Whatever Life Throws at You by Julie Cross

got rituals of his own, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve already begun to memorize them. The way he looks at that target, it’s straight out of a romance novel where the hero is in a room full of beautiful women and he can only truly see one of them—his soul mate, the woman of his dreams. In this case, Jason Brody’s soul mate is a makeshift strike zone planted in my front yard.
    The smack of the ball against the stand still shocks me. It’s amazing—the force, the speed. He’d take out the most durable luxury vehicle window if he got a little wild.
    “You’re still over-turning your hips,” Dad says, calm and quiet.
    Brody nods and, even though I thought the last pitch was perfect, I can see with my own eyes the change that one tiny adjustment makes. Since none of the other pitchers have made visits to our front yard for practice sessions, I have to assume that their loyalty lies with the other pitching coach. Or else they don’t have any desire to improve or change. But Brody’s way younger than all of them. What’s that saying? Can’t teach an old dog new tricks . Maybe that’s it. But what’s Dad going to do when the injured pitcher recovers and Brody goes back to his Triple-A team? Maybe they’re a package deal? I swallow back the returning anxiety from the other night. Johnson’s not-so-nice words still ring in my head along with Brody’s warning— if you want to stick around here, don’t give Johnson a reason to cut your dad —when I’m not busy distracting myself with other things.
    Maybe I should just tell Dad what happened at the bar the other night and see what he thinks?
    Or not.
    I take one last swig of water and pull myself to my feet again. “Dad, I’m doing my two-mile run now.”
    “What’s your strategy?” He’s already clearing his stopwatch even though he’s been a bit unsure about Coach Kessler’s plan for me to run both races.
    “Run fast.” I bound down the porch steps and stretch my calves.
    Dad’s forehead wrinkles. “Come on, Ann, you need a plan. You can’t just push it full-out. Your right hamstring’s tight.”
    “Is not.”
    “Yes it is,” he says firmly. “I could see it on your last mile. You’re not extending all the way in your stride with the right leg.”
    I make a deliberate show of sitting on the grass and stretching my hamstring, making sure not to give away even a hint of discomfort on my face. “There. I’m ready now.”
    Dad stands there with his arms crossed, then he turns to Brody. “Watch her run and tell me if you don’t see what I’m seeing. Apparently, my word weighs too heavily on the concerned Dad side and not enough on the expert side.”
    “Whatever.” I take my stance in front of the mailbox again, then draw in a deep breath before starting. Unfortunately, there’s some truth to Dad’s concern about my lack of plan for this two-mile race. I have my mile race timed so perfectly—when to hold back, when to kick—and with this new distance, I’ve got kinks to work out.
    All the more reason to get started now.
    “Ginny, you fool! Slow down!” Grams shouts after I take off.
    I can’t help but use my mile technique on the first half of the run. My muscles know exactly when I hit each quarter mark of the mile and there’s just no fooling my legs yet. By the time I get three-quarters of the way done, my entire body is screaming at me. I pull back a little, shortening my stride. Then I see Jason Brody, all hot muscles and tight jeans, standing in my yard with his arms crossed just like Dad and I find an extra surge of energy to push through to the end.
    I’m walking in circles again, trying not to puke up the water I drank only minutes ago when I notice Dad staring at his stopwatch.
    “What?”
    “Eleven ten,” he says. “Pretty damn good, Annie.”
    When I can breathe and speak again, I head back up to the porch to retrieve my T-shirt and water. “But both times are shy of placing at state. So, I either have to run