Stealing Bases

by Nicole Leigh Shepherd

  I look around frantically for Missy, and then it hits me: she’s not here. No one is. And even if she were, she’s so obsessed with Hannah Montgomery and beefing up her college app that she might not even notice me.

  My life is over. My softball buds are going to toss me out like yesterday’s lunch. No more Killer Kylie. No more Captain Kylie. No more anything. Amber will snatch up my spot as team leader just like she snatched up my spot on the mound.

  When I turn the corner, I run smack into Martie, Beachwood’s newest athletic director and resident soccer coach. Martie knows me from this past basketball season—she stepped in to serve as assistant coach after one of our regular coaches had to take a leave of absence.

  “Kylie, are you okay?” Martie asks, lowering the folder she was carrying.

  “Hey, Coach,” I say, diverting my eyes and feeling too keyed up to stand still, let alone chat. As much as everyone in our school loves Martie, she’s seen me at my worst—I wasn’t exactly a sweetheart during basketball season—so I sincerely doubt that she’s on my side.

  “Kylie, I really think we should talk,” Martie continues.

  “No, really, that’s okay.” I attempt to walk around Martie, but she blocks my way. She has that look in her eye. I’ve seen it before—when Taylor was struggling last season. Here it comes . . . Martie’s magic touch. Martie is known to show up and talk athletes off the ledge.

  “Look, I heard about the roster. And I know how hard you’ve worked.” Martie brings the folder up to her chest.

  I swallow a lump. Feeling a tear about to roll down my cheek, I pretend to erase mascara from under my eyes. Mom always said it’s better to be a princess than a cry baby.

  “Do you still love softball?” Martie asks. Her deep brown eyes stare intently into mine.

  “Of course I do,” I say, scanning the hallway for any signs of my teammates. If Emily or Phoenix spot me talking to Martie, they’ll pretend to take pity on me. And I just can’t have that.

  Martie ignores my frantic glances. “Then that’s all that matters,” she says, smiling. “All that matters is you love the game. Playing time, teammates, college, you can’t control any of that. All you can control is your attitude, your training, and your respect for the game.”

  I roll my eyes. If Martie was any preachier, we’d have to get her a pulpit.

  She continues, “Maybe you should try out another position. I heard you’re quite a force at second for your ASA team. You should petition Coach Kate to let you work out there.”

  Yes, I do work out at second with my ASA team. But it’s not as exciting as the mound. I’m a pitcher. Period. If I’m forced to warm the bench in college, that’s one thing. Then I’ll think about turning myself into a utility player. But not this year. Not my junior season. No Division I school is going to recruit a pitcher who can’t even start on her high school team. And anyway, what does Martie know about softball? Nothing. Stick to soccer, Martie.

  “No offense, Martie.” I straighten out my shoulders and swallow the tears. “Just because you decided to settle for coaching a bunch of high school kids after your dreams were shattered doesn’t mean the rest of us should just give up.”

  Martie’s face falls. She clears her throat.

  Before she can say anything else, I adjust my Beachwood bag on my shoulder and stomp down the hallway.

  So much for the attitude redo.

  eleven

  Amazingly, one thing does work out for me today: the locker room is deserted, so there’s no one there to see me bawl my eyes out.

  I find a spot on the oak bench in the back corner and hug my legs to my chest, burying my head in my knees. Immediately, the tears start pouring out in steady streams. That is, until I hear the door click close.

  “Hey.”

  Startled, I glance up and am met with Zachary’s big chocolate eyes. His single dimple pops as he gingerly wipes a tear from my cheek with one finger. A basketball is tucked under his arm.

  “How did you get in here?” I ask, using the back of my hands to dab my eyes.

  He wrinkles his forehead in concern. “Ky, you’re my girl. I made it my job to check out the roster. And then I saw you run in here. Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m not okay!” I yell. And then, realizing that I just gave the dirtball more ammunition, I quickly pull away.

  Zachary takes this as a sign that I need his advice. He gently drops the basketball and sidles up on the bench next to me. “Kylie, you’ll get through this. You always come out on top.”

  For a second, I almost let myself fall into Zachary’s arms. It feels so good to hear him say that to me. Especially after all this time . . . But then, I catch myself and retreat further in the opposite direction.

  Unfortunately, this isn’t enough to stop him. “Remember when you were ten and you didn’t make the club soccer team?” he asks, reaching out to rub my shoulders from a distance.

  I attempt to resist. But then, I can’t help it—chills run down my spine. “What does that—”

  He continues massaging me. “Everything. Instead of letting it get you down, you tried out for field hockey. And then you know the rest . . .”

  “Yeah, I learned that hockey sticks are much more annoying to carry around than you’d think.”

  “Ha ha, well, that”—Zach laughs—“and you found out you were a way better field hockey player than you ever were a soccer player.”

  I swivel around to face him. “What? Are telling me to try out for another sport? First, Martie wants me to give up pitching and now you want me to switch sports?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.

  “No. Not at all. I’m just—”

  I interrupt him. “And anyway, I was ten and that stuff wasn’t as important.”

  “Well, what about when you were eight and you were so sick and tired of the tiaras and pageants? You thought it was pretty important to tell your mom you didn’t want to do the whole pageant circuit anymore.”

  I pick the basketball up off the floor and begin bouncing it ever so slightly against the bench. “What does that even have to do with softball?”

  “Remember, your mom accused you of quitting because she said you were frustrated that you couldn’t win?”

  Now I know where he’s going with this. I hang my head.

  Tenderly, he grabs the bouncing basketball from me and places it back on the ground. Then he cups my chin, gently lifting it with his hand so I’m forced to stare at him. “But you decided to prove your mom wrong, didn’t you? To show her that even though you hated pageants, you could still win. And so you did. A few times.” He grins. “I still remember the look on your mom’s face the first time they crowned you.”

  I don’t know if it’s because of how much I want another crown—the one worn by the prom princess—or the mention of my mom, but the flood of tears fills my eyes once again.

  “Once you put your mind to something, even if it’s something you hate, like pageants, you can do anything, Ky. Imagine if you focused all your energies on softball what you could do. Amber wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  At this point, I’m sobbing so hard I’m shaking. Normally, this isn’t something anyone would do in front of an ex-boyfriend. But Zachary is so much more than a former flame. He’s seen me cry a zillion times before. Even more than Missy. He’s my best friend. Or at least he was . . .

  Zachary moves his hand from my chin and wraps his big thick arms around my shoulders to steady me as I sob.

  I feel myself give in and sink into his embrace. But then I stiffen.

  What am I doing? I can’t do this right now.

  No matter what Zachary says, he went too far last season. He just can’t be trusted.

  I push him away and start to hyperventilate. “Don’t think you can just waltz in here and start hugging me and take advantage of me because I’ve had a bad day.”

  Zachary grins. “Who’s trying to take advantage? I miss you.”

  I try to breathe. “You miss me? Goo
d.” I sniffle. “You’re the one who messed this up.”

  “And I’ve regretted that every minute of every day since. You’re the only one who gets me. Neighbor.” He tilts his head to the side. “Think of all the time we’re wasting being mad at each other. Who knows how long you’ll be in my backyard?”

  “Whatever.” I roll my tired eyes. Tired from crying and tired of Zachary’s ridiculous lines.

  “I’m serious, Ky. I just can’t take it anymore. . . .” He looks up at me, then at the clock. And then he quotes “our song”: “It’s a quarter after three and I’m all alone and I need you now.” He grins.

  Yeah, he needs me all right. Seriously? Does he think Lady Antebellum will really work on me? But he keeps singing, and before I know it, I can’t stop myself from smiling back. “You’re crazy . . .” I say, attempting to hide my uninvited grin. That’s something else Zachary could always do. Turn my tears into giggles in minutes.

  “Seriously, Ky. Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to knock on your window and talk to you?”

  “Uh. You do . . .” I think back to the hundreds of taps I’ve had to ignore since we moved in.

  “No, I mean, I really need you. You know I can’t cope in that house without someone to talk to about it all. You’re the only one that knows. . . .”

  About his dad. That’s what he means. I’m the only one who knows about his dad—who’s a closet alcoholic.

  “And there’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up,” Zachary continues.

  What? Is his dad going to rehab again? Did he have a bad night? A bad week? A bad month? My stony facade melts. I allow myself to stare deeply into Zachary’s eyes. When it comes to his dad, I can’t keep up the charade of not caring.

  That’s all Zachary needs to see. He falls down on one knee and grabs my hand. Then he pops the question every girl at Beachwood wants to hear.

  “Kylie, will you go to the prom with me?”

  twelve

  “Come on. . .” Missy pleads with me the following Saturday night. “We’re going to Pinkberry. . . . You know the brownie bites are amazing.” She pulls up in front of the yogurt shop.

  I pick my head up from the cool glass and shrug. Missy’s right—I could use a dose of chocolate right now. Maybe it will pick me up off the floor. Since I lost my starting position, it’s like I’m numb. I can barely bring myself to think about prom. Or about the invite I haven’t answered yet. And let me just say this: it’s hard to avoid someone (aka Zachary) when you literally live right in his backyard.

  “Anyway, Jess and Tamika tell me you’ve been sulking the whole time I was out sick. . . .” Missy flips open the visor and checks her raw nose in the reflection, dabbing it with her index finger. “Urgh. My nose will never look the same.”

  “I’m not sulking,” I lie.

  But the truth is that I totally have been. Bad. The only thing I can bring myself to do is watch last year’s softball games. Over and over again. I’ve been trying to study the film, to attempt to see what changed, to figure out why Coach went with Amber instead of me. But I keep coming back to the same conclusion: whatever happened, it doesn’t matter. I have to earn my spot back.

  “Yeah, you’re definitely sulking . . .” Missy adds.

  “Whatever.” I roll my eyes.

  “Pouter,” Missy teases.

  “Princess,” I joke.The nickname brings a smile to my face for a half a second—it’s from Missy’s Disney period. But then it hits me—princess, prom princess, my mom, Zachary’s invite . . . I let out a sigh.

  Missy rubs her glossed lips together. “The only person who still calls me princess is Andrew Mason, and that’s exactly how he should treat me for eternity after his lame attempt at being Beachwood’s biggest bad boy.”

  “Not exactly the bad-boy type, huh?”

  “Andrew is about as bad boy as Elmo.”

  We burst into giggles.

  “Now, stop being such a downer. Think of tonight as a Pinkberry pick-me-up.”

  I shrug. Without wheels of my own, it’s not like I really have a say anyway. I turn to look at the store entrance and discover that it’s mobbed. “I hate how everyone goes here,” I whine.

  “Uh, hello? It’s not like that takes away from the tangy goodness.”

  I’m about to make some comment about how all that tanginess is clearly getting to Missy’s head when she pulls into a spot, and I notice the car parked next to us: Tamika’s white jeep. Out come Abby, Zoe, Eva, and Jessica. Then in pulls Violet Montgomery, Hannah’s ultra-popular sister, in her silver Mercedes. Sure enough, Hannah and Taylor pile out. “I thought it was just me and you tonight. . . .”

  “Me, you, and the basketball team,” Missy says, in between applications of pink lip gloss. “Because I don’t think I can deal with your oh-my-God, the-world-is-ending attitude for one more second without some additional reinforcements.”

  “Hannah too?”

  “She’s getting me into college, remember?”

  I stare at her blankly.

  “Ky, I may be trying to rescue you from your whole woe-is-me moment, but Mama’s gotta think about the future.”

  I shake my head in mock disbelief and step out of the car.

  “Ky!”Violet calls out to me from the driver’s seat of her Mercedes. She puts down her phone as I approach. “Late practice today?” Violet’s nose crinkles as she scans my outfit—shorts, a practice tee, and my Adidas slides.

  I look down at my choice of attire—it’s painfully obvious that I have nowhere to go on a Saturday night. “Uh. Yeah.”

  Violet leans in through the open window. “Why don’t you and Missy ditch these losers and hang out with us tonight?” She giggles, glancing at her sister. Then she places her hand over her mouth in fake shock, as if just realizing that she may not have been out of hearing range. “That is. After you change.”

  “Love to, Vi. But I can’t ditch my girls.”

  “Good point. How would they know what to order without you?” Violet replies sarcastically.

  “Right.” I pause and my mind goes where it shouldn’t. “Is Zachary going out tonight?”

  Why did I let that slip out?

  She narrows her eyes. “Why do you care? Thought you guys were finito.”

  “Yeah, we are. It’s just”—I struggle for a response—“that I’m worried he’s lost without me. You know how boys are. . . .”

  “Oh, I do. And Zach is the worst of them. He’s kind of like a lost little puppy.”

  “He is?” I ask, momentarily full of hope.

  “Yeah, a lost little puppy who’d hump anything in sight!”

  “Yeah . . .” I break out laughing. It’s the only thing to do. “Too bad he’s a stray.”

  “Ooh, I’m gonna tell him you said that!”

  “Uh—I’m counting on it.”

  “Alrighty, well, gotta bounce. Catch ya on the flip,” she announces. Then she pulls away.

  When I walk over to my friends, they’re already waiting in line, deep in conversation.

  “Tamika, did you see the sketch I sent you?” Hannah asks, looking lost without her skateboard.

  Tamika’s face lights up. “Yup. I opened it yesterday.”

  “And . . . What do you think?” Missy asks, rubbing her hands together.

  Tamika breaks into a wide smile. Out of nowhere, a toddler bumps into her.

  “Sorry.” The harried mother follows close behind the boy.

  See what I mean? Crowded.

  Tamika regains her balance. “Anyway. I love it! Especially the color.”

  “Apricot is a great shade for you . . .” Hannah says as we reach the counter.

  I look up to read the menu and find that I’m face-to-face with Dwight, Tamika’s ex. I always forget that he works parttime at Pinkberry.

  “Looks like apricot is a good color for you too, Dwight,” I say, motioning to his official Pinkberry collared shirt. In addition to being Tamika’s ex, Dwight is one of Zachary’s teammates and
yet another three-B offender. So, he’s definitely deserving of my full-on wrath.

  Dwight adjusts his beige apron in an attempt to hide his shirt from view. It doesn’t work.

  “Nice apron.” I smirk.

  “Oh, you know I make this look good,” Dwight replies, all macho man.

  I laugh. “Uh-huh. If that’s what you tell yourself . . .”

  Oblivious, Hannah interrupts. “Excuse me, can I order?”

  Dwight turns to face her. “I’m sorry. Welcome to Pinkberry. Would you like to try one of our original flavors?”

  “No, I know what I want. An original with Fruity Pebbles and chocolate chips, please,” Hannah says.

  Fruity Pebbles? Seriously?

  I look around for Missy and notice that she’s come to stand next to Hannah. “Are you adding the silk to Tamika’s dress like you were talking about?” she asks, bright eyed.

  I stifle a major sigh. She’s way more into the whole Hannah thing than she’s letting on. Marketing experience for college—yeah, right.

  “Do I hear you talking about my girl’s prom dress?” Dwight asks.

  “Your girl?” Tamika asks. “Sorry, but I think you may have the wrong person.”

  Good for her, I think. The “my girl” part almost made me want to take Hannah’s yogurt and throw it at him.

  I’m about to give Tamika a hug so she knows I understand what she’s going through when I hear Dwight say, “Oh, you’ll always be my girl.” And then, turning to the group, “I can’t wait to see it. Tamika looks amazing no matter what she wears.”

  The two of them beam at each other, and I have to stop myself from gagging. He’s definitely hanging out with Zachary way too much.

  Then he turns to the rest of us. “Anything else, ladies?”

  Eva and Jessica order, followed by Zoe and Abby. I follow suit, paying as quickly as possible. Then I grab my cup and—ignoring the fact that Taylor still hasn’t ordered—I usher my teammates along, attempting to locate a table. As usual, it’s standing room only.

  “Told you guys. It’s crawling with tourists.” I make a big show of gesturing to the full tables, and that’s when I notice Missy’s sweater. “Uh, Miss . . .”