When Our Worlds Stand Still (Our Worlds #3)(6)

“Please tell me that’s what I think it is,” I holler.

“Oh, it’s exactly what you think it is.” She bends down and pulls the pan from the oven.

I walk into the kitchen and pull a fork from the drawer. “You will not believe who I ran into at work tonight.” With the fork deep in the pan, I cut off half a shell and stuff it in my mouth.

“Would it happen to be Mark?” Violet whispers.

A smile spreads across Amanda’s face. “We already know,” she admits. “He called Dan. Dan called Violet. You know how it goes.”

“Am I always the last to know everything?” I take another big bite of the cheese-filled pasta. “Oh, and Mark and Bea hit it off. Like for real, hit it off.”

Amanda slams her biology textbook shut and stands, staring at Vi and me. “Aww, they’re perfect for each other. How did we not put that together sooner?”

“Well, Mark would actually have to be present for us to plug him into the equation,” Violet argues.

“Shouldn’t be too hard now, since he transferred to UConn to play ball. He was at the bar with his teammates.” I take the other half of the shell and shove it in my mouth. “He looks happy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Amanda adds, grabbing her own fork.

I’m not sure what being truly happy means. I remember moments as a child where I achieved true happiness, but my teen years were spent alone, hidden away. I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. Seclusion felt more comfortable on my skin, and I managed to create this strange barrier around me, a fortress to keep anyone from getting too close. My mother says I’ve always been a loner. Even as a youngster, I preferred my own company. It wasn’t until my junior year of high school that everything changed for me. I chased happiness.





“Are you going to throw it, or stare at it until it grows a set of tits? It’s fucking frigid out here,” Rico yells at me from behind home plate. I’d pay big money to erase the wide smirk off his face. “No wonder all our early games are down south. Fuck.” He blows a puff of warm air into his hands. “Seriously, it’s about to snow.”

“Why is your ass even here right now?” I shout, fondling the ball until the stitching is perfect beneath my fingertips.

Rick, A.K.A. Rico, has gone from being my enemy to someone I depend on. How it happened, I’m not sure, but I’m almost positive we both realized we have more in common than we care to admit.

“Pretty Boy isn’t here to help you, and Coach told me I’d be kicked off the team if I didn’t get my ass out here.” He explains his sudden interest in my pitching. “And since I don’t want to go back to junior college, I figured I’d come out and witness you fuck this up.”

“Real supportive.” I shake my head, set up the pitch, and rocket it across home plate into his waiting glove. Rico throws it back, and I stretch to catch it before it barrels over my head.

“How many pitches do you usually throw before you call it quits?” Rico crouches into position and holds his glove out in anticipation.

“Fifty. Seventy-five.” I set up for another and throw it into his glove. “Depends on how long it takes.”

“I don’t get you pitchers.”

“What’s there to get?”

“Is it like hitting the g-spot?” Even from the mound, I spot the thrill in his eyes.

“Do you even know where the g-spot is, Rico?”

“What I mean is, do you have to hit a sweet spot or something to make the pitch feel good?” He stands and stretches his legs.

The description may be horrible, but he’s not wrong. Not speaking for all pitchers, but some pitches never feel right. If my finger slips off the ball too soon, or my grip’s not accurate, small mistakes like that throw off the process. I shrug and smirk.

Around pitch forty-five, Rico gets antsy, making the decision to stop at fifty an easy one. I’ll regret it tomorrow, but torturing him isn’t something I’m willing to do. He’s a third baseman. His knees are bound to be sore tomorrow from holding the catcher’s stance. I don’t need Coach blaming me for his not being on his A game.

“That’s enough for today.” I throw my glove, and the leather bounces into my bag.

“You coming out?” He motions to the parking lot as he steps to the exit.

When we’re lucky enough not to have away games, the team goes out for wings and a few beers before heading to the real parties. On campus, parties are everywhere, and I’d be lying if I didn’t own up to attending some. Coming into a team with a strong bond was hard. As the new guy, I needed to earn my place with them and partake in the festivities to gain their trust. Now, the urge to meet their standards of what makes a good teammate is gone. I don’t need to get blackout drunk to kill it on the mound.

“I’ll pass tonight. Maybe next time.” We both know I’m lying.

“Uh huh, sure you will. Go read a book in bed, pussy,” Rico taunts. “Leave the debauchery to the rest of us.” Rico slides behind the wheel of his Bronco.

If my teammates knew who I used to be, they’d shit themselves.

I give a half-ass wave over my shoulder, and toss my bag into the trunk of my Suburban, a birthday gift from my grandmother. Since my grandfather passed, she’s taken a special interest in my life. She’s always been attentive, but this new version of her is a whole different ball game. I swear she visits at least once a month. At first, I thought she was trying to convince me to go see my father. As far as I’m concerned, he died the day he tried to kill my mother and me. It turns out, though, my grandmother hasn’t even visited her own son. With the knowledge of her absence in his life, I catch the sadness in her eyes when she looks at me. Maybe she finds a little bit of him in me.