Chapter 21
COOLCOOLCOOL
MOLLY
I'm hot and cold and red all over, hurrying to put on leggings and a bra and a tank, stuffing my feet in Cass's sneakers, but I can't find my Rambler's hat.
I know I left it here. Right here. I saw it yesterday.
But I find it in the laundry room on top of the dryer.
Ghost hand, I guess. You know when your unoccupied hand picks things up and puts things down without any conscious thought?
Ghost hand. Just had your keys and can't find them?
Ghost hand. Guess mine thought it was doing me a favor.
I can't even find it in me to be annoyed. Not tonight.
Giddy and floaty, I bounce in my seat, humming to the radio as I drive the short distance to the high school fields where we practice.
Everyone is here already, and I hurry over, glove tucked under my arm.
Grey doesn't look up from his clipboard when I join the team, not even when they say my name, and a prickle of hurt stings me.
He doesn't owe you anything, Miss Molly.
It's not that serious, I remind myself. Keep it casual.
I know the deal--this is what I signed up for. I've got this! No prob. Just be normal.
This is casual. Super casual. We're crushing the causal so hard, I feel like I could effectively write a how-to book. Or at the very least, a pamphlet.
Cass is side eyeing me. When I try to smile very casually, it must be bad because the look turns more concerned than curious. Everyone is stretching except Darren, who is doing some very extreme lunges. Clara snorts.
"You're gonna pull a hammy, Jeter."
"Oh, ha-ha," he says, rolling his eyes. "Y'all are gonna regret not really stretching when you get a cramp."
"I don't think that's how that works," Cass notes as Grey approaches.
"All right, team. Let's start with catch and toss pairs. Pair up and grab a ball."
Cass hooks an arm in mine, and we walk to the bucket of balls. "I'm so glad you decided to do this with me."
I laugh. "Wait, I had a choice?"
"No, not really, but I'm glad all the same." She grabs a hot pink ball. Grey's standing right next to the bucket but doesn't meet my eyes when I look at him.
My guts twist up in knots. Cool, cool, cool.
When we come to a stop, she looks at me. Like, really looks at me.
"What's going on with you? You've got some weird energy flying around." Taking a step closer, she says quietly, "Are you and Grey…"?
The most awkward laugh barks out of me. "What? No! What do you mean? Weird. That's weird, Cass. We're just friends."
She purses her lips against a smile. "Ah, right.
Sure. Catch." She tosses the ball at me as she walks away, and I catch it half with my body, throwing it back to her.
My heart is thumping and dumb and annoying and keeps making me look over at Grey.
A couple of throws in, the ball hits me in the arm.
"Shit." I rub the spot, bending to pick up the ball. Now he's looking. Great. Flustered, I go to throw it back to Cass, who is maddogging me, but I let it go early and it falls behind me and rolls a few feet. "Goddammit."
Grey's voice behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin. "You sure have a filthy mouth tonight. Adjust your grip, you're holding it with your palm again." He takes my hand and shifts the ball, nodding once as he lets me go. "Try it again."
I want to die. I want to melt into the grass and disappear. But I put on that weird smile, which I realize also feels weird, and chuck the ball at Cass.
"Good," he says and walks away.
Boom. Pussy sweat.
Cass blinks at me, but she's smiling. She mouths What the fuck?
at me. I catch the ball and throw it back, shrugging.
I manage to focus on what I'm doing enough to survive the drill.
It helps not to listen to Grey as he walks around instructing everyone.
Instead, I sing "The Wheels On the Bus" in my head over and over again. Why is this so hard?
Because you came in his hand twenty minutes ago, thanks to that slutty peach.
I sigh, relieved when the drill is over and he sends us into the field for hit rotation practice.
Five hits each, and we run the bases. In the outfield where it's quiet and there are a hundred feet between me and Grey's dick, I feel like I can breathe.
The ball doesn't make it to me, which is nice.
Clearly, I am not fit to play today. But it means I get to watch our rag tag team, which makes me feel a lot better about my own skill.
Like when Cass and Helen run for the ball, but both stop short, assuming the other was going to get it, and the ball lands right between them.
Or another time when Darren and Luis run for a grounder and slam into each other hard enough they end up flat on their backs.
Or when Clara, fueled by several gallons of coffee, smashes a ball so hard, it dinks the fence while we all watch with our mouths open.
As the resident worst, I am last in the lineup.
And I am nervous as all hell as I trot in.
I flip my hat around and pull on a helmet while Helen bats, trying not to look at Grey, who is squatted behind the plate, his hat backward and ass on display.
Every time the ball hits his glove, the sound does something to me that I can't explain but leaves me wondering what it feels like to get spanked.
Helen finally connects, and everyone cheers like maniacs.
Since it took her a dozen pitches to get there, Grey has her run the bases despite not hitting her five.
I still haven't hit a ball other than our one-on-one practice, so on top of standing next to Grey when his mouth is at my fated pussy's level, I can swing and miss a dozen times and run the bases like a good girl so we can all move on.
"Batter up," he says when it's my turn, and I almost die on the spot. I can't tell if he's smirking, but I have a feeling he might be. "All right, peaches. Nice and easy. Eye on the ball."
"Okie dokie, Coach."
He makes a noise that sounds a little like a laugh, and I'm so distracted by it, the ball sails by. I didn't even know Shelby threw it.
Grey stands, throws it back, crouches again, saying, "That's all right. You've got this. Step into it and twist at the hip."
He's barely so much as looked at me since I got to the field, and now he's being all smirky and hot and saying batter up all casual. This is so dumb, Molly. It's exactly what he was talking about. Are you in too deep? One orgasm, is that all it took? You weren't even naked, for God's sake.
The ball makes that slap against the leather of his glove again, and I look down, blinking at him as he stands to throw it back.
"You good?" he asks gently.
"Peachy." This time, I stare at the ball in Shelby's hand like I could hit it over the fence with my eyeballs alone. I swing but whiff it.
Once he throws it, he really takes a second, making sure I meet his pale, intense eyes. "What's the matter, Molly?"
"Nothing," I mutter. When he doesn't relent, I add quietly, "I'm just annoyed. Maybe a little confused. Can we keep going? Everyone's staring."
A nod. He crouches. Doesn't say anything. I take a deep breath and try to clear my head. Shelby winds up, releases the ball, and I lean in, eyes narrowed on that hot pink ball as it flies toward me.
We both realize my mistake, but it's too late to do anything about it.
I've leaned out far enough and low enough that the ball is sailing straight for my nose.
I only have time to turn my head, the ball cracking into my helmet with a jolt.
And just like that, the horizon tilts, and the ground slams into me, and everything goes dark.