“Come on, Ans,” I plead.
She’s being stubborn and downright unreasonable now. Ignoring my plea, she steps up to the plate in her little shorts and tank and digs in.
“Paint me a corner.” She takes a practice swing, cutting the bat up high then leveling it at chest height.
“Come on, Ans, you don’t even have a helmet.”
I look to Bellamy for help. Don’t get me wrong, I like her crazy, but this is serious stuff. She went to school for ten years for shit’s sake. What if the ball hits her in the head and causes brain damage or something? I love her but I’m not sure I’m ready to take the step of wiping her ass for the rest of my life.
“Dr. McCallister, I have to insist that you don’t do this.”
Thank you, Bellamy. Finally, someone of authority tries talking sense into her.
“Come on, Commander.”
As much as Cade’s voice grates on my last nerve, I’m actually relieved to hear him speak up. Maybe she’ll listen to his dumbass.
Nope. Anniston takes another swing, keeping her eyes on me, totally ignoring the “please” and “common sense” being asked of her.
“Throw the fucking ball, Theo.”
Twenty years of friendship and fifteen years of sleeping together, not to mention she’s my trainer, allots me some pull on most things but not with my training. No, in this area she is the boss, my motherfucking Commander. I know what happens if I don’t throw the ball. The question is, do I want to deal with the consequences? Like my head is not my own, I shake my head once, no.
“What if I hit you?” No sense in not giving it one last shot before I cave.
“You won’t hit me. Now. Throw. The. Ball!”
I won’t hit her. Psh… has she seen me pitch before? How many batters have I hit? Fifty? A hundred? Shit, it’s so many I’ve lost count. Let’s be realistic here.
Anniston takes one more practice swing and points the tip of the bat in the air, indicating left field. I glance over to Michaels, who is looking on with rapt fascination. Fucking prick. I hope Cade beats the fuck out of him later. With the hate stare Jameson is rocking, Michaels will be lucky if he walks out of this ballpark unassisted.
I pull in a deep breath as I clutch the ball in my glove, snagging a look at Brody for confirmation that we are actually participating in this craziness. His head shakes in exasperation but he resignedly gives me the signal with two fingers to his left thigh and a tap to his right, indicating he is ready for the curve.
With a head nod, I acknowledge his command, curling into my wind and then sending a pitch whistling through the air. I know the instant it leaves my hand that she’s going to hit it—the determination in her eyes brooks no argument. Her knee drops lower, her shoulders square up just as she swings hard into the pitch.
The unmistakable crack of the bat echoes in the stadium, creating a cacophony of gasps. My curveball soars through the sky and drops politely into left field. Just as she predicted. A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth as every head follows the path of the ball.
“How bout you go fetch that, Michaels? I’ll fucking sign it for you.”
This damn girl. My damn girl. I double over laughing as Cade turns his back to me, his body shaking in laughter, too. Even Bellamy is wearing a smug-ass smile. Michaels stands stupidly, glaring daggers at Ans before accepting defeat, turning on his heel, heading for the dugout. She gives him her attention for all of a second before she pulls her focus back to me.
“Now, do what I told you!” she yells, her coach voice ringing out.
I get out a strangled, “Yes, ma’am,” before I release the next pitch, half a second early, painting the left corner of the plate perfectly. Just like she said it would.
