Chapter Twenty-Three

Alyssa

When Alyssa came into work Saturday, she had to stop and stare at the bright white, brand-new netting stretched across the back of the cages. She’d done that, and it made everything look new. Good thing, because that was all she had going for her at the moment.

She’d hoped Lauren would come around, that something as simple as a guy wouldn’t come between them, but she’d underestimated her friend’s ability to hold a grudge.

Alyssa choked back a humorless laugh as she fiddled with the guts of cage five’s pitching machine. Lauren’s ability to hold a grudge was legendary. If she was being honest with herself, Alyssa had to admit that, before, she hadn’t cared.

Other than a pair of middle school girls who had the look of select-team softball players, the building was quiet. Too quiet for a Saturday. Dad was in his office, probably staring at the pile of bills, willing them to shrink before his eyes.

Alyssa’s chest heaved with rage. Rage with no outlet. She didn’t like saying it wasn’t fair—what was?—but she thought they would’ve caught a break by now. If we go under, I bought those new nets for nothing.

She slammed her screwdriver into the pitching machine’s side. Being selfish didn’t help things. Action did, but she was fresh out of ideas.

Alyssa sat on the floor, leaning against the machine, and covered her face. What more could she do? Was there anything else? Could she swallow her pride and work at Top Sports? It seemed like she’d have to. She needed a job.

The bell at the front door dinged, and she forced herself up. “Coming!”

She rounded the corner…and there was Tristan. He had his bag slung over his shoulder and was wearing one of those tight, sleeveless Under Armor shirts. Miles of tan, strong arms were on display, but she couldn’t bring herself to ogle them.

With Lauren on a rampage, and Dylan hurt, she needed to stay away. What was that about things not being fair?

“I, um, I need the practice.” He flushed and stared at the floor. “I had some issues last night.”

She nodded wearily. “My dad told me—he went to the game. Cage eight is open if you want it.”

His expression turned hopeful. “Any chance you could give me some pointers?”

Alyssa held up her screwdriver. “I’m still working on the pitching machine in five.”

“Right.” The disappointment on his face made her bones ache. “If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”

He trudged down the lane and opened the cage door.

Alyssa stayed at the counter and waited. A few minutes later, the pitching machine whirred and clicked. No ting! followed.

No. Let him work it out. Alyssa polished the countertop with a rag she kept on a shelf below the register. He doesn’t need you. You don’t need him.

Her heart ached… It knew she was lying to herself, and it made sure to let her know. She wiped the counter down with more vigor, scrubbing at a years-old coffee stain. The thing was never coming up, but she was going to scrub it until the counter cracked if that was what it took.

No matter how hard she worked, her ear automatically registered everything going on in cage eight. Too many years spent listening to batters was an impossible habit to break. The machine threw another ball. No hit. And another. And another.

This time the miss was followed by a “goddamn it!” The woman waiting on the two softball girls lowered her magazine and frowned. She shot Alyssa a look.

Alyssa bit the inside of her cheek. Nothing for it… She had to go down there. She nodded at the woman. “I’ll tell him to keep it down.”

She dropped her rag back on the shelf, steeled herself, and walked down to Tristan’s cage. The machine was on pause, and he was sitting on the bench with his head bowed and his hands dug into his hair. His bat lay tossed away in the far corner.

Alyssa blinked back stinging tears. This guy was wrecked…and she had a nasty feeling it was partly her fault. Gathering up her courage, she cleared her throat.

Tristan’s head popped up. His face was a picture of pure misery. “What?”

If he’d snapped at her like that earlier, she would’ve jerked back and glared at him. Today, she opened the cage door and gave his shoulder a push to nudge him over on the bench. To her surprise, he moved without arguing.

The bench was narrow enough that they had to sit shoulder to shoulder, and the warmth of his skin made her regret all her decisions the last several days. “You’re overthinking it, Murrell. Your head space is full of ugly, and it’s tearing you apart, taking your batting skills with it.”

“Kind of hard to be all unicorns and daisies when my best friend has written me off and the girl I like pushed me away.” He looked at her, and his eyes seared her down to her soul. “Dylan might get over it, he might not. But, Alyssa, I want to give us a try anyway.”

She let herself lean against Tristan’s side. In a way, he was right. If everything else was going to hell, why shouldn’t she see what could happen with him? Lauren probably wouldn’t get over it, but she was going to be pissy whether Alyssa dated Tristan or not, now that the cat was out of the bag.

“Why?” she asked. “Why me?”

He laughed softly. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” She shifted to face him. “Why am I enough to possibly lose your best friend?”

His eyes widened. “You really don’t know, do you?”

She shrugged. “You like curly hair and curves. And I know about baseball. But that’s not really enough.”

“You’re funny and determined. You put me in my place.” He grinned, slow, and she flushed. “And, like I said, I like a girl who knows how to fix things. Batters, pitching machines, whatever else. You aren’t one of those ‘flirty one minute, sulky the next’ kind of girls. You’re the real deal.”

Alyssa stared down at her hands. She’d always found them too…capable. Not delicate enough. But what if capable was a good thing? What if practical wasn’t a curse? “Oh.”

He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Now, you. Why am I enough to write off Lauren?”

Alyssa smiled up at him. “Well, you’ve met her.”

Tristan laughed. “That I did. What else?”

“I don’t know. I’ve known a lot of ballplayers. Most of them are players off the field, too. Looking for a quick hit, an easy score. You go deeper. You look at things on a different level.” She stared into his eyes. They were such a warm brown that she felt like she could fall into them and drift. “And you like girls who wield screwdrivers. Some guys are threatened by that. My last boyfriend, for example. I wasn’t ‘girly’ enough for him. Too much time in running shorts and not enough time in skirts.”

Tristan shook his head. “He was an idiot.”

“I don’t know. I don’t really fit the mold, you know?” Still, her heart swelled a little to hear that a guy could like her for her. “And…I’d like to give us a try, too.”

“Good.” His face moved closer to hers. “I needed to hear that.”

Then he was kissing her, and it felt so right. The way his lips moved softly against hers, not demanding anything. She scooted a little closer and slipped an arm around his waist, hoping her dad wasn’t lurking nearby. Tristan smiled against her mouth and toyed with her hair. It was so sweet she wanted to do this all afternoon.

“Jesus, Murrell. Get a room.” A guy honked out the most annoying laugh Alyssa had ever had the misfortune of hearing. “There’s no kissing in baseball, man.”

Alyssa jumped—the voice had come from the next cage over. Usually cage seven’s door creaked, but she hadn’t heard a thing. She hadn’t even heard the bell over the front door ding.

Tristan was bad for her concentration.

He pressed his forehead against Alyssa’s. “Excuse me while I go punch Jackson.”

She pulled away and winked at him. “You like strong girls? Watch this.”

She got up and leaned against the fence between the two cages. “Tell you what. You can talk trash all you want, so long as you get a hit before I do.”

Jackson, a stocky kid with the look of a pampered pitcher, rolled his eyes. “You’re on.”

She picked up Tristan’s bat and rolled her shoulders. “You’re up, sunshine,” she told Jackson.

“You’re letting me go first? Bad idea, sweetheart.”

“Did you just call her ‘sweetheart,’ asshole?” Tristan barked.

Jackson laughed and started his machine. Whir, click, pitch—a slider. Jackson swung, caught the edge of it, and smirked. “I win, sweetheart.”

“I said a hit, not a foul ball. That’s a strike.” Alyssa smirked right back. “At least get the rules right before you talk crap.”

She punched the pitch button on her machine. A moment later a ball flew out—fastball, low. Alyssa swung with her whole body.

Ting!

The ball sailed out into the middle pit. Alyssa paused the machine and put a hand on her hip. “From now on, you use your manners in my house, got it?”

Jackson stared at her. “What the hell was that?”

Tristan was laughing so hard he almost fell over on the bench. “I could’ve warned you, but why? You had it coming.”

Jackson grumbled something under his breath and turned his machine back on.

Alyssa handed the bat to Tristan. “I really do need to get back to work, but I want to watch you take a swing first.”

Tristan drew a deep breath and nodded. “Here goes nothing.”

“Good head space. Slow down.” She smiled encouragingly and backed out of the cage. Tristan started the machine, and it pitched him an off-speed changeup. He swung, and immediately Alyssa could see a difference. His movement was looser, more confident. He cracked the ball right off the sweet spot of his bat, and it flew out to the middle pit and landed almost next to hers.

He grinned over his shoulder. “Coach needs to hire you as the batting assistant. I’m serious.”

“Nah, I’d curse out his players and get fired.” She grinned back. “Keep after it. I’m going to wrestle with a pitching machine for a while.”

“Wanna wrestle with a pitcher instead?” Jackson called. “I’m available.”

Alyssa turned a glare on him. “No, thank you. I have too much self-respect.”

She left Tristan howling with laughter and stalked up front to grab her tool kit. What was with diva pitchers not thinking girls knew their own minds? First Dylan refused to believe she was turning him down, and now Jackson acted like an asshat—in front of a guy she’d just kissed.

She opened the door to cage five and pulled the cover off the pitching machine. It was hard to focus on the task, because her thoughts kept wandering back to Tristan, especially since the sound of a bat hitting a baseball came regularly from cage eight. He was doing better—was she his good luck charm? She’d gladly claim that title if it made him happy. It made her happy, too.

She lost track of time, and before long, a shadow fell over her and the obstinate pitching machine. Alyssa turned, and Tristan was smiling down at her. “Is it behaving yet?”

“No.” She pushed herself up and dusted off her jeans. “I think it’s probably hopeless. These machines are almost as old as I am. We need new ones, which sucks, because we can’t afford new ones.”

Tristan wound an arm around her waist. “I hate that. This is a nice place. It’s real. I wish I could help.”

“Being sweet always helps.” She shoved a few strands of hair over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

He pulled her into a full hug, and she leaned in, enjoying the feel of his body against hers. Why couldn’t other things be as simple as a good hug from a cute guy?

“I better go. My mom told me if my room wasn’t clean by sundown I’d lose my car for a week.” He grimaced. “It’s going to take that long to clean it.

Alyssa laughed. “Good luck with that. See you tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “I wish, but my family is having a brunch thing. My brother’s coming home from college today, and we’re celebrating by avoiding my mom’s cooking. Monday?”

She smiled, feeling shy. “Monday.”

He left, whistling, and she skipped to the front desk. A new lightness had settled in her soul. Something with Tristan might work out after all. He knew how to make her feel like she was special, and it seemed like she could do the same for him. This could even be the real deal, in the long run. Time would tell, but she had a good feeling.

Jackson came by the front desk, strutting like a peacock. “You have him all tied up, huh?”

Alyssa cocked her head, meeting his stare head-on. “So?”

“Guess he took my advice.” Jackson headed for the door. “He found a slumpbuster.”

Alyssa felt the blood drain from her face even as a cold, hard rage built in her chest. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” She came around the counter, glaring a hole in his forehead. “I’ve been around baseball and baseball players my entire life, and I know what a slumpbuster is.”

“Good.” Jackson winked at her. “Then I won’t have to explain it. I told him he needed to find himself one last week, and here you are. He did good.”

He walked out the door, leaving her spluttering curses at his back.

Once the anger faded, though, tears filled her eyes. Was Jackson just being a nasty piece of work, or could it be true? Tristan’s arrival had been perfect—too perfect. What if showing up at Swing Away was a calculated move?

What if he was using her, the homeliest girl he could find, to break his slump?

If he was, how lucky could one guy be? He’d found not only the perfect slumpbuster, but a girl who knew the sport well enough to fix technical issues, too.

Her stomach roiled. What if she’d not only been set up but had risked losing her best friend on a bad bet?

Every hurt from the last week came crashing down on her at once, and Alyssa sank down behind the counter and cried.