it was an accident. I still would like to pitch.”
“You won’t hurt him?”
“Maybe his pride.”
Sarah tossed her the ball. “Good luck with that.”
The chatter in the dugout slowly died when Savannah strode out to the pitcher’s mound.
Cam Murphy called to his wife, “You okay, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine. Our new team member wants to show us her stuff.”
That comment gave rise to good-natured whistles and catcalls, and Savannah played her part, smiling and waving and giving her hips a little jiggle.
“You gonna take a few practice pitches?” Nic asked, taking her place behind the plate as catcher.
Savannah glanced at Zach, who stood in the batter’s box, swinging the bat one-handed, then nodded at Sage. “A couple.”
The first pitch she threw slow and easy, a strike that thumped into Nic’s catcher’s mitt. The second pitch sailed across home plate similarly to the first. Savannah caught Nic’s return pitch, then nodded her readiness toward Celeste, who called, “Batter up.”
Zach stepped up to the plate. He took one practice swing, then another, then set his feet, drew back the bat, and awaited the pitch.
Savannah fired the pitch toward the plate. Zach swung and missed it by a mile.
“Whoa, what was that?” Colt exclaimed as Zach stepped out of the batter’s box and studied Savannah with a speculative look. Sarah chortled. Cam and Gabe stepped up to the fence, seeking a better view. In the outfield, her teammates whistled and cheered.
Zach stepped back up to the plate. He shot Savannah a challenging grin. She fired one of her own right back.
And then she blew a second pitch past him.
“A ringer,” Mac Timberlake marveled. “You’ve brought in a ringer.”
Zach got a piece of the third pitch, then she fooled him completely with an off-speed throw and struck him out. She resisted the urge to pump her fist and instead sent him a smug, victorious smile.
Everyone—except for Zach—cheered. Cam Murphy came up to bat next and started teasing her with challenges. She struck him out in three straight pitches. At that point the structure of the game disintegrated. All the guys wanted a turn at bat.
Savannah thoroughly enjoyed herself. She threw well, proving that muscle memory is a powerful thing. Some of the guys got hits off her, and the more times they faced her, the better they did. The women all wanted a chance at her, too, so Savannah’s arm got a good workout. It didn’t escape her notice that Zach never lined up for another turn. Neither did he leave. He stood watching her, studying her, and only when someone mentioned babysitters and people began gathering up their things to leave did he step up to the plate and ask, “How’s your arm? Do you have it in you to face one more batter?”
“You?”
“Yes. I think I can hit you, but I want to do it fair and square. If you’ve thrown too many pitches …”
No way would she back down on this challenge. Daring him with her smile, she said, “Batter up.”
It became a battle, with Zach getting a piece of the ball every time, though not enough of a piece to actually put the ball in play. Finally, on the twelfth pitch, he popped it into the air. Savannah took two steps back and made an easy catch.
The ballplayers, men and women alike, gave her a round of applause.
Colt Rafferty stepped forward. “So, Savannah, fess up. Where did you learn to pitch a softball? Did you play college ball? Are you an Olympian?”
Savannah glanced at Zach. He was watching her like a predator waiting to pounce.
So this was it, then. He was going to out her, spill her beans. All her new friends were here, and he would “protect” them with one grand announcement. She could read it in his eyes.
Well then. Fine. She’d just beat him to the stab to her heart. She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “Not an Olympian, no. I’ve played softball since I was a child, but I polished my skills while in pris—”
Zach’s voice boomed across the ball field, drowning her out. “Priscilla Hoskins. You’re from Georgia. I’ll bet Priscilla Hoskins was your high school softball coach. Didn’t she go on to coach at Georgia Tech? I’m right, aren’t I? You learned how to pitch from Priscilla.”
Savannah had never heard of a women’s softball coach named Priscilla Hoskins. She did, however, recognize a softball when one was lobbed her way. He wasn’t going to give her secret away, after all. Not here