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
“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
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