a Brentwood baseball shirt, Carson stands tall, hat backward on his head, with his fist clutched around his bat. I quickly stand and try not to fidget under his stare.
“You didn’t change?” I glance down at my clothes and then back up at him. That’s an odd question.
“Did I need to?”
“I don’t know. Thought that shirt might be too baggy to pitch in.”
“Oh, I won’t be pitching to you.” I shake my head, and he exhales loudly and leans against the fence of the little league dugout.
This is where I practice with my eight-year-olds, and I’ve always thought the field seemed large, that was until Carson stepped onto it. The dugout feels miniature now, like it’s meant for four people and we’re taking up half of it.
“Then what the hell am I doing here?”
An attitude already and I haven’t even said anything. For a second, I consider leaving . . . until Cory’s words seep into my consciousness.
Seize the moment.
Steadying myself, I try to stand tall. Here goes. “Yo-you’re here because you . . . ne-need my help.”
Good grief, Milly. Stop stuttering, and for the love of God, stop shaking.
Steady, calm breaths.
He’s not going to bite, at least I don’t think he will.
“Yes,” he says gruffly. “I’m desperate, so I’ll try anything at this point.” How pleasant. “But how the hell do you expect to help me if you can’t pitch to me?”
“I didn’t say I can’t pi-pitch to you.” Deep breath. Unclench your fists. Relax. “I said I wasn’t going to pitch to you. I’m here to assess you, and then we can move forward.”
His brows shoot up. “Are you trying to tell me this is more than a one-time thing?”
“Th-the Sistine Chapel wasn’t painted in a day, and likewise, your swing won’t magically reappear.”
He pushes off against the wire fencing and grows taller than I thought possible. The expanse of his chest, the size of his biceps, it’s all so intimidating. “If you didn’t notice, I don’t have a lot of time to figure this shit out.”
“Th-then, best you st-stop arguing with me.” I push my glasses up on my nose. “And you start listening.”
Groaning, he drags his hand down his face and finally says, “Fine, where do we start?”
A little shocked that he gave in so easily—I thought he had at least a few more minutes of fight left in him—I walk over to my backpack, grab my trusty notebook, and I nod at him to follow me.
“Stand at home plate.”
“If you make me visualize my swing, I’m out of here.”
“Ju-just stand at the plate.”
“Do I need my bat?”
“No.”
Groaning some more, he tosses the bat to the side and stands at home plate, as I stand three quarters of the way from the mound to him.
Arms crossed over his chest, he stands in the batter’s box but by no means is in his position. He’s annoyed, he clearly doesn’t want to be here, and is most likely counting down the seconds until he can take off.
Which means only one thing: I need to school him.
Steeling myself, I think back to the many lectures I’ve given my brothers in the past. I dig deep for that inner voice, and start talking about what I know best—baseball.
“As a batter, how much time do you have to hit a baseball?”
“I don’t know, a few seconds?”
“Try four milliseconds.”
He straightens slightly.
“The hardest thing to do in sports is hit a baseball. It’s so hard that if you fail seven out of ten times, you’re considered a cream-of-the-crop hitter.”
His brow quirks up. “Cream of the crop?”
“Y-you know what I mean.”
A smirk lightens his frown. “Just never heard someone my age use the term, cream of the crop.”
Is he teasing me?
From the way his body language seems to relax, I’m going to assume so, which makes me relax as well. The tension in my throat calms. I can do this.
I adjust my hat. “As a hitter, you have one hundred milliseconds to pick up the ball from the pitcher’s hands, which puts me right about”—I shift my position—“here. This is where your eyes should be able to see the ball.”
“Okay.” Getting into it now, he stands in the batter’s box as if he’s getting ready for a pitch and looks my way.
Holding up my notebook, I flip to the first page where I have a true-to-size picture of a mid-spin baseball. “I want to make sure you can actually see from where you are in the batter’s box. You know the different spins of