Rounding Third (23 page)

Coach Weathers, being the Good Samaritan and all-around awesome guy, stopped that night of the crash. He helped me attempt to get Noah out, but then a tree branch fell onto the coach’s back, paralyzing him from the neck down.

I sit in my truck, staring ahead, pulling my phone out so as not to interrupt their conversation.

“Lynch, get your ass out here!” Coach Weathers’s booming voice continues to incite a rapid pulse in me to do whatever he demands.

I toss my phone in the cup holder and walk out. His wheelchair is a few steps away, and his wife and kids all walk over. My heart constricts, and my mouth dries. I wish I were a superhero and possessed some power to form into liquid, so I could slide under my car like the oil leak I believe I am.

“No hug?” Coach Weather says.

I step forward, about to place my hand out for him.

“Get off me,” he adds before I get too close.

“Don’t mind him, Crosby. Crankier than ever.” Mrs. Weathers approaches and lovingly puts her arms around my shoulders.

I stiffen.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispers.

“Put your arms around my wife,” Coach Weathers dictates.

I lightly pat her back.

“Better.”

“Stop it, Dean.” Mrs. Weathers shoos him with her hand and then bends down to kiss his forehead.

Coach Weathers’s eyes close briefly, showing how much that woman could bring him to his knees—if only he could get to his knees. With that thought, the guilt racks up another layer.

“Do you mind if I take Crosby on a little walk?” he asks Mrs. Ford, who is currently handing out cookies and lemonade to the kids.

“Please do before he hurts that arm while sanding my floors.” She smiles over at us.

“I’ll leave you two,” Mrs. Weathers says. But then she approaches me again. “Come around more often.” She pats my forearm and walks away.

“Come on then. Give the man who taught you everything a push.”

I unclench my fist and put my keys in the pocket of my track pants, steadily walking to the back of his chair.

“Around the back of the house,” he instructs.

I can barely gather one drop of saliva to coat my dry throat as we circle around the garage and out to the garden that Mrs. Ford maintains each day. I still remember when Noah and I helped her put in the water fountain that is surrounded by two benches and two chairs with flowers all around.

I cough, remembering Noah telling me that this would be the spot where he’d propose to Kedsey after they graduated from college. I swear, he was always a planner. Knew each step of his life. I didn’t have any plans, just two goals—Ella and baseball. I was scared shitless of what was going to happen to Ella and me after we separated for college. Little did I know the future would separate us for much longer.

Now that I have her, I have no intention of letting her go.

“Park me.” Coach Weathers pulls me from the memories. The recollections have the ability to suck me down into a sinkhole.

I stop the wheelchair and walk around.

“Sit.” He nods his head to the bench in front of him.

I do.

“Talk.”

I don’t.

“Talk, Lynch.”

I look up at his determined eyes. They look similar to the time Noah, Brax, and I let go of four pigs in our rival school. He was pissed and benched us for two games each.

I clear my throat, begging for some sort of saliva to come. “It’s good to see you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay.”

“Lynch, look at me.”

My eyes move from the array of different colored flowers to his set of hazel eyes.

“Sir?”

“If I wasn’t caught up in my shit, I’d have stopped your family from moving away from Beltline. I blame myself for that.”

“But—”

He shakes his head. “You had your time to talk, and you chose not to. Don’t interrupt me.”

I sulk down into the bench.

“This accident wasn’t your fault. It isn’t your fault that I’m in this damn chair. Two years, you’ve wasted your life.” He shakes his head, a look of disgust on his lips. “Did you think I pushed you hard, made you join those travel tournament teams, for you to throw away your future?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you think I enjoyed being away from my family to be on a field with you, fielding balls and pitching to you?”

“No, sir.”

“I hear you’re at Ridgemont now. Don’t blow it.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“Good.”

I move to stand. Coach was never one to get wordy or have a heart-to-heart like Coach Fritz at Millcreek.

“Sit.”

I practically fall into the bench from his voice.

“This bullshit charity game,” he says.

There goes that weight in my gut, heavier and heavier with every day the game grows closer.

“I’ll be there.”

“I knew you’d come, but, Crosby, the Bishops are still not good with you. I came out here because, when we drove by the Fords’ house last week and I saw the new paint, I knew you had been here. You don’t need to do it. If coming back to this town is going to send you back in that tailspin, don’t do it. You’re a ballplayer, boy. Move on if you need to.”

My mouth opens for a second but closes.

“I guess, since the accident, I’ve had a few new emotions surface.” He smiles. “Wife seems to like it.”

He shrugs, and I can’t stop the smile that pulls at the corners of my lips.

“I mean it, Crosby. I’d love for you to come out to that field. Hell, the baseball program is coming back after my disappearance. I’ve been able to secure some coaches, and hopefully, we’ll have a team back up and running by next year.”

“You know, my appearance will bring more people because they’ll want to torment me.”

“Truth. I can guarantee, it won’t be easy. Carrie Bishop is no easy woman, and she’ll make it hard on you.”

“Your family…the medical bills, true?”

Once Coach Lipton told me about the charity, I searched some things, finding Coach Weathers and his family struggling financially. This whole town has been dead since after the accident.

“Don’t you worry about any of that shit.”

How could I not?

“Okay.”

Coach always had a give-a-shit attitude, even with his newfound emotions. “I’m here to give you an out.”

My forearms rest on my knees, and I stare down at the cement pathway.

“Now, push me,” he says.

I quickly stand up.

“I can’t waste any more time on you. This whole scenario is an example of how quick time goes in this life. Sometimes, you have to be selfish.”

I move behind him and start pushing the wheelchair back to the front of the house.

The question burning in my mind is,
Did he purposely add that remark at the end of our conversation?
How can I be selfish when people have lost more than me? If anything, my dreams shouldn’t come true for that sole reason.

T
hree weeks
and sadly after a week delay from our landlord, Jen and I are moving back to our apartment. Plumbing issues have been fixed. This is definitely a better situation for Jen, who opted to sleep in Brax’s room while he claimed the couch. Saucey tried to apologize, but every time, she denied him. I could fist-bump her.

As for me, I’m sad to leave Crosby’s bed and his arms at night. Truthfully, this whole needing-a-place-to-live has made us closer faster. At first, I thought he should woo me, take me to the movies and out to dinner, but we don’t need that because we had that when we were fifteen. My body only wants more when he’s around, and I have no doubt it’s the same for him.

Especially if you look at his melancholy face right now.

I entwine our fingers, and he looks over at me, sadness clear in his eyes. Or he’s apprehensive since we’re waiting for the newspaper writer to come and talk to us.

“I’m going to miss you.” He looks at me, and his shoulder slightly presses to mine, his lips grazing my neck.

“I’m going to be five minutes away.”

“Five minutes too many,” he says.

I fight the urge to agree, but we got back together at warp speed. Maybe space will be good for us. Not that we’re currently having any problems, except for the fact that the charity game in Beltline is two weeks away.

Ariel told me she heard from a friend that Mrs. Bishop is planning a boycott. That her group of friends is going to try to block people from attending. How she could do that to the Weathers just because of her misplaced anger at Crosby, I have no idea. She was always protective of Kedsey, and I only assume that didn’t die when her child did.

“Crosby Lynch.” A young blonde comes up the stairs of the library with her hair in a ponytail. She glances down at the paper and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Ella Keaton.”

We both stand, our hands locked in solidarity.

“That’s us,” I speak because I’m fairly sure Crosby might throw up his burrito from lunch at any moment.

“Great.” She holds her hand out and shakes each of ours. “I’ve reserved a private room for us.”

She swivels on her Chuck Taylors, and we follow her down the library hallway until she reaches a door and opens it for us.

“You don’t mind if I record, do you?” she asks before we even sit down.

“No,” Crosby grunts out, taking a seat across the table. His eyes are on that small recording device.

“Great. Let’s get started.” She pushes up her glasses again.

I get a good look at her. Either she looks really young for her age, or she’s only a freshman.
Why would they give a freshman a center-page article for this story?

“You two are currently dating?”

“Yes,” Crosby answers, his hand now resting on my knee.

The girl eyes where Crosby’s arm disappears under the table. She smiles and concentrates back at her paper. “Can you take me through the accident?”

Crosby’s hand tightens for a moment, and I inch up to start talking, but he intercepts me.

* * *

A
n hour later
, we emerge from the small room. I hurt like a punching bag from the amount of questions we answered, having to relive that night. There are many facts we left out. One being, Kedsey unbuckled herself. That Crosby might have been slightly distracted by his girlfriend singing at the top of her lungs. That no one but Crosby was conscious right after the accident. That he was the only survivor with the ability to rehash the scene every night afterward.

“Need you,” he whispers in my ear as we climb in his truck.

Without waiting, he claims my lips, his head practically pushing mine back into the seat. His hand ventures up my skirt, pushing the thin fabric of my panties to the side and digging a finger in my warmth.

I part my legs and slide down on the seat to give him better access.

“Take me home,” I murmur during a break from kissing.

“Now. Please,” he mumbles.

His hands leave mine, and he sits down on his seat. He presses the button to bring the seat back and starts unbuckling his pants.

“Cros,” I say, looking out the window at the classmates walking to class.

We’re parked by a tree, but other than that, there isn’t much privacy.

“Please, El. I need to feel you.” He places his hand on my cheek, and those light brown eyes plead with mine.

All that heartbreak he retold to a stranger is slowly breaking him, and I am his fixer. How can I ever say no?

I climb on top of him, and he positions himself to immediately enter me.

“So wet,” he mumbles.

I move up and down, his hands on my ass.

Crosby’s eyes evade mine and remain closed the majority of the time. I sprinkle kisses along his face as my body bobs up and down on him.

“I love you,” I say softly, harassing his body to let him know he’s perfect and wonderful and not at all responsible for what happened two years ago.

His touches slowly go from demanding and gripping to gentle and sweet. He slows our pace, placing his hands on my hips, guiding me up and down. My lips find his, and I slip my tongue in first. Needing his taste, the security of his smell on me. That he won’t leave me again. Needing the reassurance that, even though the hurricane is approaching, this time, we’ll face it hand in hand, not apart.

“Don’t leave me,” slips out of my mouth.

His eyes pop open.

He stills, and then his hands abandon my hips and move to my cheeks, demanding I stare into his eyes.

“Never. I’ll never leave you again. You have my word.”

His eyes bear nothing but love, and I wish my heart didn’t doubt him. He’s spoken those words to me before, only to let me go.

The guilt and heartbreak Crosby bears isn’t easily understood by most. It brings fear to him, which makes him run. This charity ballgame is a make-it-or-break-it test for us.

“Believe me.” He grips me harder, my insecurity waning.

“I do,” I half-lie.

I shatter my own heart because this man loves me more than he could express. But am I enough for him to stay and live through the nightmare of two years ago?

He circles and raises his hips, and I grip his neck for leverage.

He whispers sweet nothings into my ear, “I love you,” and, “You’re mine,” and, “Our future is forever.”

With each word, I melt further into his arms, handing him the control to bring me to the edge of that cliff he expertly hangs me over.

His hand ventures down between our bodies, and he circles my clit with this thumb.

My body tenses, and my thighs grip his legs harder.

“Come,” he says.

I smash my lips to his, falling over that cliff, as he requested.

I swallow his groan as he stills inside me. I collapse into his arms, and he holds me on top of him, brushing the loose strands of my hair from my face so that he can look into my eyes.

“Spend the night,” he says, that devilish look indicating he knows I won’t deny him.

We both need the comfort of each other’s arms tonight.

“Yes.”

The smile that emerges from his lips is enough to get me to do anything he requested. This boy turned man in front of me doesn’t only own my body; he owns all of me. I’m his until the end.

* * *

T
he next morning
, I leave a snoring Crosby, so I can get to my apartment and out my door in time for class. The sleepover was impromptu, and I never grabbed a change of clothes. I tiptoe down the stairs, not to disturb the sleeping baseball boys on their one day off from early practice.

Something crashes to the floor in the kitchen, and I freeze into a stance that says,
Try it, big guy. I’m a black belt in karate.

In strolls Brax with a breakfast burrito in his hand. No shirt, his shorts low on his hips. He winks, and I roll my eyes. The usual nonverbal conversation between us.

“Hey, princess, you waited too long.” His lips turn down, and his eyes widen. “Your carriage turned back in to a pumpkin.”

He points to the pumpkin a girl dropped off for Ollie last night. A cute brunette wearing about an inch of clothes from top to bottom stopped by yesterday, asking us to give it to him. The note said,
Pump this pumpkin, asshole
, and the pumpkin had a small hole carved out of the middle.

“That would be Ollie’s, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you use it.” I point to the hole. “About your size.”

“Princess, quadruple that, and maybe I’ll fit. Not to mention, I have enough pussy. I’m damn sure not fucking a pumpkin.” He gobbles another bite of the burrito, mumbling, “I’m surprised it’s for Ollie. He’s a sweet-talker.”

I couldn’t agree more. Ollie never promises, but there are a few consistent girls I’ve seen with him around campus or at games. I don’t know his game or if he lives in Brax’s and Saucey’s philosophy—the more, the merrier. Ollie’s an odd duck, but the girl didn’t appear upset in any way when she dropped it off. She even tried to proposition Crosby until I showed up at his side.

“Yeah, nice chatting, but I’ve got class.” Taking the last two steps to the door, my hand is on the doorknob when Brax comes alongside me.

“Is he okay?” He nods in the direction of the stairs.

“I think so,” I lie. Crosby would never want me to say otherwise.

“Liar. I know you too well, Cinderella. Isn’t it a princess code that you can’t lie?”

“Good thing I’m not a princess then.” I turn the knob, but his hand holds the door hostage at its hinges.

“He just got back,” he says, his voice slightly breaking.

Not many people would notice the emotion held in that statement, but I do. Brax doesn’t want his friend to bolt.

“And he’s staying.” I leave out the words,
I hope
.

“Yeah?” he asks, as though I could be one hundred percent sure.

None of our grief can compare to Crosby’s.

During the years, Brax and I never talked about Crosby that often. Usually, if we reminisced about a story from high school and were about to mention him, the conversation faded, and we’d both change the subject. It was too painful.

“All we can do is hope the charity game is over as quick and painless as possible.”

My messenger bag falls to the floor, and Brax bends down, picking it up and placing it over my shoulder.

“It will definitely be painful. My dad called last night.” He glances upstairs.

My gut twists because he’s making sure Crosby really isn’t around. This is bad.

“Mrs. Bishop is trying to get the police to not allow Crosby over the city line.”

He drops the burrito on the plate and places it on the table.

“What? She’s a nutcase.” My voice is low and shaky.

Brax wraps an arm around my shoulder.

“Why can’t she stop?” My fighting words fade as I fight the tears. My sadness quickly morphs to anger.

I step out of his hold and swing my messenger bag across my body. “I’m going to Beltline today. I’m talking to her.” All the confidence squares my shoulders.
I am woman, hear me roar
.

Brax snickers a laugh.

“I’m serious.”

He holds his hands up in defense.

“She won’t listen. With Xavier, there could be a brawl before the charity game starts. I’m not sure why Bradley doesn’t hold it at their stadium. That family will stop at nothing until Crosby pays for a crime he never committed.”

“I know. Xavier questioned me about him when I was home.” I pull my phone out of my pocket.

My last elective credit class, poli sci, is about to start in a half hour. I weigh the importance of my attendance. I have an A in it right now, and the teacher’s assistant seems to like me. Sitting in the front row gave me huge brownie points. Might as well cash them in.

“I’m going now actually.”

Brax glances to the stairs and then to his backpack sitting next to the couch. “I’ll go with you.” He jogs up the stairs and is back down a second later, shrugging a T-shirt over his head and putting his baseball hat on.

“You don’t have to.”

He opens the door and waits for me to go first, swiping his keys from the table. “I do. I didn’t do enough the first time.”