Chapter Five

Alyssa

Saturday morning, Alyssa awoke curled up around Buddy. Her pillow was damp, and she glared at it. “Cried yourself to sleep, huh? Loser.”

After scratching Buddy behind the ears, she marched to the shower. It was after eight, and Dad usually wanted her at work by now. If she was going to take off early to work with Lauren and Faith on her audition, she needed to hurry. While she washed her hair, begging it to suddenly become sleek and straight, she tried to hold on to some hope that they’d save Swing Away.

Somehow.

When she was ready, she bounded to the kitchen, grabbing an apple on the way out. Mom was still asleep. She needed the rest, so Alyssa put the Honda in neutral and let it roll down the hill before starting it, just to make sure the grumbly engine didn’t wake her. The morning was overcast and humid. They’d have a storm for sure this afternoon. Easy to predict that in mid-May in north Texas. Still, the air had a charge to it that spoke of seventy-mile-per-hour wind gusts and hail the size of oranges.

Swing Away’s “open” sign was glowing in the window, and a few cars were in the lot. One was a minivan, which made her groan. Minivans brought terror to batting cages. A few looked like they belonged to baseball and softball moms—Suburbans with those decals that looked like a baseball had broken the back windshield.

And one newish Mustang.

Okay, that she didn’t see every day.

Alyssa picked up some loose trash on the way inside. Anything to make the place look like somewhere to stop and spend some money.

Dad was at the check-in counter, pouring over a stack of receipts. He looked up when the bell above the door dinged. “Ah, you made it.”

“Sorry.” She paused, listening to the sounds of young elementary school kids arguing and a tired mother’s voice trying to drown them out. “My punishment can be to go untangle whatever that mess is.”

Dad saluted her with his coffee mug—thank God he hadn’t sold the coffee maker for extra cash. She might’ve rioted. Instead, she dropped her backpack off in the little office and strode to the cage where the hellions were currently arguing over a bat.

A bat. They had thirty-seven aluminum bats lying around.

“It’s mine!” a kid who appeared to be eight shouted.

A boy, six maybe, wailed, “No! It’s mine!”

The mom covered her face with her hand. “Boys, stop, or we’ll go.”

Alyssa didn’t believe that for one minute. “Is there a problem?”

“He took my bat!” the older kid said.

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Stop. Now.” Alyssa used her ultra-calm, you-better-listen-or-else voice. “What’s so special about that one?”

“It’s red!” the younger boy said.

“Okay, if you can stand still for sixty seconds without arguing, I might be able to fix this.” She went to the bat rack, not waiting for an answer, because, there in plain view, was an identical bat. “Here.”

The older boy snatched it out of her hands. “This one’s mine!”

“Yeah, but mine’s better.” The younger kid stuck his tongue out.

“Whatever. Play ball.” Alyssa spun on her heel and went back to the front counter. “Dad, please tell me you don’t want grandkids.”

He snorted. “Can you do a sweep of the cages, make sure everything is working?”

“Sure.” She grabbed the small tool bag they kept under the counter, just in case, and started her rounds. Cages two and three held kids from a Little League team. The four of them were practicing under the watchful eye of their coach. The next one was filled with some middle schoolers there for fun, it seemed. Six had that family with the bickering kids. They seemed to be fine, except for the fact that now they were fighting over whose turn it was. Alyssa kept on walking.

Cages seven was empty. Cage eight, though. She frowned. Why had this guy come all the way back here? A real equipment bag—a Suttonville High baseball bag—lay open on the bench inside the cage. The boy at the plate looked familiar, maybe a junior like her? His light-brown hair was cut to military precision, and the rest of him looked as ripped as a soldier, too.

Damn.

He held the bat in an iron grip, his forearms and biceps flexed, and Alyssa leaned against the wall to watch. How could she not? It wasn’t every day a hot guy her age dropped by Swing Away.

The pitching machine whirred, then spat out a ball: changeup, slightly low.

The boy swung, putting plenty of power behind it. If he’d taken a better look, he would’ve come down an inch. As it was, he tipped the ball with the top of the bat, and it fouled off.

“Goddamn it!” He shook his head and squared up again. The machine wound up, pitched—medium fastball, down the middle, easy—and the guy swung for the fences.

Whiff.

What the hell? Suttonville’s team was really good, and based on last year’s varsity patch on his bag, he’d been a starter at least a year already. Alyssa frowned and took a step closer. The guy was muttering at his bat again and didn’t see her.

He readied himself, the machine whirred—curveball, perfect. He tipped it again. Cursing loudly, he tossed his bat into his bag and dropped to the bench with his face in his hands.

The mom a few cages down called, “Could you watch the language, please?” She had her hands over the little one’s ears. The eight-year-old grinned like he was soaking up every word.

Alyssa waved at her. “I’ve got it.”

She’d said it mostly to get the mom off this guy’s back—because he looked seriously put out—but his head whipped around toward her. Oops… She was supposed to be spying. The guy’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Coming down here to ask you to watch the language.” There, that sounded like a reasonable excuse, right? On the other hand, she could drown in those chocolate-brown eyes. Maybe letting him stare at her with his mouth open wasn’t a bad thing after all.

“Why? You own the place?” The words came out bitter, but she could tell it wasn’t aimed at her.

“Actually, my dad does. I work here after school and on the weekends.” She nodded to the pitching machine. “Is it off-kilter?”

Now, the machine looked fine to her, but if a guy like this kept missing, maybe that was the reason. Sure…that’s why he’s here and not at Top Sports showing off for all the giggly girls.

He pointed at her tool kit. “Could you look at it?”

“Yep.” She opened the door and slid past him. There was a little gate at the bottom to keep people from tampering with the machines, so she unlocked it, holding up the keys to show him she really did work here. “Hmm, looks fine.”

“It is me, then.” The guy clunked his head against the chain-link wall behind the bench. “This is not the time for a slump.”

Alyssa locked the gate and went back to the batter’s box, looking the guy over again. For professional reasons, of course. Yeah, right. She had a rule about dating ballplayers—and customers—but this one might make her reconsider. “Show me.”

“What?” His brow wrinkled, and he looked at her in confusion. “Show you what?”

“Hit a few.”

He shook his head, giving her a wry smile. “I think I’ve hit enough. Besides…I mean, I have a batting coach.”

“Uh-huh, and have you told him your timing is off and you’re so stressed out you’re pulling the bat when you swing?”

His jaw dropped. “How do you know?”

Alyssa lifted her chin in defiance. “I watched.”

He still looked skeptical, so she grabbed the bat out of his bag, ignoring his protests, and started the machine.

Whirr, click: fastball, medium. Almost too easy.

Ting! The ball hit the back wall, just like it had for the Little Leaguers last night. Winking at the boy, she squared up for the next pitch—curveball, low—and let it go by.

“Sometimes they throw out balls rather than strikes. They shouldn’t, but if they’ve been on a while, a few will be duds,” she said, before turning back to watch the machine.

Whirr, click: changeup, strike zone. She paused, then swung, slower than the first time.

Ting!

That should do it. Giving the boy a quick, coy smile, she turned off the machine and handed his bat to him. “Timing and stress. Bad combo, my friend. By the way, you look familiar. I go to Suttonville, too. I’m a junior.”

He nodded, looking tired. He probably was—they played last night and probably got home late. He had to be operating on fumes. She sighed. Male ego at its finest.

“I’m Alyssa. And you need to lay off for a while. You’re only going to make it worse if you don’t rest your body.”

He nodded again, and she could see the dark circles under his eyes. “I’m Tristan. And…thanks.”

She sat down next to him. “I imagine you’re here because it’s out of the way, and you don’t want the team around while you work this stuff out, right?”

Tristan stood abruptly. “Look, you’ve been nice about all this, but I think I should go.”

He started shoving his gear back into his bag, and Alyssa watched him. Ego was a pain in the ass, especially with a cute boy. Maybe her rule not to date customers or ballplayers could stand. “Suit yourself. If you decide you’d like some coaching outside the circle of trust, I’m here from four to six most afternoons, when I don’t have group projects. And all day Saturdays and two to four on Sunday afternoons. I don’t even charge for coaching. All you have to do is buy a few rounds.”

“Yeah…thanks.” Tristan wouldn’t even look at her. “Nice meeting you.”

She watched his back as he hurried out of the building. “Ballplayers.”

Shrugging, she got up to help the mom pry her screaming kids apart. Again.