know if I can feel it anymore.”
“You play like you do. Like it’s part of you.”
“It might be.”
“If you were a guy, you’d go pro.” Kate pictured Blake and shrank into herself. Tonight, the overwhelming excitement for someone else brought her pause. She’d done nothing wrong, but didn’t know what it meant.
“If I was a guy, my name would be Audie Cruz, Jr., and I’d be a prick.” Abby laughed. “We’d get divorced in like a month.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “Oh, we’d be married in this reality?”
Abby shrugged like it was nothing, but her ears flamed bright red. “I mean, we bicker enough. Match made in heaven.”
“Or hell.” Kate chuckled, desperate to make a joke of the entire thing. Desperate to hide that it unfurled wings inside her.
“Probably that,” Abby said with a throaty laugh.
Kate diverted her gaze, thankful the February chill overpowered the heat threatening to burst through her cheeks. They walked the rest of the way in silence and stopped at the edge of the driveway.
“Well, have a good night.” She started toward the door when Abby stopped her.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been overbearing.”
Kate turned back. “I’m sorry for arguing with you.”
“I don’t mind.” Abby smiled. “You look great over there, Kate. I know the change hasn’t been easy. I know I don’t make things easy. I guess I just feel like I can do anything with you.”
“I feel the same way.”
Kate slackened, but not with sadness or shame. The declaration breached the barrier she had long ago formed to keep Abby at a distance. The one built to thwart a rival. The one that stayed, even as their worlds grew closer, and prevented a friendship. But that night, Kate couldn’t find it.
It dissolved beneath the gleam in Abby’s gaze, not just sorrow and something unknowable, but soul.
While Kate thought it new, she also understood that she’d seen it before.
Seen it on the dock, in the library, in their arguing, in their competing and working together.
Abby was alive, swimming and fighting against the grief, and Kate was what she latched on to.
The weight of it rocked her. She wanted to both shirk and sink in it.
She wanted more of Abby, of her laugh, of her teasing, of her infuriating pushiness, of her soul.
She’d call it friendship but knew as she peered into Abby with new sight, something deeper sprouted, leaving her chest and stomach tender but full.