The Dugout(22)

A little shocked that he gave in so easily—I thought he had at least a few more minutes of fight left in him—I walk over to my backpack, grab my trusty notebook, and I nod at him to follow me.

“Stand at home plate.”

“If you make me visualize my swing, I’m out of here.”

“Ju-just stand at the plate.”

“Do I need my bat?”

“No.”

Groaning some more, he tosses the bat to the side and stands at home plate, as I stand three quarters of the way from the mound to him.

Arms crossed over his chest, he stands in the batter’s box but by no means is in his position. He’s annoyed, he clearly doesn’t want to be here, and is most likely counting down the seconds until he can take off.

Which means only one thing: I need to school him.

Steeling myself, I think back to the many lectures I’ve given my brothers in the past. I dig deep for that inner voice, and start talking about what I know best—baseball.

“As a batter, how much time do you have to hit a baseball?”

“I don’t know, a few seconds?”

“Try four milliseconds.”

He straightens slightly.

“The hardest thing to do in sports is hit a baseball. It’s so hard that if you fail seven out of ten times, you’re considered a cream-of-the-crop hitter.”

His brow quirks up. “Cream of the crop?”

“Y-you know what I mean.”

A smirk lightens his frown. “Just never heard someone my age use the term, cream of the crop.”

Is he teasing me?

From the way his body language seems to relax, I’m going to assume so, which makes me relax as well. The tension in my throat calms. I can do this.

I adjust my hat. “As a hitter, you have one hundred milliseconds to pick up the ball from the pitcher’s hands, which puts me right about”—I shift my position—“here. This is where your eyes should be able to see the ball.”

“Okay.” Getting into it now, he stands in the batter’s box as if he’s getting ready for a pitch and looks my way.

Holding up my notebook, I flip to the first page where I have a true-to-size picture of a mid-spin baseball. “I want to make sure you can actually see from where you are in the batter’s box. You know the different spins of each pitch, right?”

“Yeah.” He smiles.

“Good. Tell me, without squinting, what pitch do you see.”

“Four-seam fastball.”

I flip through the notebook, and he correctly calls out each pitch.

“Two-seam, change-up, slider, curveball.”

Closing my notebook, I walk toward him. “Good, so there’s no problem with your eyesight. I always check that first, because if everything else is right and you’re blind, that could be a big hindrance to what we’re working on.”

“I could have told you I wasn’t blind.”

I pick up his bat that he tossed to the side and hand it to him. “Yeah, all the guys say they’re not blind. I don’t believe them until they take my test.”

“All the guys?” He takes the bat and offers a soft thank-you.

“Yeah, I’ve helped a few, two were fitted for glasses the next day after my little eye exam and they’re batting averages went from the low two hundreds to a solid three.”

“Damn. Well, I’m glad I passed.”

“With flying colors.” Feeling much more at ease, I say, “Get in your stance.”

He lifts the bat, adjusts his feet, and looks toward the pitching mound.

“Hold it there while I do some examining. Is it okay if I touch you?”

“I mean, just don’t cup my junk or anything.”

I know he’s joking, but it still makes my face flame, which I know turns my cheeks an awful shade of red. Ducking under my hat, I walk to the back of him so he can’t notice my embarrassment. “I . . . I won’t be grabbing your, uh, junk.”

He chuckles. “I know, I was just kidding.”

“Oh yeah, I know,” I say awkwardly.

Letting out a large exhale, he drops his hands and turns toward me, his large frame towering over me. “Maybe we should clear some things up before we start getting technical with my swing.”

“We don’t need to clear anything up. We can just—”

“Milly. We haven’t had the best interactions, and I want to make sure we’re cool.”

“Yup.” I stare down at the ground. “Totally cool.”

Apparently, me trying to avoid the conversation doesn’t work for him, because he reaches out and places his finger under my chin. With a small lift, he forces me to meet his eyes, the one place I didn’t want to look.

“Humor me, okay?”

My eyes blink a few times as I swallow hard. I’ll give him this; he’s very handsome. Chiseled jaw, enhanced by a soft tan. The lightest of scruff dances across his face, and his lips have a pink pout I would never have expected in a guy. And then there are his eyes, a brilliant blue bordered by long, dark eyelashes. It’s said the eyes are the gateway to a person’s soul, and I can fully believe that when it comes to Carson Stone.

“Okay,” I answer softly just as the wind picks up, blowing his fresh-soap scent in my direction. What is it about the scent of a spring mountain that makes a girl giddy inside? I mean, not giddy, but that did smell nice, really nice.