Chapter Fifteen
Dylan
“Aww, I’m having a good time, though,” Otis said. He dragged his feet as they walked through the Swing Away parking lot, scattering the gravel and raising tiny puffs of dust. “Can we stay out a little bit longer?”
Dylan rubbed his face. Was this what having kids would be like? If so, he didn’t need to give that a try for a long, long time. “Your sister and mom are on their way, and I’m sure Lucy needs your help at home.”
Lucy. Just saying her name made him want to kick himself. She’d offered to do something nice for him, and he’d turned her down. Not because he wanted to, but right when she asked, he’d caught Otis staring at him. Between that and the nutrition plan his coach had suggested last month, he didn’t feel like he should take Lucy up on the offer for a cake.
But still. Seeing her after that was going to be awkward. He should’ve just said yes, and shared the cake with the team. Why did he always think of the right answer after he said the wrong thing? It’s like he was doomed to act like a complete dork around this girl, no matter what he did.
And why the hell was it even bothering him? It wasn’t like they were going to get together.
Grimacing, he climbed into his car, checked Otis’s seatbelt, then started out of the parking lot, before stopping at the entrance. “Wait. Where do you even live?”
Otis gave him the address but didn’t know how to tell Dylan the directions—thank God for GPS—and away they went. Dylan couldn’t help thinking Lucy was putting a lot more faith in him that he would’ve in her, had the situation been reversed. Did that mean anything? Or was he reading too much into it?
They drove through town to a quiet, older suburb near historic downtown. The houses here were smaller than out by the lake. Older, too, but well kept. Lucy lived in a one-story surrounded by giant trees. The front shutters and door could use a new coat of paint, but otherwise it was more normal than Dylan expected.
He choked back a laugh. If he were honest, he kind of assumed Lucy lived in a tree house.
Otis eyed him suspiciously when Dylan hopped out to walk him to the door. “I’m big enough to go in by myself, you know.”
“I know.” Dylan pressed his lips together. “I want to make sure everything’s okay, that you guys don’t need anything.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought Otis muttered, “And to see Lucy,” as he marched ahead on their sidewalk. Cicadas sang overhead but not a branch stirred in the dead calm of a humid summer afternoon. The house had a quiet, lived-in look that twisted something in Dylan’s middle. He used to think his house was that way, but now he saw it for what it was: impeccably decorated, with only a few rooms that were actually used. Had it always been so boring?
Dylan followed after Otis, who had his chin jutted out stubbornly and his thin arms crossed over his chest. “Do you have a key?”
Otis patted his pockets. “No.”
Dylan, resisting the urge to ask why not, reached over Otis’s head and gave the front door a few soft knocks. Lucy must’ve been waiting just inside, because the door flew open. “Otis! Thank goodness.” She gave him a quick hug. “Mom’s resting, so don’t tear around, okay?”
“Whatever,” he grumbled, slipping inside. “Bye, Coach Dylan.”
“Hey!” Lucy caught his arm. “Do you have anything else to say to Dylan?”
Otis heaved the kind of sigh only tween boys with older sisters could muster. “Thanks, Coach Dylan. I had a good time.”
Then, with a somewhat wounded look, he disappeared around a corner and out of sight. Lucy watched after him, frowning. “Did something happen?”
Dylan shook his head. “He’s probably just tired.” Maybe she’ll believe that…
“Crashing from the carb-load lunch.” She gave him a wry smile. “Sure you won’t let me repay you somehow?”
“It wasn’t a big deal.” Dylan scuffed a foot along the worn brick porch, not meeting her eyes. “He’s a good kid. I’m glad I could help.”
“I am, too.” She reached out to touch his arm and he looked up, just in time for her to swoop in and kiss his cheek. “I was determined to say thank you, you know.”
A flush burned up the back of his neck. “That was a good thank you.”
She laughed, blushing. “I, um, better go back in. Mom’s better, but she’s pretty dizzy, and I don’t want her to get up on her own.”
“Yeah, good idea. I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dylan gave her an awkward little wave. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
The door closed as he walked down the sidewalk. He couldn’t help looking over his shoulder. Lucy was obviously tired, with dark circles under her eyes and her pink hair limp. Very different from the mischievous girl at the lake. Had she even eaten today?
Guilt ate his gut like it had monster fangs. It sucked being caught in the middle like this, and one member of the Foster family would end up hurt, no matter what he did. Telling himself that Lucy was stronger, older, and would want Otis to be happy didn’t help. Sticking to his pledge not to get involved didn’t, either.
Because being involved sounded…good.
Shaking his head, Dylan started his car and pulled away from the curb.
For the next few days, Otis rode with another camper. Dylan caught himself looking up every time Otis arrived to see if Lucy was with him and had to deal with a pang of frustration whenever she wasn’t.
On Friday, Dylan couldn’t stand it anymore. “Otis, where’s Lucy?”
Otis shrugged. “Running the store. She’s busy, so I rode with Max.”
Busy. Or is she avoiding me? Dylan could believe that more readily. She struck him as independent, and relying on another family to drive Otis didn’t seem her style unless she had no other choice. “Yeah, okay. Go run your laps. I’ll see you back here in a second.”
Otis dropped his bag and took off. He was still the fastest pitcher on the field. And he was developing a nice little fastball. He was already more accurate than the others, making it to the catcher’s glove more often than not. Dylan couldn’t actually let them throw more than 10-12 pitches a day, to keep the kids from injury, but Otis soaked up every word of instruction and had learned to apply it.
This kid might end up better than Dylan was.
The boys came running back. One, a pushy little punk named Jacob, shouted—shouted, like Dylan was deaf, “When are you gonna teach us curveballs.”
Dylan crossed his arms over his chest. “When you’re thirteen, and only if you can control a fastball, an off-speed, and a changeup.”
Jacob stamped his foot. “But my coach says we can start now.”
Dylan clenched his fists. Jacob’s coach was an idiot. “No curves.”
Jacob opened his mouth again, but Otis stepped in front of him. “Coach Dylan is a good pitcher. He knows what to do. So shut up and listen.”
The boys squared off like two young bucks about to butt heads. Dylan put a hand on each of their chests and pushed them apart. “Thanks, Otis, but I’ll take care of this.” He turned to Jacob, ignoring the kid’s scowl. “I won’t teach you curves because I don’t want to be responsible for injuring one of you guys. I throw curves, but I didn’t in games until I was in high school, and that was on purpose. Any good pitcher practices one thing, and one thing only, until they’ve mastered it—throwing hard and making the ball go exactly where you want it. Do that, and you’ll strike out more batters than most. Now, on the grass for stretches.”
He blew out a breath and paced away from the group for a second. Good thing it was Friday. He needed a break from these guys, and they needed a break from him. Besides, Uncle Rick would be there tonight, and he needed to focus on his own goals for a while.
Tristan, who’d sent his boys to sprint drills—and was grinning like an evil mastermind while they ran—strolled over. “Having some trouble?”
“Naw, just a kid who wants to have elbow surgery when he’s twelve.” Dylan paused. “You free for lunch today?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
“You okay?” Tristan peered him. “You’re…kind of spaced out today.”
“I’ll tell you more at lunch. I need to go wrangle my pitchers.”
Maybe Tristan could help him navigate the quicksand that was Lucy Foster. And even if he couldn’t, having another opinion wouldn’t hurt. Dylan needed to do something, but he had no idea what.
The rest of camp dragged. It was the first time he hadn’t loved every minute, and he resented the fact that his mind was so divided. Why was he letting all this bother him? And why—why?—couldn’t he stay on track with his No Girls policy? Bit by bit, he’d felt his focus slip ever since they hit the playoffs last year, at the worst possible time.
But then he’d think about Lucy, dancing in the rain with her head thrown back, her hair stuck to her neck in damp coils, her shirt clinging to…everything. When that memory hit the queue, he was powerless to stop thinking about her.
It irked him. For Otis’s sake, for The Plan, surely he could shove off thoughts of a girl he barely knew. A girl who was, in fact, the exact opposite of Dylan. Someone bound to drive him absolutely crazy, and not in a good way.
By the time the last boy waved good-bye, Dylan wished he hadn’t asked Tristan to lunch. What he really wanted was to cannonball straight into his pool, not even waiting to change clothes, then climb out and fall asleep in his hammock. The sun scorched the field, turning the infield dirt into a desert and raising shimmering heat waves on the asphalt in the parking lot.
Dylan put away the last of the equipment, including a few things the boys inevitably left behind, locked the closet, and hit the showers. Tristan was already changing, so he knew he had to hurry, but standing under the barely warm water, just for a minute, felt like heaven.
“Dude, I’m starving!” Tristan called.
Groaning, Dylan turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.
He rounded the corner into the locker room, planning some retort…
And ran into—literally ran into—Lucy.