Cinderella Steals Home (20 page)

   
It's kind of nice, I guess, knowing that Doan isn't all toughness and bravado all the time.
 

   
"I don't know."
 

   
"Did I ever tell you how scared I was to play baseball again?" I say. "Because I was. But I did it anyway. And that's kind of the thing about trying new things. What's the worst that can happen? You do something you've never done before and you hate it. So you're back right where you started, you know? But maybe you'll love it. Maybe it'll be worth it. But if you don't do it, you won't know."
 

   
I try to ignore the nagging feeling that I'm not taking my own advice with my music.

   
But it's getting harder.
 

   
He shakes his head and smiles at me. "You're something else, you know that?"
 

   
I grin and nod. "Oh, I know," I tell him, raising my eyebrows. "It's about time you figured it out."
 

   
Doan laughs. "You really want to do this, don't you?"
 

   
"Yeah. And I want to do it with you."
 

   
He lets out a small sigh. "Good enough for me. Let's do it."
 

   
He reaches out and takes my hand and we start toward the deeper waters. Eventually, when we can't touch the bottom of the ocean anymore, we start to swim.
 

   
"I'm gonna do it," I call over to him, and a minute later, I'm under the water, kicking down, and open my eyes.
 

   
I immediately look for him and see that he's stuck his face under the water but hasn't come all the way down with me.
 

   
I point to the green and yellow coral on the bottom of the ocean floor. Small gray fish swim near the plants, but I don't see any brightly-colored schools of fish yet.
 

   
I spend a few minutes under the water before kicking my way back to the surface. I take Doan's hand and we come up for air and lift our masks.
 

   
"What do you think?" I ask him.
 

   
He nods. "It's not so bad."
 

   
"Keep going?"
 

   
"Yeah."
 

   
I stick closer to the surface this time, keeping my hand in his, and we propel our way across the water, pointing things out to each other as we see them.

   
We've been in the ocean for what feels like an hour and haven't seen anything exciting. Fish, sure, but mostly small, bland-looking ones, and no brightly-colored coral. I'm not sure what I expected to find off the coast of Laguna Beach, but this isn't it.
 

   
"Want to head back?" I ask him as we take a break above the water.
 

   
Doan looks around at the mostly-empty water; just a few other small groups of snorkelers are around us. "I didn't realize how far out we came," he says. "Maybe we should. Let's keep snorkeling back, though."
 

   
I try to hide my smile at his suggestion. "Sure."
 

   
We duck back below the surface and swim toward the shore. And that's when I feel Doan's grip tighten on my hand. I look over at him and see he's pointing at something right below us.
 

   
I glance down and it's all I can do not to gasp.

   
Because now snorkeling is worth it.

   
I can't believe it.
 

   
Right here, right underneath me, floating along the ocean floor, is a giant sea turtle.
 

   
My eyes widen and I want to gasp but I can't with the mask covering my face. We stop swimming but Doan doesn't let go of my hand.
 

   
Neither of us moves as we watch the turtle lazily pilot itself near the ocean floor, and it's like I'm barely breathing.
 

   
Which is weird because I'm just looking at a turtle.
 

   
I've seen them countless times at the zoo before. Heck, I've even caught one or two wandering through our yard.
 

   
But they've never been so...big.
 

   
Or beautiful.
 

   
It's just a turtle, but I've never seen anything like this, the way it just effortlessly glides through the calm, cool, crisp water, how its arms flap and propel it forward, the way just one of its back legs grazes the sandy ocean floor with each movement.
 

   
And the whole time, I just like feeling Doan's hand in mine.
 

   
We watch the turtle, the brown spots decorating its head and shell as it swims farther away from us until it disappears into the dark corners of the ocean.

   
I look over at Doan, and point to the surface, and he nods. We swim back until our feet finally brush against the sandy bottom and we stand, lifting our masks from our faces.
 

   
Neither of us had gone back under the water after the seeing the turtle.
 

   
I want that to be my last memory -- my only memory, really -- of snorkeling in California.
 

   
Doan and I drag ourselves out of the water and onto the sandy shore. He grabs my hand and swings me over to him.
 

   
"Thanks," he tells me, pulling my wet body against his. "That was incredible."
 

   
I can't keep the smile from spreading across my face. "You're welcome."
 

   
He leans down, one of his arms wrapped around my waist, and kisses me right here in the middle of the beach.
 

   
"The perfect morning," he says when he break apart. He looks down at me with a grin. "Now let's go play some ball."

***

   
We're on the field against a team from a suburb outside of Los Angeles. Doan's back on the mound, and the Scorpions are riding a 2-0 lead in the bottom of the sixth inning. I'm confident we'll win as long as he's the one pitching.
 

   
And he's got a no-hitter going and I'm holding my breath with every wind-up of his arm, hoping this isn't going to be the batter that breaks his streak.
 

   
I haven't done much in the game so far. I walked both times I got up to bat, but haven't managed to cross home plate yet.
 

   
Except none of that matters right now because of how well Doan's playing.
         

   
Now he's in a bit of a tough spot, and I'm not sure how he's going to work his way out of this one. He's walked the bases loaded. There are two outs with the sixth hitter of the inning on his way to the plate.

   
But all it takes is an out, and it has to be this one.
 

   
The batter stares in at Doan, and I find myself staring hard at the batter. Like I think I can psych him out from third base or something.
 

   
It's only weird if it doesn't work, right?
 

   
The first pitch flies in across the plate. Strike one. I suck in some air. Just two more now.
 

   
Doan readies himself for the next one, then lets it go.
 

   
It sails in on the batter who swings and misses as the ball lands safely in the catcher's glove with a thud.
 

   
Two down now.
 

    
I want to squeeze my eyes shut as the third pitch comes but I force myself to watch.
 

   
The batter swings at the pitch again, this time making contact, and the ball flies out to the left fielder. He gives it chase and it lands harmlessly in his glove.
 

   
Phew.
 

   
Relief for Doan floods through me, and he points at the left fielder before jogging off the mound and into the dugout.
 

   
I'm not one of the three hitters due up first in the top of the inning so I take my seat along the bench.
 

   
Doan drops down next to me. "Hey," he says, lifting his cap from his head and wiping at his sweaty brow with his arm. The charcoal under his eyes has already started to smudge in the heat.
 

   
"Nice out."
 

   
He nods. "Tough inning."
 

   
"Yeah, but you can handle it." I'm about to say something else about his no-hitter when he holds up a hand to stop me.
 

   
"No!" he exclaims, sticking his fingers in his ears and closing his eyes. "Don't even say it."
 

   
I wait for him to cautiously blink them open, then unclog his ears. "Say what?" I reply with a grin.
 

   
He stares at me for a second, then smiles. "Thanks."
 

   
"I didn't peg you as the superstitious type," I tell him, fidgeting with a loose thread hanging off the side of my glove.
 

   
He shrugs. "I'm not with most things."
 

   
"But you are with this."
 

   
"What gave it away?"
 

   
I just laugh and he smiles, and we sit here like this, neither of us saying anything, watching baseball.
 

   
It doesn't take long for the other team's pitcher to retire our batters in order and we're trotting back out onto the field for the final inning of the game.
 

   
Doan's still on the mound, hoping to close out his no-hitter.
 

   
And my stomach is all tangled up in hundreds of tiny, tight knots.
 

   
The first batter takes two practice swings at the plate before he squares up. He stares in at Doan, a look of fierce determination in his eyes, and I kind of want to wipe the smirk right off his face.
 

   
But Doan handles him perfectly. He pops up the first pitch he sees, straight back, and the catcher grabs it safely behind home plate.
 

   
One gone.
 

   
The next batter is just as easy of an out as he grounds to shortstop.

   
No sweat.
 

   
I'm watching Doan the whole time as he deals his fourth pitch of the inning to the third, and hopefully last, batter.
 

   
And I'm still watching Doan as the batter hits the ball and it rolls right to me. I snap to attention and manage to scoop it up and fire it to first base. It's gonna be close; I want to squeeze my eyes shut as the ball flies through the air to the baseman's open glove.
 

   
How could I have been so stupid? How could I have not been paying attention to the batter? Why is it so easy for Doan to distract me like this? Why -- ?

   
"YES!"
 

   
I'm interrupted from my swarming stream of self-pity by Doan's triumphant shout as the team flies in around him on the mound.
 

   
My eyes widen; the ball must've made it to first base on time.
 

   
I haven't ruined it for him.
 

   
And he's just thrown a no-hitter.

   
I run in toward the mound and wiggle my way through the bodies until I find him.
 

   
He beams at me and pulls me hard against him. He leans down and kisses me, and I wrap my arms around his neck, and the next thing I know, we're
both
being lifted into the air by our teammates. Doan, because he's tossed a no-hitter, and me, because I'm attached to Doan.
 

   
We break apart, look at each other and laugh, and he grabs my hand.
 

   
I let go and slip down off of Dave's shoulders.
 

   
This is Doan's moment, another page of his book, one that I'm happy to be on, but it isn't about me.
 

   
And mostly I just want him to have a story that he's finally happy to share.
 

***

   
Dad and I are walking on the beach later that night after the win. Doan had wanted to go for a late swim but when Dad cornered me as I was on my way to meet him at the pool, I couldn't say no.
 

   
We're not talking much as we walk, but I'm enjoying the feeling of the wet sand between my toes as I carry my flip-flops in one hand.
 

   
"It's beautiful here, isn't it?" Dad finally asks, and I wonder if he's about to get to the point now, or if there even is a point to this walk at all.
 

   
"Yeah, it's nice."
 

   
"Your mom and I used to bring you and Justin here when you were kids," he tells me, and I swallow hard, already feeling my mouth start to run a little dry. "Do you remember that?"