Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
He snorts while putting them on. “Screw you, Stefan.”
“Why don’t you go up first? Show me what you got. Here.” I pull out a bat and slap it to his chest, startling him. I love startling him; it’s my favorite fucking thing ever. “This one’s just for you. Swing away, bro. Make me proud.”
He fumbles with it for a second as he gets his grip, but when he does, it’s firm. I study him as he gets used to the weight of the bat, watching the emotion flood his face, like he’s reuniting with yet another long-lost childhood friend.
Ryan looks up suddenly, squinting in the sunlight. “Shouldn’t we use the bats they provide at the front? The huge, hard yellow balls that the machines pitch can really fuck up your nice bats.”
“These old toys?” I lift my own bat and slap the end of it onto my palm. “I got thirty of them.”
“Hey, Mr. Caulfield!” comes a voice from the left.
We both turn. Some very enthusiastic teen three cages down from us waves, then gets smacked in the shoulder with the next pitched ball. He presses himself against the side of the cage while the machine keeps pitching. After ensuring his life isn’t in mortal danger, he faces us again, face pressed to the chain-link. “I didn’t know you come here to bat!”
Ryan offers the teen a broad smile. “Hi, Chance!” He turns to me and, in a low voice, mutters, “One of my students. Honor roll. Talked to him a week ago about issues he’s having in gym class.”
When the kid—Chance—gets a look at me, his jaw drops and his bat swings down into the dirt. “A-Are you Stefan Baker?”
I give the kid a short, patient nod.
“Wow!” After another auto-pitched ball whizzes past his head—which he narrowly dodges with a quick duck—he says, “I’d totally ask you to sign my bat, but it belongs to the batting cages, and I don’t have a pen.”
“Get me a pen from the kiosk and I’ll sign a ball for you before you go,” I call out to him.
Another ball flies past him, smacking into the wall of the cage. “Oh, wow! Thank you, Mr. Baker! It was great seeing you, Mr. Caulfield!” Then he gives Ryan a brief, quizzical look before lifting his bat and swinging at the next ball. He misses, but he tried.
Ryan grits his teeth. “He’s probably wondering what a guy like me is doing batting with the Stefan Baker.”
“I want to see you crack some balls in half,” I encourage Ryan, giving his shoulder a slap and a firm squeeze, which is apparently strong enough to cause Ryan to wince slightly. “Never mind any of the other fools here. They can’t hear us, and the only thing they’re watching is their own bats.”
“Alright,” he sighs at me. “I’ll go. Just so you can humiliate me by saying how bad I am.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“Yeah. Just laugh at how bad I am. Thanks.”
“No laughter will come from my lips.”
“Liar.”
I swat his ass, making him jump, then give him a light shove into the cage and slap the door shut behind him. “Get to it, boy,” I tell him.
After shooting me a quick look, he acclimates himself inside the cage and takes a breath. I watch him gently tap his shoes with the end of his bat, then get in place. After a second of confusion, he remembers to hit the button at the side of the cage to initiate the pitching. The first ball comes sooner than he expects, and he dodges out of the way, startled. I don’t laugh, leaning against the door and watching with observant eyes, genuinely curious about how well he’ll do after so much time.
The second ball comes. He swings. Miss.
“Fuck,” he spits out.
“Just keep at it,” I coach him. “The machine’s your pal.”
He gets ready to swing again, his sweaty hands repositioning themselves on the bat. The way his fingers move and his thighs squeeze as he assumes his batting stance makes my insides coil up with excitement. It takes so little lately to transport me back to the good ol’ days when he and I were the only people in the world who mattered.
The ball comes. He swings again. Strike.
He huffs, annoyed, then prepares for the next pitch.
Suddenly, a question spills out: “So did you always know?”
The next ball flies by, but he doesn’t even swing, distracted by my question. “Know what?” he throws over his shoulder.
“That you were gay.”
The next ball comes right then, and Ryan nearly throws his bat instead of swinging it, knocked sideways by my blunt question. He spins around to face me after glancing to the cage at his left and his right—both of which are unoccupied. “The fuck, Stefan??”
I shrug, unbothered. “Just curious.”
He appraises me for a tense little while, his hazel eyes fierce.