We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,25

every time I try to bring it up, he dodges. He changes the subject. He shuts down completely.

It’s infuriating.

And painful.

And a million other feelings I can’t properly put into words — not without unbearable thoughts creeping in.

He’s grown tired of me. Tired of the way I rely on him. Tired of being the extroverted half in an imbalanced equation.

He finally sees what everyone else always has: Josephine Valentine is not worth sticking around for.

Leaning into the breeze, for just a moment, I close my eyes, drop the tiller, and surrender, allowing the elements to take full control. Growling gusts thrash my sails with wild fury. Merciless waves pitch Cupid up and down, spilling over the sides and into the cockpit, saturating my tan Sperry Topsiders. We churn sideways, veering off course like a spinning top on the surface of the sea, caught in a dangerous current.

Over the cacophony of clanging of lines and flapping sails, at the mercy of howling winds and frothing swells, I wonder.

How long will I survive without my tether to the shore?

A rogue wave splashes freezing water into my face, snapping me back to my senses. I quickly pull in the lines. With the tiller firmly in hand once more, I point the bow back toward the distant outline of Crow Island, and the cove beyond. If I squint, I imagine I can see the glowing light of the boathouse, nested there against the dock, waiting for me in the lengthening shadows. And, hidden in the trees beyond, a dark-haired boy walking up the steps of a small cottage — dirty cleats on his feet, worn glove in his hand, secrets hidden behind his once-clear eyes.

Chapter Eight

ARCHER

On the mound, the world narrows.

Leather in my left.

Ball in my right.

Tension coils in my spine. My lungs yield, breathing now a secondary concern. I trace the ball’s seams with my fingertips, adjusting my grip. Weighing the familiar curve against my calluses.

When you’re first learning to pitch, back in Little League, coaches tell you to focus on the catcher’s mitt if you want your ball to break in the strike zone.

That never felt specific enough for me.

I look harder. Closer. Using every bit of my concentration, until the brand name on the glove’s lower heel becomes legible. Until the mitt breaks into discernible parts — webbing, pocket, pads. I find the seams. The individual laces that weave their way up the finger stalls.

I find one, single stitch.

And when I have it in my sights, when I’ve locked onto that tiny, far-off detail with the precision of a laser…

I let the ball fly.

In this game, there are as many types of players as there are pitches. Sluggers, runners, fielders, closers. Splitters, sliders, curveballs, changeups.

I’m an ace.

A power pitcher.

A flamethrower.

My four-seam fastball is already breaking triple digits on the radar-gun — unheard of in most pre-collegiate divisions. It’s not uncommon for me to pitch a no-hitter, striking out every batter who swings against me. They tremble when they step up to my plate.

And it is my plate.

My stadium.

My team.

That might sound conceited but it’s the truth. One I earned, one I refuse to be ashamed of. I worked my ass off to get here. I practice twice as hard as any other guy at Exeter. I had to — my parents couldn’t afford private coaching sessions, couldn’t rent out the cages for hours at a time, couldn’t pay for the best equipment, couldn’t send me away to training camp.

To make the varsity team junior year, I dragged my ass out of bed at every morning at the crack of dawn and jogged six miles to the field before the sun was up. By the time the rest of the team showed up for practice at nine, still yawning into their gloves and wiping crust from the corners of their eyes, I’d been at it for hours. And when they called it quits for the day, heading off to play video games or make-out with their girlfriends, I’d still be there. Throwing until my arm gave out — or, until Jo arrived to drag me home for dinner.

“That’s it, Reyes! Looking good out there,” Coach Hamm calls from the dugout, giving an approving nod when my fastball slams into Chris Tomlinson’s catching glove at bone-bending speed. Behind the cage of his face mask, I think I see him wince.

“Hilton, you’re up!” Coach jerks his chin at Andy. “Snyder, in the hole.”

Three quick sinkers, and Andy’s out. At his best, he’s no great hitter;