Page 8 of Bad Ball Hitter
“You’re really leaving this town and me behind?” I whispered, hurt and betrayal lacing my voice.
“What do you expect me to do? I’m never going back. And you’ll be heading off to college, too. Our paths changed.”
I stared at him, my heart aching. This was the man who swore he loved me, who promised me forever. Was it all just meaningless words? No. This makes little sense. This isn’t him. “What’s really going on, Drake?”
He looked distraught. Wrecked. He shook his head. “Don’t make this harder.”
“Don’t make this harder?” I screeched. “We’ve been together since we were eight years old. What do you … why are you doing this?”
His hands flexed as if he was trying to keep himself under control. “Trust me. You’ll be better off.”
“What happened to going the distance? You said I was the one, that I was your forever girl.” I thumped my fist against my chest, the necklace he gave me suddenly feeling like a lead weight. “I wear the words next to my heart.”
“I’m sorry, Lila,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. He reached for my hand, but I yanked it away, hugging myself as the world spun around me. “I … I think it’s for the best.”
“Best for who?” My voice sounded hollow, distant. “Best for you?”
He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he gave me one last look filled with regret and remorse. It made my heart ache for him, but I couldn’t bring myself to comfort him. I was the one who always stood up for the Wild Child when everyone else gave up on him. Now, he was giving up on me.
Pride and hurt kept my mouth shut as tears streamed down my face. No matter how much it hurt, I wouldn’t beg him to stay with me. My father had drilled into me never to chase after a man. But damn, it felt like my soul was being ripped apart.
“Fine. I get it. This”—I waved my hand between us—“was just high school. But I was the one who was always there for you. Your constant. I was the one who always stood up for you.” I paused, barely keeping myself together. “Guess not anymore.”
“Don’t be like that.” He reached for me, but I stepped back. He dropped his head and sighed in defeat. “I wish things were different. But Lila, please know that I did love you.”
Did. The final nail in the coffin of our relationship. His attempt at consolation failed miserably, sending my heart spiraling into a bottomless pit.
“Good luck, Drake.” I turned to walk away, leaving him with these parting words, “I hope you make it to the big leagues.”
In less than four months, that searing pain rushed back while scrolling through social media and seeing a picture of Drake with his arm around some leggy brunette, smiling that same smile that used to be mine. A knot formed where my heart should’ve been and hadn’t ever left. Clicking ‘unfollow’ felt like self-preservation, like lancing a wound to let the poison bleed out. But it wasn’t enough. He’d show up on my friend’s account. That was when I deleted my entire social presence. The girl might have been some nameless, faceless body that meant nothing to him, but she meant everything to me. It was a stark revolution that I needed to close the chapter on Drake and shelve the book on the highest shelf possible.
It’s probably childish to be hung up on your high school sweetheart, but what we had was real. Or I thought it was at the time. And the kicker? Nothing has come close ever since.
With a deep breath, I finish grooming Max and step back to admire my work. His coat gleams soft and smooth under the bright lights of the salon.
If only fixing a broken heart was as simple as grooming a dog.
CHAPTER THREE
Drake
Nothing beats the lights burning down on the diamond during a night game at Fenway. Well, other than having the lead instead of being behind in the ninth.
I take my last practice swing and soak in the crowd’s roar. This is our first home game since the All-Star break, and I scored VIP tickets for Miranda. Thrilled doesn’t even cover her reaction when I asked her to come.
My gaze strays to the stands where she’s sitting. That smothering feeling, like hatched cicadas scouring the landscaping every seventeen years, doesn’t hit. I’m surprisingly chill about her being here. Actually, I enjoy knowing she’s in the stands for me. Sure, she likes baseball, but that’s not why I like her here. She showed up for me. Few people come to watch me play.
Not since high school, anyway.
Wiping the sweat off my brow, I glance toward the dugout and lock eyes with tonight’s starting pitcher, Kaplan. Guilt gnaws at me from letting his pitch slip through my glove. Kap’s face is a mask of rage, with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw giving him away. My error cost us the lead and his chance at registering a win.
He isn’t my biggest fan. He’s been giving me shit since spring training like he’s got a personal vendetta. The look he shot my way after Coach pulled him from the game confirmed my suspicions.
I shake loose the thought just as Rappel connects with the ball. Rick, on first, slides to third, and Rappel lands on second base with a double.
The stadium erupts, and fans rise to their feet. Their cheers fade into the background as I step into the batter’s box. The scoreboard glares back at me: bottom of the ninth, two outs, runners on second and third. A single to tie. A double to win.
This is it—the moment that defines heroes.