When Our Worlds Stand Still (Our Worlds #3)(61)

“Because that’s all of a sudden our responsibility?” Griffin says as he passes through to the kitchen.

“Yes, it’s your responsibility. We’re teammates. You’re supposed to tell me when I’m fucking up.” Rico stands from the couch and I follow him.

“You’re fucking up,” Griffin and I say in unison.

“I have a D in business ethics,” he explains his dilemma.

“Shocker.” I slap my hand against Griffin’s in an overdramatic, eighties high-five.

“I’m out of here.” Griffin pats us both on the back as he grabs a water before ducking out the back door.

Ever since Griffin declared his intentions to Sandy, they’ve spent most of their time at her apartment. It’s only a matter of time before Sandy drags him out of here by his bootstraps and has him moving in with her.

“How’s Kennedy?” Rico opens the fridge, tossing random things on the countertop.

“She’s good. Having a little bit of trouble with Violet.” I open a Tupperware container I wasn’t aware we owned. “She’s thinking about breaking things off with Dan.” I pop a piece of cold turkey in my mouth.

“What?” Rico stalls his sandwich making. “If I was a girl, I’d be all over that giant of a man.”

“Oddly enough, I said the same thing.”

“So, what’s going on then? Someone doesn’t just break up with perfection.”

“Her parents are getting a divorce, and I think it’s knocked her for a loop.”

“Man, that fucking sucks. I was eight when mine split up, then I was eleven when they got back together, and no surprise at all, I was seventeen when they divorced again.”

“That’s rough.” I grimace.

“Now you wonder why I don’t do relationships. I don’t know how you all do it. The same girl every day, checking up on where you’re at. The whole ritual sounds horrendous.”

“It’s not so bad. One day a girl will come along and sweep you off your feet. When that happens, I pray I’m here to watch you turn into a little bitch in her presence.”

“Never gonna happen, man,” he shouts to me as I walk out of the room.

*****

“Black, come see me when you’re all done out here,” Coach yells.

My teammates watch me prepare to throw out my seventieth pitch, if my count is correct. I half expect them to stick their tongues out and sing, “You’re in trouble, you’re in trouble,” but instead they turn around to ground a few more balls.

We’re in the middle of our season. When you look around the field, a sense of pride and determination paints our faces. Baseball pumps through our veins, preparing us for the second half of our schedule. We’ve got anticipation on our side. No one loves baseball more than the guys around me now.

Mark stands from behind home plate. “Try the pitch again. Your throw’s off.”

I do as he says. Catchers are a pitcher’s greatest ally. They’re the only ones who witness the ball coming head on, and anticipate where it will go before the batter even knows to swing or let it fly by. So when Mark tells me to pitch again, I pitch again. We do this until I get the release damn near perfected.

“What do you think he wants?” Mark nods to Coach who’s in the middle of a heated debate with Rico.

“I don’t know, but hopefully he gets all his aggression out on Rico before he gets to me,” I answer, picking my phone up from my bat bag. One missed text. I groan when I open it, and Mark notices.

“Ashlee still?” He motions to my phone.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” I delete the text without opening it.

“Good luck with all that.” Mark pats me on the back and I throw my phone back into my bag.

When I find Coach, he has Rico running laps around the field.

“Sir, you said you needed to talk to me.” We lean against the fence. “How many do you have him doing?” I press my chin toward Rico.

“Fifty.” Coach lets out a laugh. “Maybe now he’ll take school a little more seriously.” He turns to me. “Now, I know it’s always been a dream of yours to go pro.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What if I told you I had a college friend who happens to recruit for the Yankees?”

“I’d say you have friends in high places, Sir.”

“He wants to come watch you pitch, Graham.”

“What?”

“It’s not a promise of anything. Now, with that being said, you know the draft rules, but this could be big. Especially if you keep slinging balls like you’ve been.”

Coach is referring to the Major League Baseball rules. A player can enter the draft right out of high school. If he goes to college, he’s not eligible until his junior year or his twenty-first birthday. As a twenty-year-old sophomore, I’ll have to bide my time until next year, either way.

“Do you think I have a chance, Coach?”

“What do you think? What I think doesn’t matter.”

“My pitching has been clean and consistent. My mind sure is in the game.”

“Good.” He slaps me on the back and heads out of the field.

Unlike Coach Hagen in high school, Coach Boone keeps his players at arms-length. He gets to know us, but never too deep. His main focus is the game. Coach Hagen was nosy and nurturing, so the first time I saw Coach Boone on campus, I wasn’t sure what to think of his curt nod. Now I know it’s just the type of man he is. The first time I witnessed him running bases with his son, he became more human and less of a robot.