Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dylan
Dylan woke up, saw what time it was, and scrambled out of bed. He’d overslept for camp twice now. What the hell? And today of all days?
As he rushed through getting ready, his mind wouldn’t stay focused. He’d had a lot of trouble going to sleep the night before, thinking about Lucy. The way she smelled, the way she felt in his arms. The way she did whatever popped into her head without fear or remorse. Who knew skinny-dipping without contact could be so fun? Or so damn hot? Jesus.
Now, though, he was late. He ran through the kitchen, grabbing a protein bar and sending a hurried wave his mother’s direction. He’d had the sense to pack his gear bag yesterday and had left it at the stadium to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Still, he didn’t like how unsteady he felt as he drove the speed limit all the way to Suttonville High. Late or not, two tickets in less than a week would result in the loss of his car keys. His parents were annoyed enough by the first one.
Tristan shot him a questioning look when he jogged onto the field, heading for the knot of pitchers. Dylan threw up his hands in the universal sign of, “I know, I know,” before turning to his campers. “Hey guys, sorry I’m late. Have you done your warm up run?”
Nods all around. Otis raised his hand. “Coach Tristan told us to run with his group.”
Good thing someone was looking out for him—and his little guys. “Good. Then let’s stretch. I’m going to stretch with you today.”
The boys exchanged looks, even as they sat on the grass to start hamstring stretches. “Why?” Jacob asked, and all at once, ten sets of eyes were focused on Dylan.
He smiled. “I’m pitching for someone after camp this afternoon. I need to loosen up some.”
“Like a scout?” Otis asked, looking mischievous.
Someone’s sister must’ve been talking at home. Dylan nodded. “Like a scout. Now let’s halt the chitchat and get started. Everyone, deep breath in, deep breath out…”
The boys were unusually attentive the rest of camp. Better behaved, too. Dylan didn’t think it was anything he’d done—more likely the news of his tryout had given him some cred where the campers were concerned. Funny how that worked. At first, he felt like he’d burst with pride at each awed look. As camp went on, Dylan’s stomach soured and his head hurt. Nerves? Well, no crap, he was nervous. But this felt a little worse than typical “big game” butterflies.
The boys stayed to clean up, some of them obviously stalling. “The tryout is later today, guys,” Dylan told them. “And closed to the public.”
A round of “awwwwws” went through the group, and the boys ran for their rides. Otis lingered, though. “Was I not supposed to tell them?”
“It’s a little bit bad luck,” Dylan admitted. “But if things go well, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, first thing.”
Otis nodded, his ears pink and his eyes worried. “Good luck, Coach Dylan.”
“Otis!”
Dylan looked over at the fence. Lucy was wearing a pink T-shirt that matched her hair, and ripped jean shorts. He smiled and waved, then sent Otis over. She waved back, waiting, but when she realized Dylan wasn’t going to come see her, she shrugged and took her brother to the car.
“Why’d you blow her off?” Tristan asked.
“I’m distracted enough,” Dylan said. “I know that sounds stupid, but she’s been on my mind a lot and I need to get my shit together.”
Tristan checked his phone. “We have time to shower and run to Dolly’s for a quick bite, if you want.”
Dylan rubbed his stomach. His head hurt worse and the thought of food made him want to hurl. “You can go. I’m going to stay here.”
“You need to keep your strength up.” Tristan frowned. “I’ll bring you something.”
Dylan didn’t think saying no would change anything, so he followed Tristan to the dugout. Why did his stomach hurt so much? He’d done so well with his diet the last few—
“The cupcakes.” Sighing he dropped onto the bench and bent over, taking shallow breaths. This happened to him sometimes, when he shocked his system with too much sugar, like at the holidays. He never should’ve eaten them.
Tristan was already on his way to the showers, but he stopped. “What cupcakes?”
“Lucy made me good-luck cupcakes. They looked really good. They were really good, and I didn’t want to be the jerk who didn’t eat his home baked gift.” Dylan forced himself to sit up. “Don’t bring me lunch. I’m going to eat some ginger drops to settle my stomach.”
Tristan nodded, his forehead wrinkled with worry, and went to shower. Dylan breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth a few times before going to Coach’s office for the med kit. His mom had always given him peppermint for an upset stomach, but he’d found out ginger worked better when he started playing for Suttonville. Coach might be old school, but he knew what he was doing.
By the time Tristan got back, Dylan had showered, stretched again, and was sipping water.
“The scout’s here,” Tristan said. “Out in the parking lot, talking to Coach.”
A thrill of fear and excitement ran down Dylan’s back and into his arms and legs. Forcing himself to breathe, he nodded and picked up his glove. “Let’s go get some practice swings in.”
They went outside and Dylan threw five pitches. The first was a little wild. Tristan hit the next two, but Dylan managed strikes after that. By then, Coach and a man in khaki’s, a blue polo with the red T logo for the Rangers, and expensive sunglasses were making their way onto the field.
“Dylan, this is Sam Hollister,” Coach said, calm as ever. “Sam, meet my ace.”
Dylan felt a surge of pride at that introduction and reached out to shake the guy’s hand, mood instantly changing to embarrassment as he realized how sweaty his palm was. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise. Rick told me a lot about you. Seems baseball runs in the family.” Sam gave him a friendly smile. “What pitches do you have?”
“Fastball, curve, changeup and splitter.”
“A splitter?” When Dylan nodded, Sam said, “Impressive. Start with the fastballs. Is that your batter?”
“Yes, sir. One of the best on the team. He and I practice against each other a lot.” Dylan pointed, and Tristan waved.
“That’s not a boast,” Coach said. “Murrell there is pretty steep competition for any pitcher.”
“Okay, good.” Sam walked to a spot between third and home, probably to check out Dylan’s form. “Let’s see it.”
Dylan wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, alarmed to see them shaking. He could do this. He just had to focus. He closed his eyes.
And Lucy promptly intruded, smiling and murmuring, Do a good job.
Right, he should keep his eyes open. He took a deep breath, let it out, and wound up. His first pitch was nice and hard, but high and outside. Tristan made a valiant swing at it—something he’d never do in a game. The pitch was a ball, through and through. The swing was to make the pitch look better than it was.
“Again,” Sam called.
Dylan took another breath. His head was starting to hurt again, despite the sunglasses he’d put on with his baseball cap. I can do this. He wound up and threw. This one was more on target, but the speed was off, and Tristan hit it nice and square, sending it over the back fence. He mouthed sorry, and winced.
Sam paced a few steps. “Settle down, Dennings. This isn’t life or death. One more fastball for me.”
This time, Dylan managed a respectable fastball that went down the middle, and Tristan missed it honestly. Tristan gave him a quick thumbs-up.
“Okay, changeup.” Sam said.
The changeup was Dylan’s best pitch. He nodded and rolled his neck. This was where he would shine.
Except the first pitch he threw was in the dirt. Tristan’s eyes went wide in a what are you doing? expression. Dylan shook his head and picked up another baseball from the pile at the back of the mound.
“Let’s see that again,” Sam said.
Dylan threw again, and Tristan only managed to tip this one foul. Better, but still not what he could really do.
“Let’s move on to the curve.”
Dylan gripped his new baseball tight. He’d been hoping for another chance at the changeup. Instead, he nodded, and he went back to his place. The curve and the splitter were more advanced pitches, and with the way he was throwing, this could be a disaster.
Swallowing hard, he wound up and threw a mediocre curve. Tristan swung early, so he missed it, but anyone with eyes would see that it was a bad pitch. Sam twirled a finger in the air, indicating he wanted to see another one.
This one was slightly better, but not big league stuff. Hell, it was barely single-A farm league stuff.
“Okay, splitter.”
Dylan had to wipe his hands on his pants again. He’d only mastered this one in the last three weeks. He forced himself to center, to breathe. You can do this. You can do this.
And he did it all right—so off-speed and off-target that he hit Tristan in the thigh.
“Gah.” Tristan crumpled to the dirt, holding his leg.
“Ooh.” Sam winced. “That’s gotta smart.”
Dylan jogged over. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” Tristan said through gritted teeth. “Give me a sec, and I’ll be up to try again.”
The bravery in that statement put a lump in Dylan’s throat. But no matter how much Tristan was willing to give, Dylan just didn’t have it today. “Coach? Can you get Tristan some ice?”
Coach bent to help pull Tristan up. “Think that’s it for today, Murrell. Dennings, I’ll leave you to chat with Mr. Hollister.”
Coach’s voice didn’t hold a trace of disappointment or frustration, but Dylan knew he felt both…Dylan did, too. He trudged over to Sam. “Sorry. I must be tired from teaching little league camp or something. I…I’m usually much better than this.”
Sam nodded. “I’ve seen tape from State, and I know you have good stuff. Look, you’re going to have a major league arm someday. I don’t doubt that a bit. But you need more seasoning before you throw yourself into the farm system. Don’t take this the wrong way…but college ball will give you some refinement. That’s the way you should probably go. You’ll make it to the show, just don’t rush things, okay?”
“I understand,” Dylan said, not sure how to feel. Numb, mostly.
Sam patted his shoulder. “Work out for another few years, and I’ll come back for a look. That splitter has some promise, once you iron out the accuracy issues. A good college pitching coach would put that to rights in a season, I bet. I’ll, uh, see myself out.”
He went to the gate out by third plate and disappeared into the parking lot. Dylan watched him go, seeing The Plan following behind him. Everything he’d worked for, focused on, giving things up for…gone. His parents would get what they wanted—their kid, in college, his life on hold while he waited for his dream to come true.
Dylan walked over to the dugout and sat. What had happened? Sure, he got nervous when it was a big game, but he mostly kept it together. This…this had been a shit-storm. He’d lost all control right at the moment he needed it most. Why? There had to be some reason he suddenly lost his focus…
But the only new variable in his routine had been Lucy.