BASEBALL AND FISHING. Two harmless pastimes that, in Abby Cushman’s hands, became all-out, fight-or-die battles.
“Batter up!” Ross stood at the mound of their makeshift baseball diamond in the middle of a field and tried to hide the fact that he felt thirteen again. A heady thrill rushed through him as Abby picked up a bat and sauntered toward the plate.
Home-run Abby up to bat. He wondered if he’d be able to pitch when every muscle in his body felt as tight as a fifteen-pound line playing a muskie. “Ready, batter?”
She measured her stance, balanced her weight, then lifted the bat and stared him down. It whooshed him back about a decade. She’d tied her brown, glossy hair in a ponytail and pushed up the sleeves of her blue Bethel sweatshirt. Her thin arms still rippled with strength, and her face set in a grim line.
“Come on, Abigail!” someone shouted from the sideline.
No. C’mon, Babe. My home-run gal. Pop it into the trees. He swallowed hard and forced a grin, wondering if she too remembered the day she’d given him a shiner or the night he’d tossed her a snowball pitch, and she’d decimated his heart with a kiss that still made him a little weak.
“Ready, pitch,” she called and choked up on the bat.
He wound up and sailed a slider right past her.
She jerked, then glared at him. “That took off skin, 23!”
He nearly missed the throwback. She’d called him by his number.
She planted her feet, adjusted her weight. “Gimme a fastball.”
Was she baiting him? He glanced toward the first baseman, meeting Melinda’s gaze. She was all grins.
He wound up. A beautiful curve, fast and inside.
Abby swished. Oh, did it make her mad. He could nearly see smoke spiraling from her ears as she took a practice swing. He winced, glad he wasn’t at the other end of the bat. Again, Abby was going all out to win. Only, what was she aiming for? Hoping to remind him of a sweet and precious friendship that meant more to him than it should have? He didn’t care. Abby was in his line of sight, and if she wanted a fastball, he’d deliver.
“Okay, homer, this one is for you.” He knew he’d just bared his heart and didn’t care. Finally. He and Abby. One-on-one. Thank You, Lord.
Fastball, down the middle, a perfect strike. Abby connected with a bone-splitting crack.
The baseball line-drived past his head and over second, hit the ground, then bounced wickedly on the uneven ground.
“Run, Abby!” He hoped the New Lifers didn’t hear him cheering his lungs out.
Abby tossed the bat and took off. She still balled her fists when she ran, still tucked her head down like a charging bull. Seeing it made him ache.
She rounded first to a screaming crowd while the New Lifers scrambled after the ball. Bucko, out in left, ran after the still-bouncing ball and leaped on it. Abby sailed past second and floored it to third.
Run home, Babe! Ross backed up toward home, his mitt high. “Bucko, over here!”
Bucko threw a hand-smacking sizzler, and Ross caught it without flinching as Abby rounded third. He whirled and bolted for home.
He heard her breath when she hit the dirt, arms out, and a second later he tagged her in a dive and roll.
Silence, heavy breaths, then —
“Safe!” Melinda yelled, abandoning first to ump at home. She grinned down at Abby. “Girlfriend, you sure can hit ’em!”
Ross sat up, breathing hard, feeling like he’d peeled off a layer of skin from his back. Abby had an ugly scrape on her chin and weed burn down her arms, but she smiled at him in triumph, lifting her chin.
Ross shook his head. “That’s my home-run gal.”
To his utter shock, her smile crumbled, and tears filled her eyes. Then, as the crowd cheered their hero, Abby jumped up and sprinted toward camp.
What an idiot. A downright fool!
Abigail ran into the cookshack and slammed the door, her heart threatening to continue the race, hop in her Honda, and floor it south.
What had she been thinking? Home-run gal. She was a glutton for punishment, marching up to the plate and toying with Ross like they were old friends.
They were old friends. As in past tense. Worn-out. Thrown away. Abigail sank to the floor. Then why did his smile feel like fire ravaging her chest?
Her shoulders shook as her emotions wrung out into her hands. She’d been possessed by some errant emotion, one that had her believing she was immune to Ross’s smile. Even worse, she’d heard him cheering as she ran the bases, and for a brief second, she’d longed for Ross to truly mean the words he’d spoken. My home-run gal.
She should abandon this farce and return to Bethel, to the safety of her off-campus apartment and her solid future wrapping her brain around Greek conjugations. She wasn’t made to be a part of Ross’s multitudes. Especially if she was going to burst into tears every time he made her feel one of a kind.
“Abby?”
His voice, soft like a breeze, filtered through the door. She stiffened. Maybe if she was very, very quiet —
“I know you’re in there. Please open the door.”
She cringed. “No. Go away.” Do your mocking out of my earshot, please.
“No. We’ve been avoiding each other for too long. I want —no, I need —to talk to you. Please.”
The pleading at the end of his voice made her traitorous heart jump to attention. Her voice too. “What do you want to say?”
“Open the door.”
And let him see her red, blotchy face? No thank you. “I guess we don’t have anything to talk about.”
“No, wait. Yes, we do. I —”
She imagined him, one hand resting against the door, rubbing his forehead on his upper arm, then touching it to the door. She even heard a faint bump. “I’m . . . Well, I just want to say I’m sorry.”
Her throat tightened.
“I know I hurt you. I was young and stupid and . . . well, hurting. I am so sorry. Can’t we just, you know, put it behind us?”
Abigail gritted her teeth, but tears leaked out. “I was hurting too.”
And with that admission, the grief returned. Scotty’s funeral. The Cushman family lined up behind the Springers, the way Karen Springer held Abigail like a daughter, the shame of knowing she never loved Scotty the way everyone wanted her to. She felt she ought to feel torn asunder, so she buried herself in studies and let the gossip swirl around her. Scotty’s girl, they called her, and she couldn’t deny it without marring Scotty’s precious memory. Instead, she claimed a table in the far side of the library, avoided Ross like the flu, and tried to find a way to tell him the truth without looking like a two-timing hussy. And then late one night when everyone hustled in after a basketball game to smuggle in some last-minute studying, she’d heard a voice that she knew better than her own.
“Hi, Abby,” he’d said softly, and she’d seen hurt in his eyes. “Tell me the truth —you were in love with Scotty, not me.” As she stood, scraping up words, he ran over her silence and delivered a one-two punch that shattered her heart. “I guess it’s true. Now that Scotty’s gone, the fun’s over. I should have known better.”
His pain, raw in his voice, took her breath away. She stood, gape-mouthed as he stalked away, muttering his final blow. “I hope you and your Greek book live happily ever after.”
“You didn’t let me explain,” she said now, still inside that painful moment.
“I’m so, so sorry, Abby. I shouldn’t have said that. I should have recognized that you were in mourning. I didn’t want to admit how much Scotty meant to you.”
Abigail frowned. “He was my best friend.”
“I know. Now I know. Then, I was . . . jealous. Confused.” She heard another thump and imagined him putting his hand on the door. Inside the cabin, dark shadows shrouded her in anonymous protection.
“But I see now how terribly I treated you. I am so sorry. Please, Abby.”
Abigail took a deep breath, feeling raw and wrung out. She wiped her face and opened the door. He stood in the darkness, his slumped shoulders betraying the pain in his voice. “It’s okay, Ross. I forgave you a long time ago.”
She heard his quick intake of breath and quickly sandbagged her heart. “But my name is Abigail. Not Abby. Not Babe and especially not your home-run gal.”
She heard him stand in silence a good five minutes before he turned and shuffled into the night.