screams out.
My footsteps stop right at the edge of the field.
“Noah was my friend, too,” he continues.
“I know.” I push open the doors to the field, allowing them to slam shut behind me.
Once practice starts, I’m thankful for the distraction of baseball. Hitting drills is easy. My anger helps me smash the shit out of the ball, earning me a few catcalls from the guys. When we practice drills on third, that’s where I fuck up. The ball flies by me for the third time, and I hear the groans of my fellow teammates. They aren’t used to me missing the ball.
“Lynch, go to the outfield,” Coach says after my throw to first base drops ten feet in front of Oliver.
I jog out to the grass and mildly redeem myself when I catch a few fly balls. My mind is a clusterfuck, and there’s only one way I can clear it—beat the shit out of my muscles.
After practice is over and the guys head over to the tutoring session at the library, I stay back in the weight room.
My gray T-shirt is dark with sweat, and my muscles are on fire, but I’m not ready to stop punishing myself, I’m doing bicep curls when the radio turns off.
I drop the dumbbell, ready for Coach to lecture me on wearing myself out, but it’s not the beer-bellied man with a scowl on his face. It’s a beautiful girl with a scowl.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.” Ella saunters through the weight room and sits down on the bench across from me.
“Why are you here?” I pick up the dumbbell and curl my arm, more sweat dripping off my forehead and onto the foam mat at my feet.
“When you weren’t at tutoring, Brax told me you skipped. He figured I’d find you here.”
My eyes divert to her crossed legs covered in tight yoga pants. If I could do one thing right now, it’d be to uncross them and bury my face between them right before I took her on the bench. She’d be a better mind-number than weight lifting.
“Old habits die hard,” I say.
Back in high school, every time the baseball team lost or a fight broke out, I’d hole myself up in the weight room. My method of therapy is how my biceps grew three inches in the last two years.
“Crosby, you need to talk to someone. Whether it’s Brax, Spencer, or me. Just someone.” She brings her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
I wipe my sweaty face with a towel. “I could move forward if people would just let me.” Already antsy from sitting, I stand and grab a heavier dumbbell.
“That’s not true.”
From the mirror, I see her approaching me, and I should step away because she’ll never let this issue die. Her hand rests on my shoulder, and the weight drops from my grasp, pounding on the floor.
“We both know that,” she says.
Tears prick my eyes, but I sure as shit won’t cry and definitely not in front of her. Might as well put me on that pussy trophy, like her boyfriend.
“People will think what Beltline does—that I was drunk or high or texting. They’ll think I’m a—”
Her hands grip my biceps, and her forehead falls against my back. “Murderer?” Her shallow voice shreds my heart, like the claws of a lion. After two years, she still knows me better than anyone, even Spencer.
“Well…”
“You were a hero, Crosby. You saved me.” Her hands move around my body, tightening around my stomach. Her body is like a warm blanket pressed against me. “You’ll always be my hero.”
Unable not to touch her, my hands cover hers, and for a moment, I let the fight loose within me. She needs to know the truth.
“On the spectrum, I’m more toward the murderer side than the hero side, believe me.”
I feel her head shaking back and forth on my back.
“Don’t say that. We’ll do the article together. The girl called me this afternoon for an interview,” she divulges.
She tries to let go of me, but I release her only long enough to twist around and face her. As I lock my hands behind her back, our eyes soak in each other.
All the time lost between
My footsteps stop right at the edge of the field.
“Noah was my friend, too,” he continues.
“I know.” I push open the doors to the field, allowing them to slam shut behind me.
Once practice starts, I’m thankful for the distraction of baseball. Hitting drills is easy. My anger helps me smash the shit out of the ball, earning me a few catcalls from the guys. When we practice drills on third, that’s where I fuck up. The ball flies by me for the third time, and I hear the groans of my fellow teammates. They aren’t used to me missing the ball.
“Lynch, go to the outfield,” Coach says after my throw to first base drops ten feet in front of Oliver.
I jog out to the grass and mildly redeem myself when I catch a few fly balls. My mind is a clusterfuck, and there’s only one way I can clear it—beat the shit out of my muscles.
After practice is over and the guys head over to the tutoring session at the library, I stay back in the weight room.
My gray T-shirt is dark with sweat, and my muscles are on fire, but I’m not ready to stop punishing myself, I’m doing bicep curls when the radio turns off.
I drop the dumbbell, ready for Coach to lecture me on wearing myself out, but it’s not the beer-bellied man with a scowl on his face. It’s a beautiful girl with a scowl.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.” Ella saunters through the weight room and sits down on the bench across from me.
“Why are you here?” I pick up the dumbbell and curl my arm, more sweat dripping off my forehead and onto the foam mat at my feet.
“When you weren’t at tutoring, Brax told me you skipped. He figured I’d find you here.”
My eyes divert to her crossed legs covered in tight yoga pants. If I could do one thing right now, it’d be to uncross them and bury my face between them right before I took her on the bench. She’d be a better mind-number than weight lifting.
“Old habits die hard,” I say.
Back in high school, every time the baseball team lost or a fight broke out, I’d hole myself up in the weight room. My method of therapy is how my biceps grew three inches in the last two years.
“Crosby, you need to talk to someone. Whether it’s Brax, Spencer, or me. Just someone.” She brings her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
I wipe my sweaty face with a towel. “I could move forward if people would just let me.” Already antsy from sitting, I stand and grab a heavier dumbbell.
“That’s not true.”
From the mirror, I see her approaching me, and I should step away because she’ll never let this issue die. Her hand rests on my shoulder, and the weight drops from my grasp, pounding on the floor.
“We both know that,” she says.
Tears prick my eyes, but I sure as shit won’t cry and definitely not in front of her. Might as well put me on that pussy trophy, like her boyfriend.
“People will think what Beltline does—that I was drunk or high or texting. They’ll think I’m a—”
Her hands grip my biceps, and her forehead falls against my back. “Murderer?” Her shallow voice shreds my heart, like the claws of a lion. After two years, she still knows me better than anyone, even Spencer.
“Well…”
“You were a hero, Crosby. You saved me.” Her hands move around my body, tightening around my stomach. Her body is like a warm blanket pressed against me. “You’ll always be my hero.”
Unable not to touch her, my hands cover hers, and for a moment, I let the fight loose within me. She needs to know the truth.
“On the spectrum, I’m more toward the murderer side than the hero side, believe me.”
I feel her head shaking back and forth on my back.
“Don’t say that. We’ll do the article together. The girl called me this afternoon for an interview,” she divulges.
She tries to let go of me, but I release her only long enough to twist around and face her. As I lock my hands behind her back, our eyes soak in each other.
All the time lost between
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