He offered me free lessons.

Cairo Hale offered to teach me how to play the guitar!

For free!

Aw, man. How amazing would that be?

One-on-one time with him while he teaches me something I’ve wanted to learn for years—a musical instrument.

That would be so cool.

I slip into Economics, taking a seat in my designated chair and pulling out my binder. The teacher has just started taking attendance. I say, “Here,” when he calls my name, then go straight back to thinking about Cairo.

His voice has this soft huskiness to it. I bet he sounds amazing when he sings.

He offered to teach me guitar!

And I said no.

My shoulders slump.

I’m such an idiot.

But what was I supposed to say?

Me in a room with him…the guy who makes my tongue swell and my heart beat out of the time. It’d be Humiliation Central. Not to mention Dad would kill me.

His schedule is insane, and he’s trusting me to stick to it. He expects one hundred percent commitment, which means I have to spend my meager free time at the batting cage or fitting in a game of pro baseball on TV so I can study the players and learn from them.

Man, I’m tired.

Learning is so overrated.

Unless it’s something new, like learning guitar.

I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing against the idea.

I can’t!

I’ve got less than six months of high school. I have to stay focused. I can’t be messing around with some good-looking stranger while my baseball career goes down the toilet.

Subtly sliding out my baseball stats sheet, I open it in my lap and gaze at the numbers.

I was supposed to meet with Coach Keenan yesterday to show him this, but I never got around to it. I’ll have to give it to him at practice today instead.

Unless I don’t get around to it.

A thought hits me from left field.

It’s guilt-inducing, and I so can’t do it, but man, it’s tempting.

I wonder what it’d be like…to not play ball.

I mean, I can’t do that. It’d break Dad’s heart, not to mention kill my chances of a college education. It’s all been mapped out. I’ll get a scholarship to play ball while also studying for a business degree that will give me something to fall back on. Mom’s all over it, excited that I’m mildly interested in product management. That was her job back in Columbus and she loved it.

It looks okay to me. I mean, it kept her busy and entertained, so why not, right?

My insides fizzle and I sigh as I picture my future either on the field or trapped in a lecture theater learning about risk management and the fundamentals of economics.

Shit.

Part of the problem is that I don’t even know what I want to do!

It’s always been decided for me or suggested so strongly that I’ve just gone along with it. I’ve never had to think about what I really want.

But what if I did? What if I got to choose for me?

I snatch a pen from the top of my bag and chew the end while picturing a slightly different future. I don’t know exactly what it looks like. All I can see floating through my mind is the word FREEDOM in big bold letters.

No graphs, equations, or killer expectations.

No bats, baseballs, or sweaty mitts.

No one sitting in the stands cheering me on in a way that screams, “Do well, Max! Make us proud! Don’t disappoint us!”

I bite down hard on my pen, no doubt leaving teeth marks behind.

I’ve never told anyone that I’m over baseball. Not even my sisters. Everyone thinks I still love it, because that’s what they want to believe. But it’s been building in the background for a while now. Ever since the pressure of scouts and college started.

Getting out of Columbus and away from that baseball-crazy girls’ league made me realize that maybe I’m not as passionate as I should be.

I mean, I’m good at it, so…I should love it, right?

It should still be my number one priority.

The teacher calls our attention and starts the lesson. I fold my stats sheet away and slip it into my pocket.

Guitar chords.

A few basics.

I imagine my fingers on the strings, a beat throbbing through me as I strum and sing. Or just strum. Or just sing.

No, strumming; I definitely want to strum.

Joy bubbles in my chest as the song that’s been in my head all day zings through me. Instead of just humming along, I see myself holding a guitar—playing and singing “Chemicals React” by Aly & AJ.

Instead of a baseball uniform, I’m wearing something kick-ass and cool—black leather pants, a tank top, and maybe one of those thick leather bracelets, kind of like Cairo’s watch. Whatever, I look like a rock star. My hair’s down, maybe it’s blue or the tips are dyed red, and I’m leaning into a microphone, singing my heart out while I strum, lost in a musical euphoria.

The teacher claps his hands, pulling me out of my daze, and tells us to get on with it.

Oh crap, I have no idea what we’re supposed to be doing.

I glance around me and manage to somehow bluff my way through the lesson.

As soon as the bell rings, I shoot from my chair, hoping last period will be a little easier.

It’s not. I’m chased by this dream-like cloud of desire that has nothing to do with study or baseball.

I comfort myself that once I hit the field this afternoon, I’ll end up focusing. It’s my second home, and I’m more comfortable there than any place else.

Adjusting my cap, I shove on my glove and follow the guys out to the field.

Coach Keenan sets us up with the standard warm-up drills—sprints, rotations, knee lifts, squats. As soon as our blood is pumping we move onto the skill-based drills. I’m assigned to the outfield with three guys and we start up a game of catch, practicing our grounders and fly balls.

I squint into the sunlight and prepare to catch whatever the Asian guy throws at me. I think his name’s Kingston.

Whatever.

Tracking the ball, I follow its arc, ready for the catch. “Chemicals React” is still dancing through my brain and I mumble the words as I step forward to retrieve the ball. It’s a catch I’ve made a thousand times. I shouldn’t even have to think about it. Which is why it’s so surprising when I drop it.

It bounces off the edge of my mitt and lands on the ground with a soft thud before rolling away from me.

“Perfect,” I hear one guy mumble as I’m grounded by confusion.

What the hell?

Did I just drop that ball?

The mumbler runs forward and collects the ball, flicking it back to me. I shoot out to grab it and nearly fumble the ball again.

The guy snickers and shakes his head. “There’s no way you’re making it off the bench, princess. Give up before you embarrass yourself.”

I’m still too confused by my fumbling behavior to form a reply. Instead I lob the ball back to Kingston as the unbidden thought I entertained for a microsecond earlier today comes back to me.

What if?

What if I was useless at baseball?

What if I didn’t make the team?

That would certainly free up my time.

Dad would hate it.

He’d be mad.

It’s so not worth it.

But hey, he was the one who dragged me away from my team and moved me to California. I never asked to leave. It’s not my fault that I’m having to adjust to a new team halfway through my senior year.

Kingston throws me the ball and I catch it easily, without even thinking about it.

I stop.

Gazing down at the ball in my hand, I stare at the red stitching—the little lines holding this thing together, forcing the material to be a ball whether it wants to be or not.

“Hey! You going to throw it back?” Kingston shouts at me while the other two snicker.

I yank it out of my mitt and do a half-ass throw across the field. With no power it lands short and all three guys are now shaking their heads at me.

They’re right to think I won’t play this season. With throws like that, I don’t deserve to play.

With throws like that, I will seriously not make it through the trial period Coach Keenan has set up for us.

Not make it through.

My heart starts beating out of time.

I’d have time to learn guitar if I wasn’t coming to baseball practices and games. Not to mention gym workouts, batting cages, baseball study, and academic study squished into all the spare spaces.

Dad will never go for it, though.

He won’t let me get permanently benched or kicked off a team.

But if I play badly enough he won’t have a choice.

Shit, if I’m going to do that, I may as well just tell him the truth.

Dad, I want to learn guitar, and this really hot guy at school has offered to teach me. For free! I’m not sure how I’ll fit it into my already overstuffed schedule, but you won’t mind if I skip a few practices and forget about morning workouts, right?

I snicker and shake my head.

He’ll never go for it. Throwing in the fact that it’s free will make no difference.

The only way I’m going to learn guitar is if I keep it a secret.

And the only way I’ll actually have time to be able to pursue this little secret is if I pretend to be a totally crap baseball player.

I’ll get kicked off the team and suddenly hours of free time will open up before me.

The small hope in my chest flutters and then just as quickly, it dies.

It doesn’t sit right.

I can’t lie to my family.

It’s wrong.

But telling them the truth doesn’t seem any easier.

Aw, shit. It’s just not worth it.

I’ve got less than six months until I graduate. Maybe when I hit college and don’t have Dad breathing down my neck, I can pursue guitar then.

Although I highly doubt any guitar teacher could be more attractive than Cairo Hale.

Clenching my jaw, I focus back on practice, once again dropping a ball that I could have so easily caught.

I just couldn’t see it past the image of Cairo floating in my brain.

“Hey, Max. You okay?” Maddie raises her chin at me when I turn to spot her near the mound.

Shit. She must have just seen me drop that catch.

“All good,” I call back, raising the ball in the air before powering it back to Kingston.

He catches it with a look of surprise before giving me a confused frown.

I close my eyes with a sigh, using the edge of the mitt to scratch my forehead. It’s a good way of hiding my face.

What the hell am I doing right now?

I need to sort out my shit.

I need to forget about Cairo Hale and guitar lessons.