Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(60)

It’s rained for two weeks. Two weeks’ worth of games have been      called. Two weeks’ worth of parties have been canceled. Two weeks of me and Beth      ignoring each other.

Everyone is anticipating that the rain will end tonight and the      field party will finally take place tomorrow. I’m ready too—eager to win the      dare and have Beth officially out of my life.

Bottom of the seventh with the score tied, I need to hold this      last batter to send the game into extra innings. Light rain cools the heat on      the back of my neck. Pooled droplets drip from the brim of my hat. The ball’s      slick. So is my hand. I hate playing in the rain, but guys in the majors do it      all the time.

The intensity of the rain increases. I can barely read Logan’s      signal. Out of habit, I peek at the runner on first, but I can’t see a damn      thing. I wind back and the game-changing sound of nature intervenes: thunder and      lightning.

“Off the field!” the umpire shouts.

My cleats sink in the mud as I walk to the dugout. This is the      third rain delay of the game. There won’t be another. The game is done.

“Great job, guys.” Coach claps each one of us on our soggy      backs as we enter. “Drive home safely. Severe weather is moving through.”

Rain beats against the roof. I don’t see the point of a roof if      everything underneath it is wet. The seats. The equipment. Our bags. I quickly      change shoes, tying my Nikes harder and faster than normal.

Knowing me better than anyone else, Chris wedges his large body      onto the bench beside me. “We didn’t lose.”

Rain cancellations don’t count. “We didn’t win either.”

“You would have pulled us out.”

“Maybe.” I stand and sling my bag over my shoulder. “But I’ll      never know.”

The rest of the team chatters, changes shoes, and waits in the      dugout for the worst of the rain to end. I’m not in the mood for company and I’m      already wet. The rain hammers my back as I head to the parking lot.

“Hey!” Chris runs to catch me. “What’s your deal, dawg?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” he yells over the rain. “You’ve been      a walking mood for two weeks.”

I open the door to my Jeep and toss my bag into the back. Beth.      That’s what happened, but I can’t tell Chris that. I’m ending my losing streak      tomorrow when the rain moves out and Beth comes with me to the party.

“Maybe he’ll tell me.” Standing next to Chris, Lacy looks like      a drowned rat with her hair plastered to her face. When the rain began an hour      ago, she sought shelter in Chris’s car. “Take me home, Ryan.”

The last thing I want is to be trapped in a car with her. “I’m      not your boyfriend.”

“No,” she yells as another clap of thunder vibrates in the sky.      “You’re my friend.”

Lacy kisses Chris’s cheek and runs to the passenger side. I      glance at Chris and he nods. “She doesn’t want to be mad at you anymore.”

I hop into the Jeep and start it up. In Lacy–like style, she      goes to work turning on the heat and switching the radio to her favorite country      station before lowering the sound. “Did you and Beth have a fight?”

The windshield wipers whine at a fast rate as I pull out of the      parking lot. I wonder what Lacy knows. I didn’t tell anyone that Beth and I went      into Louisville. “Is that what she said?”

“No. I finally scored her home number the other week and her      uncle told me you guys were out.”

I calculate how this affects the dare. “Did you tell      Chris?”

“It’s not my business to tell. Did you take her into Louisville      because of the dare?”

“Yes.”

“So the dare’s done. That’s why you’ve been ignoring her?”

Silence. Why is Lacy making me feel like a dick? Beth’s the one      that screwed me over. She owes me this. “She treats you like crap, Lace. Why do      you care?”

Lacy doesn’t live far from the community ballpark. I ease into      her drive and watch the hanging ferns on the front porch blowing in the      wind.

“She was my friend.”

“Was! She was...”

Lacy holds both her hands out. “Stop. Listen to me. I’m not      you. I’ve never been you. You walk into any situation and it’s automatically      perfect. I’m not perfect. I never have been.”