“Field six, meet me in the dugout in an hour, and bring your bat.” Before I can question her, she takes off, moving faster than before.
Did she just tell me to meet her on the field?
Am I about to get a batting lesson?
From a girl named Milly?
Who wears a fisherman’s hat to a baseball game?
I think back to my pitiful groundout to the pitcher and to my even more devastating batting average.
At this point, I’m past desperate, so I’ll do about anything. Looks like I’m about to meet Milly in the dugout.
Chapter Seven
MILLY
“Pick up. Pick up. Pick up,” I mutter while the phone rings in my ear. A light breeze kicks up, rustling the leaves of the giant oak trees that are sprinkled throughout the beautiful park, a normally relaxing sound now grating on my nerves as the clock ticks down.
Ten minutes and counting.
What was I thinking?
Fact: I wasn’t.
I wasn’t thinking in the slightest. I reacted. Crap.
He was so sure I had no clue what I was talking about, as if I was a liar, an instigator, trying to get under his skin. But I wasn’t. I’ve been watching his swing for a while now and I know how to fix it, and after hearing the doubt in his voice, I couldn’t hold back.
Now I’m regretting it big time.
“Mills, what’s up?”
“Oh my God, Cory. I did the stupidest thing.”
“That’s a way to start a conversation. Okay, what happened?”
I twist my finger in my shirt and keep my eyes on the parking lot, looking out for Carson.
“I don’t have much time to explain.”
“Then give me the condensed version.”
I chew on the side of my mouth. “I told Carson Stone I could teach him how to hit, and he’s on his way to field six right now.”
“Wait . . . Carson Stone, as in the second baseman for Brentwood?”
I cringe. “Yup, that Carson Stone.”
“Damn, Mills. I . . . hell”—he laughs—“I’m proud of you.”
“What? No, Cory, that’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to tell me I’m insane and to get in the car you bought me and drive away as quickly as possible. Big mistake, horrible mistake.”
“Why is that a mistake? Do you not know how to help him?”
“Well . . . no, I mean, I do know how to help him.”
“So what’s the big deal? Unless . . .” More chuckling. “Mildred Potter, do you have a crush on this boy?”
I groan out loud and bury my head in my hand. “No. Jesus. What is with everyone? I do not have a crush on him, he’s just . . . I don’t know . . . intimidating. He’s so cocky and confident, so I trip over my words and NOT because I have a crush on him.”
“If he’s cocky and confident then you’ll have no problem handling him. You’ve handled me and your other two idiots for brothers for over twenty years, so you have plenty of experience. Stop looking at this as a bad thing and think of it as a step in the right direction. You want to get into men’s sports, here’s your opportunity. If Carson Stone is giving you a chance to work on his swing, you need to seize it and show that coaching staff everything you know.”
“I don’t know.” I twist my shirt even tighter. “The knowledge is there, I have no problem identifying problems and finding solutions, it’s just having the confidence to say it out loud.”
“You’ve never shied away from telling me when I’m doing something wrong.”
“That’s because you’re my brother. It’s completely different with a human I’m not related to, someone my age.”
“Well, here’s how I see it.” A black sedan pulls into the parking spot right next to my car, and I immediately know it’s Carson. My stomach feels like it flips inside out from the mere sight of him through the windshield. “You can either tuck your tail between your legs and sulk away, or you can take this moment and make something of it. You want a chance? Here it is, Mills. Take it.”
I swallow hard. “He’s here,” I whisper.
“Then go for it, because if anyone can get Carson Stone hitting again, it’s you. Good luck, Mills. I love you.”
“I love you too.” The words slip out of my mouth just as Carson steps up to the dugout gate. I quickly hang up and set my phone on my small backpack on the bench next to me.