Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(12)

“No.”

I hear her sharp intake of air and the guilt of hurting her punches me in the stomach.

“It’s just baseball,” she rushes out.

How can I make her understand? Beyond the fence is a raised mound, a trail of dirt leading to four bases all surrounded by a groomed green field. It’s the only place where I’ve felt like I belonged.

“Baseball isn’t just a game. It’s the smell of popcorn drifting in the air, the sight of bugs buzzing near the stadium lights, the roughness of the dirt beneath your cleats. It’s the anticipation building in your chest as the anthem plays, the adrenaline rush when your bat cracks against the ball, and the surge of blood when the umpire shouts strike after you pitch. It’s a team full of guys backing your every move, a bleacher full of people cheering you on. It’s…life.”

The clapping of hands to my right causes me to jump out of my skin. In pink hair and a matching swimsuit cover-up, my junior

English teacher and soon-to-be senior English teacher stops the annoying sound and raises her hands to her chin as if in prayer. “That was poetry, Ryan.”

Gwen and I share a what-the-hell look before returning our stares to Mrs. Rowe.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

She picks her beach bag up off the ground and swings it. “The pool closed for the night. I saw you and Ms. Gardner and decided to remind the two of you that your first personal essay is due to me on Monday.”

Gwen’s boots stamp on the ground as she switches legs again. A month ago, Mrs. Rowe tried to ruin everyone’s vacation with a summer homework assignment.

“I’m so excited to read them,” she continues.

“I’m assuming you’ve completed yours?”

Haven’t even started. “Yeah.”

Gwen stands and readjusts Mike’s ring on her finger. “I’ve gotta go.” And she does.

Without another word. I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my feet, waiting for Mrs.

Rowe to follow Gwen’s lead. I’ve got a ritual to complete.

Obviously having no intention of leaving, Mrs. Rowe leans her shoulder against the dugout entrance. “I wasn’t kidding about what you said, Ryan. You showed a lot of talent in my class last year. Between that and what I just heard, I’d say you have the voice of a writer.”

I snort a laugh. Sure, that class was more interesting than math, but… “I’m a ballplayer.”

“Yes, and from what I hear a fine one, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be both.”

Mrs. Rowe is always looking for a book convert. She even started a literary club at school last year. My name isn’t on that roster.

“I’ve got a friend waiting for me.”

She glances over her shoulder toward

Chris’s truck. “Please tell Mr. Jones that his paper is also due on Monday.”

“Sure.”

Again I wait for her to leave. Again she doesn’t. She just stands there. Uncomfortable, I mumble a goodbye and head for the parking lot.

I try to shake off the irritating itch embedded in my neck, but I can’t. That moment on the mound is hallowed ground. A need. A must.

My mother calls it a superstition. I’ll call it whatever she wants, but in order for me to win the next game, I have to stand on that mound again—by myself—and figure out the mistake I made with my curveball.

If not, it means bad mojo. For the team. For my pitch. For my life.

With his head tilted back and eyes closed, Chris sits in his old black Ford. His door hangs wide open. Chris worked his ass off for that truck. He plowed his granddaddy’s cornfield this summer in return for a leaky truck that rolled off the line when we were seven.

“I told you to head home.”

He keeps his eyes closed. “I told you to let the bad throw go.”

“I did.” We both know I didn’t.

Chris comes to life, closes the door, and turns over the motor. “Hop in. We’ve got a party to go to that will make you forget.”

“I’ve got a ride.” I motion to my Jeep, parked next to his truck.

“My goal is to make sure you ain’t gonna be fit to drive home.” He revs the engine to keep it from stalling out. “Let’s go.”

Beth

OFFICER MONROE PUSHES OFF THE WALL the moment I slip out of the girls’ bathroom.

“Beth.”

I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m not real giddy for the long-lost uncle reunion either. I pause, folding my arms over my chest. “I thought I was free.”

“You are.” Officer Monroe has clearly mastered the Johnny Depp puppy-dog eyes.

“When you’re ready to tell me what happened last night, I want you to call.” He holds out a card.

Never going to happen. I would rather die than send Mom to jail. I brush past him and walk into the lobby. Hurting my eyes, the sun glares through the windows and the glass doors. I blink away the brightness and spot Isaiah, Noah, and Echo. Isaiah leaps to his feet, but Noah puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers something to him, nodding to the left.

Isaiah stays still. His steely-gray eyes implore me to come to him. I want to. More than anything.

Two people cross in front of Isaiah, and pain slices my chest. It’s my mom. Like some sort of deranged baby monkey, she clings to her ass**le boyfriend. Her eyes are desperate. She sucks her cheeks in as if she’s trying to hold back tears. That bastard has engulfed her in his disgusting life. I swear to God, I’m going to drag her back out.