Hitting the Curve Read online

  Somehow her indifference aggravates me more than Coach, this professor, and eight AM on a Monday morning combined.

  “Good. Now we’ll continue going over the syllabus,” Thorburn continues the moment my ass hits the seat. “This class has several unconventional methods. Most classes will build you up over the semester and end with a big project. I do the opposite. I have no time for people who aren’t willing to put in the effort, and I believe in separating the wheat —” She glances at me.

  No. The girl next to me. The ghost of a smile appears on her face for a half-second. “ — from the chaff.”

  Now her eyes cut to me. The smile threatening her face finally appears: the predatory show of teeth of a shark who has smelled blood in the water.

  “This project is pass or fail. It is due in one week. No excuses, not even from Coaches.”

  Fine. Come and get it. I’ve been proving people wrong my entire life, lady.

  Chapter 3

  Charity

  And the ball goes up and the ball comes down. Swings his bat all the way around. The world’s so still he can hear the sound. The baseball falls to the ground. — Kenny Rogers, ‘The Greatest’

  “Hey, there’s a baseball game tonight. First practice game of the year. Want to come?” Pru’s waiting for me to carefully pack up my things, seemingly oblivious to the slight tremble in my hands as I do.

  I guess I should be happy that the rest of the class can’t hear the way my heart is pounding through my ribcage. My new bestie’s mention of baseball doesn’t do much to ease my wayward pulse. I cast a quick glance at the seat next to me, but it’s already empty.

  No big surprise there. I wasn’t exactly expecting the gorgeous stack of muscles to wait around, especially not after his star-spangled entrance.

  Still— Holy Louisville Slugger, Batman.

  I’m not sure if it’s all the talk about orgasms, the swagger with which he sauntered late into Thorburn’s lecture, or just the sheer beauty of his physical form. But the green-eyed god who sat on the other side of me for the duration of class took my breath away more completely than any sex-themed assignment ever could. For the first time in my academic career, I can’t remember a single word of a lecture. It’s maddening.

  He’s maddening.

  Even now, with the last of our classmates filing out of the room in a rumble of complaints and plans, his scent lingers. I may never be able to dislodge the combination of fresh air, magnolia trees, and battered leather from my psyche ever again.

  “Um. I have to work tonight.” It’s not a copout. Not entirely, anyway. I do have a shift at Gone Wired, the campus coffee shop where I work part-time to pay for little luxuries like food and textbooks. “Besides, I really should start working on this project before—”

  “Levi will be there,” Pru interrupts me with a wicked half-smile.

  “Who?” My voice cracks, sending a flood of telltale heat rushing to my face.

  “Levi Miller.” The faux innocent act doesn’t really work on Pru, but she makes a show of batting her black eyelashes at me anyway. “You know, the dreamboat all-star pitcher you were mooning over during class instead of paying attention like a good girl?”

  “I was not mooning!” I cry out far too loudly. My mortification bounces off the walls and echoes back loudly in my own hot ears. Just the sound of Levi’s name makes me feel like a ten-year-old at her first boy-band concert.

  “I’ll save you a spot!” Pru’s cackle follows her out the door.

  Whether because of aggravation or embarrassment, I take my time strolling out after her. My next class isn’t for thirty-six minutes— twice as long as I’ll need to get to the math and science building.

  “Mooning, huh?” A deep voice catches me off guard the moment I step into the hall.

  I hadn’t noticed anyone standing outside the doorway, assumed the rest of the class had long since split. When I turn to look, I’m even more surprised. The last person I expect to see leaning casually against the wall is—

  “Levi?”

  His tan face creases into a smile. Impossibly, it makes him even better looking. His green eyes are razor-sharp. I feel them slice right through me the second he turns that lopsided grin in my direction. One deep dimple etches the smooth perfection of his otherwise angular, chiseled face when he realizes I already know his name. It’s unfair, how good looking he is.

  “Charity, right?” Levi swings both a backpack and massive LSU gym bag easily from one shoulder to another, falling into step beside me.

  I keep my gaze straight ahead as we walk. If I were a different kind of girl— more like Pru, maybe— I’d take a chance. Do something. Anything. Look back at him. Flirt, maybe? Why don’t they teach classes on flirting? Like makeup, it’s the kind of skill I’ve managed to never really absorb, but know I should have.

  “Look at the two of us, paying attention during attendance.” I wince internally at the dry air of indifference in my own voice. “Maybe we’ll get through this semester after all.”

  Oh Charity, why can’t you just be a normal girl?

  To my surprise, Levi isn’t the least bit put off by my awkward, stand-offish attitude. He just throws his head back and barks out a laugh.

  I do stop now, looking up at him. Looking at Levi’s face is like looking straight at the sun. He’s brilliant; bright to the point of blinding. Probably just as dangerous, too.

  I’ve never really considered how tall athletes are. Then again, I’ve never really invested a lot of thought or energy in sports and extracurricular activities in general. Levi is tall enough that I have to tilt my head back to see all of him. And there is a lot of him to see. The thick, corded muscles of his body strain the confines of his wrinkled Ralph Lauren polo.

  “Do you need something, Levi?” I mean to sound cool and dismissive, but it just sounds like I’m genuinely baffled by his very existence.

  “You.” He says it without a trace of humor, that beautiful face set in a look of complete seriousness.

  My mouth goes dry, in sharp contrast to the rest of my body.

  I watch Levi Miller’s forest-green eyes drag their way down my tee-shirt, over my leggings, and back up to my face.

  “I wanted to see what time works best for my partner— so we can work on our women’s studies project,” he goes on smoothly as if he hadn’t just yanked the floor out from under me. “On The Female Orgasm. Why don’t you come by the game tonight and we can talk about it?”

  “Partn— I don’t do group sex projects. I mean, I do my women’s sex work alone. I mean—” I close my eyes, willing my brain to calm down and stop misfiring for five blessed seconds.

  Now would be a great time for a miniature hurricane to come and whoosh me away. My own personal Katrina.

  To his benefit, Levi is still standing there when I open them again. He isn’t even laughing.

  “I’ll try and make it after work.”

  I think of a million better responses. Funny brush offs, witty one-liners. Even the kind of sexy quips I have stored away from the steamy romance novels I keep stashed away under my bed for an occasional Sunday afternoon indulgence. Not that they ever do any good. No matter how hot a book is, my own fingers have never been good enough to scratch that itch.

  But they all come to me later. Hours later, long after Levi and his brilliant smile walk away, whistling Take Me Out to the Ball Game.

  Chapter 4

  Levi

  Well I spent some time in the Mudville nine. Watching it from the bench. You know I took some lumps when the mighty Case struck out.

  “Head’s up!”

  Trevor’s voice resounds over the clatter of bats slamming into baseballs and the uproar of college athletes that surrounds me.

  My cleats skid across the artificial turf as I dart back. Not for the first time in my life, I offer up silent thanks for my reflexes.

  The barreling projectile misses my nose by millimeters. A batting cage fastball comes rocketing out of the machine at a
solid ninety-five miles per hour. That’s more than enough speed to do some serious damage to my money maker. Worse, it would keep me from playing in tonight’s game, and I just managed to get Charity to agree to swing by after work.

  “Gotta stop daydreaming out there, Miller.” Trevor waits for the machine to power down before opening up the cage and joining me. “How are we supposed to mop up all the broken hearts in your wake if you’re just as ugly as the rest of us?”

  I have to laugh. A lifelong athlete who grew up on his family’s horse ranch, Trevor is anything but ugly. Being a catcher isn’t as flashy as being the star pitcher, but he still pulls down more than his fair share of ladies.

  “Trev,” I shake my head as I unsnap my batting gloves. “Don’t hate on me just because my batting average would still be higher than yours even if I dozed off every other pitch.”

  He shrugs from the cage beside me, coming over to stand next to the chain link, fingers weaving through it as he leans into it. Trev is big enough that it sags under his substantial physique.

  “Come on, Miller. What’s got you all up in your head? Girl trouble?” He asks innocently.

  We’ve been best friends for almost our entire collegiate career. I groan at his question. Trevor is about as subtle as the fastballs launching out of the pitching machine.

  “Who told you?” I grumble as I stretch out first one leg and then another.

  “No one, brother.” Trevor’s face is innocence personified. “I just know you. You had that same look on your face freshman year when you were chasing that cheerleader, what was her name?”

  “She wasn’t a cheerleader, she played volleyball. I wasn’t chasing, she just was a remarkable athlete.” I murmur, pulling my gloves back on and snugging them down.

  “Yeah, sure thing buddy. I’m just saying, you were worse than useless until you got her out of your system. Whatever you’ve got going on, you better do the same thing. We’ve got a lot on the line this semester.” Trevor turns his back to me, stepping up to his own plate.

  I grab the bat and hit the remote for the machine to start tossing balls at me again. As I begin to slam them back, my mind begins to wander again. Picturing Charity and her flustered response to my question. I can’t help but crack a smile at the memory.

  I think about the opposing team’s line-up. I really should have reviewed the tape from the last time we played, like I normally do, but I was much too distracted. Images of Charity’s curves kept superimposing themselves over the screen every time I tried to focus.

  Damn it. I really hate it when Trevor has a point. It’s even worse than Coach calling me out.

  Mentally, I begin to map out the weaknesses in the other team. Who can't handle the heat, who I need to mind in-game, who to watch out for.

  So many people are awed by the speed and precision of my pitches, but they see it as a gift from on high, or just pure luck. They don’t see the hours of practice or the long nights spent studying. Baseball is a thinking man’s game. I just have to make Charity see that.

  Ugh. Trevor really is right. As much as I want to fixate on the blonde beauty, I really have to keep my wits about me. This is our last semester, and if I want to make it in the Show — if I want to prove that everyone was wrong about me — then I’ve got to bring nothing but my A-game.

  I tug my cap down and slam another home-run back at the machine.

  “That’s alright,” I whisper, “bringing my A-game is what I do best.”

  Despite my resolution, my eyes scan the crowd gathering around the fence, hoping to see a pair of blue eyes peeking out at me from between blonde curls. It’s the same kind of desperate hope I used to get as a kid at Christmas — always hoping that there would be a present under the tree, even after years of disappointment.

  Trevor once called me a hopeless romantic. We were shitfaced drunk, but he wasn’t too far off the mark.

  I’m not hopeless, though. Just hopeful.

  Chapter 5

  Charity

  Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Woo oo ooo. What’s that you say, Mrs. Robinson? Joltin’ Joe has left and gone away? — Simon and Garfunkel, ‘Mrs. Robbinson’

  The sun is already down by the time I leave Gone Wired hours later.

  An early-evening breeze takes the edge off the worst of the heat, making it tolerable to be outside for the first time all day. Despite the lingering humidity, clusters of students are taking advantage of the drop in temperature, crowding around the coffee shop’s outdoor tables with their iced drinks. Here and there, couples are braving the mosquitos, stretching out on the verdant lawn to watch the stars appear.

  I don’t acknowledge the way my battered sneakers point their way toward the baseball field on the other side of campus of their own accord. Not even to myself. It might be the first time I’ve done anything besides head straight back to my dorm room after a shift. Whether that makes me studious or boring I’m still not sure.

  I tell myself that the flutter in my chest is just the excitement of doing something new, or nervous energy stemming from pushing myself past my usual boundaries.

  That facade falls away the moment I step onto the bleachers.

  I’ve seen baseball games on television before. One of my better foster families was fond of watching just about every sport imaginable around the dinner table. Their polite cheers over spaghetti and meatballs were always an interesting, if a little dull, way to spend an evening. A nice facsimile of the All American Family Experience, if nothing else.

  Being here, beneath the bright lights of the stadium? Everything is different.

  The smell of freshly cut grass and the bright bite of yellow mustard permeate the air. The line for the concession stand snakes its way past me as I walk in, and the laughter of students trickles over me like rain. There’s an infectious energy to the place, an excitement that I pick up just being here.

  Crack!

  I whip my head around just in time to catch the briefest glimpse of a white uniform and the blur of a purple cap run past the fence nearest me. The roar of the crowd rises to a near-deafening pitch. According to the massive LED scoreboard over the field, I’ve made it in time for the sixth inning, and the score just tied up at four runs.

  “Charity! You made it! Over here!” Pru’s voice makes its way to me over the uproar.

  It doesn’t take long to wind my way to my new friend. She’s sitting with a group of girls I don’t immediately recognize, but quickly introduces me around the group like a long lost relative.

  “Here,” The redhead sitting behind us passes me a striped box of popcorn. “Everyone knows baseball games are about snacks.” Even though it’s getting to be full night now, she’s wearing a wide-brimmed summer hat. I can’t blame her, the smattering of freckles across her nose and alabaster cheeks all but scream sunburn-in-the-making.

  “Oh, Charity knows all about snacks.” Pru giggles wickedly, nudging my shoulder.

  I don’t entirely understand the uproar of girlish laughter that rises up around me. Until I look where she’s motioning, at the field ahead of us.

  The teams are switching sides, with our own Tigers taking the outfield. Levi is unmissable. He doesn’t walk, he swaggers out to the mound. Even from where I’m sitting, it’s a striking sight. Gone is the slightly out-of-breath student that came in late to Thorburn’s class this morning. The difference is distinct, unmistakable.

  And so fucking sexy.

  A hush settles over the crowd as he winds up for his first pitch. It’s almost religious; a reverence that a gathering of this size rarely manages on its own.

  In an instant, I see why.

  Levi’s arm is a cannon. His pitch explodes with power and precision, barreling out from the mound and into the catcher’s mitt so fast and so accurate that I find myself wishing for a real-life instant replay button.

  “Holy shit.” I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud until I hear Pru laughing softly beside me.
/>   There’s no malice in it, though. She just leans in, grabbing a handful of popcorn out of my bucket.

  “Oh yeah, honey. You chose a hell of a guy to fall for. Levi Miller is a stud.” Pru nods sagely.

  “I haven’t fallen for Levi,” It doesn’t come out nearly as vehemently as I intend. Is it really written all over my face? Great, just what I need.

  “He really is a stud.” I finally concede to a chorus of sighs as Levi launches another perfect pitch into the catcher’s mitt.

  We watch as he strikes out two batters in a row. They storm off, the second hurling his bat down in a string of colorful insults. Through it all, Levi never loses his composure. Gone is the cocky, arrogant college student from this afternoon. Levi on the field is possessed of a single-minded focus.

  It’s inspiring, fascinating to watch, and brutally arousing.

  The third batter nearly makes it to second base in a blinding slide and a cloud of dirt. When the dust settles, the umpire’s call is loud and crystal clear.

  You’re Out!

  My throat goes hoarse from cheering along with the girls around me. My heart is racing, thumping loudly in my chest. Even my face hurts from smiling so wide for so long. I can’t ever remember having this much fun, certainly not on a random work night when I have class the next day. It feels damn near sinful.

  The seventh-inning stretch kicks off, music blaring over the speakers. I find myself anxious for the game to resume, excited to see the scoreboard tick upwards in our direction. In a single instant, I take a deep breath and get it. This is why people love sports so much.

  “Studmuffin, twelve o’clock.” Pru leans in conspiratorially.

  I don’t have time to ask what she means. Before I get the chance, there’s a solid thud on the metal bleachers, the unmistakable feel of weight shifting in front of us. Most of the spectators around us have thinned out, taking advantage of the long break to make a bathroom run or hit the beer and hot dog stand.