One of Us is Lying(18)
TJ’s at my side, arm out to steady me. “Addy, hey.” His voice is low, his minty breath briefly on my cheek. “It doesn’t have to be this awkward, you know? I’m not going to say anything.”
I shouldn’t be mad at him. It’s not his fault. I’m the one who got insecure after Jake and I slept together, and started thinking he was losing interest every time he took too long to answer a text. I’m the one who flirted with TJ when we ran into each other on this exact same beach over the summer while Jake was on vacation. I’m the one who dared TJ to get a bottle of rum, and drank almost half of it with a Diet Coke chaser.
At one point that day I laughed so hard I snorted soda out of my nose, which would have disgusted Jake. TJ just said in this dry way, “Wow, Addy, that was attractive. I’m very turned on by you right now.”
That was when I kissed him. And suggested we go back to his place.
So really, none of this is his fault.
We reach the edge of the beach and watch Jake douse the fire so he can rebuild it where he wants. I sneak a glance at TJ and see dimples flash as he waves to the guys. “Just forget it ever happened,” he says under his breath.
He sounds sincere, and hope sparks in my chest. Maybe we really can keep this to ourselves. Bayview’s a gossipy school, but at least About That isn’t hanging over everybody’s heads anymore.
And if I’m being one hundred percent honest, I have to admit—that’s a relief.
Chapter Six
Cooper
Saturday, September 29, 4:15 p.m.
I squint at the batter. We’re at full count and he’s fouled off the last two pitches. He’s making me work, which isn’t good. In a showcase game like this, facing a right-handed second baseman with so-so stats, I should’ve mowed him down already.
Problem is, I’m distracted. It’s been a hell of a week.
Pop’s in the stands, and I can picture exactly what he’s doing. He’ll have taken his cap off, knotting it between his hands as he stares at the mound. Like burning a hole into me with his eyes is going to help.
I bring the ball into my glove and glance at Luis, who catches for me during regular season. He’s on the Bayview High football team too but got permission to miss today’s game so he could be here. He signals a fastball, but I shake my head. I’ve thrown five already and this guy’s figured every one out. I keep shaking Luis off until he gives me the signal I want. Luis adjusts his crouch slightly, and we’ve played together long enough that I can read his thoughts in the movement. Your funeral, man.
I position my fingers on the ball, tensing myself in preparation to throw. It’s not my most consistent pitch. If I miss, it’ll be a big fat softball and this guy’ll crush it.
I draw back and hurl as hard as I can. My pitch heads straight for the middle of the plate, and the batter takes an eager, triumphant swing. Then the ball breaks, dropping out of the strike zone and into Luis’s glove. The stadium explodes in cheers, and the batter shakes his head like he has no idea what happened.
I adjust my cap and try not to look pleased. I’ve been working on that slider all year.
I strike the next hitter out on three straight fastballs. The last one hits ninety-three, the fastest I’ve ever pitched. Lights-out for a lefty. My stats through two innings are three strikeouts, two groundouts, and a long fly that would’ve been a double if the right fielder hadn’t made a diving catch. I wish I could have that pitch back—my curveball didn’t curve—but other than that I feel pretty good about the game.
I’m at Petco—the Padres’ stadium—for an invitation-only showcase event, which my father insisted I go to even though Simon’s memorial service is in an hour. The organizers agreed to let me pitch first and leave early, so I skip my usual postgame routine, take a shower, and head out of the locker room with Luis to find Pop.
I spot him as someone calls my name. “Cooper Clay?” The man approaching me looks successful. That’s the only way I can think to describe him. Sharp clothes, sharp haircut, just the right amount of a tan, and a confident smile as he holds his hand out to me. “Josh Langley with the Padres. I’ve spoken to your coach a few times.”
“Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you,” I say. My father grins like somebody just handed him the keys to a Lamborghini. He manages to introduce himself to Josh without drooling, but barely.
“Hell of a slider you threw there,” Josh says to me. “Fell right off the plate.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good velocity on your fastball too. You’ve really brought that up since the spring, haven’t you?”
“I’ve been working out a lot,” I say. “Building up arm strength.”
“Big jump in a short time,” Josh observes, and for a second the statement hangs in the air between us like a question. Then he claps a hand on my shoulder. “Well, keep it up, son. Nice to have a local boy on our radar. Makes my job easy. Less travel.” He flashes a smile, nods good-bye to my dad and Luis, and takes off.
Big jump in a short time. It’s true. Eighty-eight miles per hour to ninety-three in a few months is unusual.
Pop won’t shut up on the way home, alternating between complaining about what I did wrong and crowing about Josh Langley. He winds up in a good mood, though, more happy about the Padres scout than upset about someone almost getting a hit off me. “Simon’s family gonna be there?” he asks as he pulls up to Bayview High. “Pay our respects if they are.”