Whatever Life Throws at You (10 page)

His forehead wrinkles as he studies my face. “I think you’re having one of those panic attack things. Don’t people usually pass out from those or stop breathing or something?”

“I’m not having a panic attack!” I exhale and then bury my face again. Actually, I very well might be having a panic attack. “If I pass out or stop breathing
then
you can get my dad, okay?”

I feel heat from him leaning closer, the scent of his deodorant and the grass from the field seeps through my nose. He flips my ponytail to the side and then his fingers land lightly on the back of my neck. His skin is warm and rough. “Everybody’s afraid of something, Annie.”

“What are you afraid of?” I ask. “Besides zombies.”

“Cops.” He laughs darkly, reminding me of the conversation I heard earlier between the relief pitchers. “I’m kidding…mostly. I’ve had my share of being ‘scared straight’ by cops, I won’t lie about that. I guess I’m afraid of addiction.”

“Like alcohol?”

“Maybe,” he says, thinking. “It’s more of a general thing than something specific. I’m afraid of starting something that I can’t make myself stop, you know?”

I lift my eyes to meet his. Boy, do I know. But I’ve never heard anyone word it that way. Not exactly. I think a lot of people look forward to being absorbed by something. Falling down that rabbit hole. “But you’re addicted to baseball, to pitching. I can see that with my own eyes.”

“Yeah and it scares the shit out of me sometimes,” he admits. “And you’re addicted to winning. I’ve seen that with my own eyes.”

Is that true? Am I addicted to winning? I kind of proved that at sectionals when I sacrificed my hamstring unnecessarily in order to beat Jackie Stonington. “I think my addiction is not as severe as yours.”

“Maybe what I’m really afraid of is having more than one addiction,” he says. “That’s when you really get screwed up in the head.”

“I don’t know,” I say, bitterly thinking of Dad with Mom. “One addiction can totally screw you up.”

This conversation distracted me for a good two minutes, but I can’t block out the sirens any longer. I cover my ears with my hands. “I wish they would turn those off.”

“You have no color left in your face.” He leans in even more, his breath hitting my cheek and making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. His fingers massage my neck and I’m sure he must be able to feel the goose bumps he’s given me. “You’re all clammy now, too.”

Great. Just what every girl wants to hear a hot guy tell her.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he says. “How about school? Is it going okay?”

I let out a short laugh. He’s trying way too hard. I know he doesn’t want to talk about academics. But whatever. I’ll try anything. “I’m a millimeter away from a D in Spanish at the moment, which would make me ineligible to run at state next weekend.”

“Spanish?” he says. “Like what? What are you struggling with?”

“Conjugating verbs.”

“That does sound very…technical.” His breath is still landing on my skin, and it’s doing a good job of distracting me. “Give me an example?”

I breathe in and out, trying to relax over the wail of the sirens. “Like if I wanted to say,
I’m speaking
, then I have to know how to say
you’re speaking
and
he’s speaking
and
she’s speaking
…and then I have to know the past tense of all of those. I just want to memorize the words and string them together to make sentences, but it’s not that simple.”

“It’s easier than English, actually,” he says, and before I can ask him how he knows I remember what he told me about his mom. And then Jason Brody, hot rookie pitcher, is whispering Spanish verbs into my ear. “
Estoy hablando, estás hablando, está hablando, están hablando
.”

Heat crawls from my belly up to my neck and eventually my cheeks. “You’re going to be my tutor this week,” I whisper. “What about working and running and playing and sleeping…? Actually, just make up anything and say it in Spanish.”

He laughs softly and moves his hand lower, rubbing circles between my shoulder blades. He continues speaking into my ear, low and sexy, and it’s such a turn-on, I close my eyes and get lost in it.

“Anoche soñé contigo y esta mañana no me quiero despertar… me haces feliz… Me gustaría poder decirte lo que siento… Quiero decirte todos mis secretos…
”

After I don’t know how long, Brody’s tone changes, and he switches to English, jolting me out of my meditation/fantasy. “The sirens stopped. We should go check and see if the warning’s been lifted.”

I stand up on shaky legs and both of us exit the bathroom stall. “Thanks, Brody,” I say while we’re still alone.

He smiles at me. “No problem. Your secret phobia is safe with me.”

I check to make sure no one else is nearby. “So…I looked into the GED stuff we talked about and…” I glance around again and then turn my gaze back to Brody. “You can get extended time and do some of the sections as an oral exam, and it’s all completely confidential. I asked my school counselor, and she just said that you need proof of your diagnosis. Do you have that?”

Tension and anxiety fill his expression, but he nods. “It exists, I just don’t have it myself.”

“Probably in your school records,” I suggest. “Was it school people who did your diagnostic testing?”

“Yeah.” He exhales and then gives me a weary smile. “Guess I have no way out of this now.”

“I’ll help you,” I remind him as we walk back into the main part of the locker room.

Lenny looks up from her phone and yells to everyone, “Kansas City is now under a Tornado Watch. We’re free!”

Brody rests his hands on my shoulders and whispers, “You survived.” He gives me a quick squeeze and then lets go.

After Dad and I get home, guilt eats at me because I told Brody I’d help him study and I know zilch about dyslexia. How the hell am I supposed to help him? Read everything to him? I set my Spanish grade concerns aside and Google dyslexia.

An hour goes by in no time and I’m still researching. From what I’ve learned, it sounds like having dyslexia means words can appear smashed together or spaced incorrectly. A sentence may appear more like this: Jason Brody isth e mostsex ypitchere ver. Also, people with dyslexia are often of above average intelligence and extremely hardworking.

I’m positive that last part is true specifically in Brody’s case. He’s the most hardworking athlete I’ve ever met.

My gaze drifts to the iPod lying on top of the stack of GED practice lessons my counselor gave me. I wonder if my voice humming in his ears for lengthy amounts of time will have the same effect on him as it did for me while he whispered sexy Spanish verbs into my ear today.

I set up my own little recording area at my desk, the first GED practice lesson resting in front of me, and hit record. Hopefully he won’t laugh at my attempts to sound sexy reciting fraction and square root practice problems.

Chapter 10

Annie Lucas:
Nothing beats hitting up the stadium concession stand for pregame/post Spanish cram session eats.

10 minutes ago

“I’m not gonna be your damn history interview,” Frank barks at me. “How old do you think I am?”

Ignoring his refusal to help with this history project that I need done
asap
, I set my hot dog, nachos, and Cherry Coke Icee on the edge of his desk. “You’re old enough to remember the Yankees 1995 season…”

Frank stops shuffling papers, looks at me, and lifts an eyebrow. I smooth away the smirk threatening to spread over my face.
Thank you, Dad
for that one-line clincher. My history teacher is obsessed with the Yankees, so I know interviewing Frank could get me an A. And I really need an A.

“I got a game to manage tonight, kid,” Frank says, then he sighs and nods toward the door. “Come on, walk on the field with me.”

I smile down at the floor while scrambling to my feet, snatching the hot dog and my notebook and pen from Frank’s desk.

“What do you know about ’95? You weren’t even born yet,” Frank grumbles, sounding exactly like the old man he’s trying not to be. I trail behind him, hoping that was a rhetorical question because all Dad told me was to mention 1995. “Everyone forgets about ’95. You know why? We didn’t make it to the World Series that year. But I’ll tell you what, that September was some of the most amazing, crowd-pleasing baseball I’ve ever seen.”

Frank and I make it out onto the field where fans are slowly trickling in. It’s batting practice right now, so the stands won’t fill for about an hour and a half. I stuff the hot dog into my mouth and leave it hanging there while I write as quickly as I can.

“Guess who had their rookie season that year?” Frank asks, and after seeing that I can’t talk, he answers. “Derek Jeter.”

The mention of the word
rookie
causes me to glance around, looking for signs of Brody. I spot him in the bullpen with Dad.
God, he looks hot in that Royals’ uniform
. My heart sinks, seeing tangible evidence of this divide between us. Professional athlete and well…me. Just me. A nobody in comparison.

After I jot down plenty of notes from Frank’s thorough explanation of the Yankees’ “most underrated season,” I walk over to the bullpen just as Brody is exiting, his glove tucked under his arm. The need to feel that comradery we’ve had lately is so strong, I can’t resist approaching him.

I wave my remaining hot dog half in front of him. “I’m taunting you with forbidden fruit. Got ten thousand bucks to lose?”

He swats my hand away. “Cut that out.”

“Come on, you know you want it.” I bump my shoulder into his, trying to knock him off balance, but he’s too quick. He grabs both my arms to steady me and then lets go like I’ve got leprosy or something.

“Oh, I get it,” I say. “This is the focused athlete version of Brody. No celebrity date or fangirls to make out with…”

He takes a long stride into the dugout, and I hang back. But I don’t miss the repeat of that night at the Londons’ party, where several of Brody’s teammates stopped talking the second he came near—today’s it’s four of the Royals pitchers. But this time, he’s not attempting to shake hands or make conversation. His head is down, and he’s aggressively taping his left wrist with a roll of white athletic tape.

“Why don’t you let the trainer do that?” I say, following the retreating teammates with my eyes.

“Because I’m a big boy,” he snaps. “I can tape my own damn wrist.”

Whoa. Okay. Someone’s grumpy today
. I reach out and grab the back of his jersey, giving it a little tug. “Shake out of this. You’re gonna play just fine, like every other game you’ve been in so far this season.”

“Glad you’re so sure.” He rips off the tape with his teeth and then yanks his long-sleeve shirt over his wrist, covering it. “Can you please just go hang out with Lenny and eat free shrimp or whatever the hell you guys do during the game?”

The words hit like a punch in the gut, but I do my best to shake them off. “Yeah…sure. No problem.”

I turn halfway around before I hear Brody say my name, so quiet I’m not sure if it really happened. But I glance over my shoulder anyway. He’s leaning against the metal post framing the dugout now, his glove tucked under his arm again.

“Sorry,” he says, the second I’m fully turned around.

My face is on fire. This humiliation wouldn’t happen if I didn’t harbor all these secret feelings. We’d both just care the same instead of me caring so much more. “It’s fine.”

He glances around and after it’s clear no one is nearby, he shuts his eyes. “I had the worst meeting with Johnson and some of his
people
today.”

Every time I hear Johnson’s name, my heart speeds up, remembering that night in the bar and the way he looked at both of us like we were…like we were
dispensable
.

I take a step closer so Brody can lower his voice even more. “Yeah?”

Brody opens his eyes again, squinting into the setting sun. “Have you ever had one of those conversations with someone where they manage to tell you how great you are while simultaneously making you feel like you’re worth nothing?”

“Like a backhanded compliment?” I suggest, my stomach already tying in knots. When will this instability end for him and for Dad? For all of us. “Like telling me I run fast…
for a girl
?”

“Kind of.” He sighs. “I get hung up on such fucking stupid shit sometimes. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter,” I say, feeling that surge of confidence after landing on the right words. “Only the numbers matter. And your numbers are awesome right now.”

He flashes me a halfhearted smile. “Remind me next time not to snap at the person who always has the answer.”

My cheeks warm for a completely different reason than a minute ago. “I do have a perfect record so far, don’t I?”

For a second, our eyes lock and it feels like one of us is about to spill something important.
Please let it be Brody and not me
.
Impulse control, Annie
. But then Brody taps a light punch to my shoulder, as if to say,
Thanks, pal
before walking away.

When he’s out of sight, I collapse against the fence, close my eyes, and groan. This is getting totally out of control. He’s Jason-freakin’-Brody. Twenty years from now, Dad will be old like Frank, telling some annoying teenager about Brody’s rookie season, like Frank did when he mentioned Derek Jeter. And Brody will be rich, famous, and retired with a lifetime of athletic endorsements to sit on.

I bet even Derek Jeter had some friendly comradery with a batboy or something his rookie year. Someone who is far gone from his life now. That’s what I’ll be to Brody in twenty years—the forgotten batboy.

I should probably distance myself sooner rather than later. It will make things easier. Except we’ve got this whole Johnson-may-give-us-all-the-boot issue hanging over our heads and, for now, that requires me to help wherever and whenever I can.

Or maybe that’s just my excuse.

Mostly to spite Brody and his asshole comment about eating free shrimp while watching the game, when the ball game starts, I decide to hang out in Dad’s office and watch it on his TV. Brody goes in during the fourth inning, only lets one batter on base, pitches the rest of the game. Lenny’s dad hits a home run, bringing in the batter on first. We beat the Oakland A’s 2–0.

Hopefully I’m right. Hopefully the numbers are what matters.