Evolve Series Box Set (2 page)

Coming off the bench cold in the last inning sucks. It can only lead to disaster or heroism, often making DH the worst position on the team. So, armed with my fifty-fifty chance, I grab my helmet and bat and approach the warm-up circle.

Taking my practice swings, timing with the pitcher, I really should be too focused to hear my father’s voice above the crowd and my own thoughts.

“Fall down swinging, slugger!” he shouts in that “ball is life” voice of his.

My dad was an all-star pitcher and hometown hero in his day, so he knows the game inside and out and has a true love and respect of it. He’s rarely missed an inning of my many years playing and I’m always pleased when my performance delivers and makes him proud.

More distracting than his voice, however, is the glance I catch of my other fan that never misses a game, Evan.

Evan Allen, my best friend and rock, is sitting on the top bleacher as always, sporting his navy #14 t-shirt that proclaims him a Walker fan. I sneak a longer peek at him out of the corner of my helmet and see that he has his fingers crossed on both hands, left leg twitching up and down. Sometimes I think he gets more nervous for me than I do.

He knows I’m looking, much like I can always sense his gaze upon me, and turns slightly to wink. “You got this,” he mouths with a firm nod.

Focused on me, he doesn’t notice the pack of she-wolves sauntering up the stands. Giggling and prancing, or whatever it is they do, they take the bleacher in front of him, almost blocking his view. I’m sure my helmet doesn’t hide the eye roll I give, but I don’t care. I turn my focus back to the game.

Kaitlyn Michaels, our right fielder and pretty much the only female friend I have, pops up and the ball is easily caught, the second out of the inning. It’s go time and I step up to the plate. My father again shouts to swing for the fence. He, too, gets annoyed when I get pulled in cold at the end, so he’s basically telling me to ignore my sign and swing for it.

My first pitch is outside, and although Coach Dad has always advised me to lay off those, I of course swing…and miss. Banging my bat across the plate, I ready myself for the next pitch. This one comes in low and I lay off; one thing I’ve always had is a good eye. I take a deep breath. I can do this. Swinging late, I get a piece of the pitcher’s third attempt.

“One-two.” The ump calls the count…right before I swing again and whiff.

That’s the thing about my dad’s “no guts no glory” theory: if you connect, it’s gone, you win and you’re the MVP. But if you miss…it feels like this.

I had struck out, ending the game in their favor. Being the last out of a game is the worst feeling ever. I’d almost rather not get in the game at all.

After feigning interest in the Coach’s post-game speech, not that I don’t respect him and my team, but I’m kinda over it right now, I start on my trek to the locker room…only to have Dad step in my path.

“Good swing, kid. You ever get a piece of those outsiders you can’t lay off, it’ll be gone,” he says, scrubbing my head.

I give him a half smile and shoulder shrug. What else can I do? I wonder how many people my dad made feel exactly like this during his time on the mound.

“I’ll see ya at home,” he says as he walks to his truck.

I make quick business of showering and gathering my stuff, offer a half-hearted “good game” nod to the few teammates still lingering among the lockers, and begin the walk of shame to my truck.

The field lights give the parking lot just enough light for an eerie glow and I see him immediately. I knew he’d be somewhere close by; he always is. Sometimes still surrounded by the wolf pack by the time I’m ready, sometimes right outside the door…but always close by. To this day, I don’t take it for granted and it never ceases to amaze me how I feel a unique sense of appreciation every single time.

Tonight he’s by himself and has chosen to lean against the hood of my truck. With his arms folded across his chest and one ankle crossed over the other, there really isn’t a more comforting sight than my Evan. At just over six feet tall with a lean but solidly muscular build, shaggy brown hair that needs no product to look fixed, crystal blue eyes, and cocky smile, Evan Allen need only breathe to cause a stirring in any girl fortunate enough to cross his path. Throw in his football star status, navy blue letter jacket, and slightly shy demeanor and you’ve got every high school girl’s fantasy.

“Hey,” is all I say as I approach him, slinging my bag into the back of my truck.

Yes, I drive a truck, and play softball…not every high school guy’s fantasy. Not that I care.

“Hey yourself, bootyful,” he says with a smirk, obviously quite proud of the newest addition to his ever-growing list of nicknames for me.

I secretly love it and am never disappointed in what he comes up with, silly boy.

Looking around, I don’t see his jacked-up beast of a truck, which is very hard to miss, so I ask him if he needs a ride. He nods and puts out his hand for my keys…as if!

“My truck, I’m driving,” I tell him, even though it should go without saying.

“Not a chance, woman. You’re the worst driver I know, especially when you’re mad, and I’d just as soon get home alive. Hand ‘em over.”

“I’m not mad,” I huff, “I’m disappointed in myself…as usual.” I mumble the last part.

“Don’t talk about my girl that way, and don’t make me manhandle you for those keys.” He lunges for me, which I narrowly escape.

Smiling now, despite my mood, I concede and hand him the keys. I simply can’t resist the charms that are so completely Evan; those flirty blue eyes, framed by dark, thick lashes, and his crooked little grin as he spouts off those pet names would test any girl’s resolve. Not to mention, and I never will, but I really am a bad driver. Then again, Evan taught me how to drive, and I take satisfaction in knowing I can use that against him if he gets too cocky about my surrender of the keys.

Driving is one thing, but there’s no way I’m conceding control of the radio; he knows music is my escape. I know he’s going to try and talk about my epic fail, so hopefully he’ll take the hint that it’s the last thing I want to do.

I turn my gaze out my window, thinking about the game, about my dad’s disappointment, but also about nothing at all, when his willpower finally gives out.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks sweetly.

I turn to him, roll my eyes and return my fascination with anything outside my window. The drive to our neighborhood includes a beautiful expanse of land, still untouched by society, nothing but wide open field and dark sky filled with stars. I try to pick out the brightest one, the wishing star, but Evan’s husky voice diverts me.

“It’s not worth beating yourself up about. It was one at-bat, not the end of the world. And yes, he still loves you.”

I hate it when he knows exactly what I’m thinking…or do I?

“Easy for you to say. Every time you walk on the field, you make the whole damn town proud, let alone your dad. And every at-bat I screw up, well, that’s exactly what it is; one more screw up. I’ll probably have to work through college, just to pay them to let me get splinters in my ass.” I say it with a little more bark than he deserves, and I feel somewhat guilty, but sometimes I don’t think he understands.

His scholarship offers have been rolling in for months; mine haven’t. My dad and I live paycheck to paycheck, he can’t afford college for me, and I’ve already been too much of a burden on one parent. A good scholarship is vital to my future.

“Ah, Laney, you’re way too hard on yourself.”

Maybe he’s right, but thankfully we were home, so I don’t have to decide right now.

We only live three houses apart, so Evan parks my truck in my driveway and turns in his seat to look at me, pulling a piece of paper out of his back pocket, his blue gaze a new shade of serious. “I thought you were gonna tell me if this didn’t stop?” he asks, handing me the note.

I don’t have to open it really, they’re all the same, but I do anyway. This one says Great game tonight, Laney. You’re amazing.

Who is this freak? Why not just walk up to me and say “Hey, I like you” or “Hey, wanna grab a burger?” Surely it would be less trouble than sneaking around, leaving creepy notes and presents. Maybe we could have had a normal friendship before it got weird.

At first, I’d just thought it was a cute secret admirer, especially since we were so young when it started, but now we’re adults and it’s creepy. Evan begs me all the time to tell my dad, but there are some things you just don’t tell the single father of an only daughter; he would stage a manhunt. One promise I’ve always made to Evan, that I will keep, is if there’s ever a threatening tone to the notes or a personal encounter, I’ll report it immediately.

I sigh, not really wanting to talk about this now. “It’s been a while since the last one so there was nothing to tell you. Besides, you found it, not me. I don’t suppose you saw anything?”

He just gives me that “really, Laney?” look. Of course he hadn’t seen anyone; they’d still be lying in the parking lot, beaten to a pulp, if he had. “Alright, well, make sure you stay alert, Laney. I can’t always be there and I worry about you.”

“I know, Ev, I will.”

We climb out of the truck and he grabs my stuff out of the back for me, tossing my keys with a “heads up.” After we hug, the way we always say goodbye, he heads to his house, walking slowly, of course, always making sure I get inside okay. He calls over his shoulder on the breeze, “night,” to which I smile and give a small wave, knowing I’ll talk to him again at least once before going to sleep.

I’m barely out of the shower when my text dings. I know it’s Evan before even looking.

Evan: You ok?

His thoughtfulness sparks a grin despite my slightly dismal mood. 

Laney: Of course, always am eventually. Hot shower helped.

Evan: So this wknd, let’s do something.

Why he has to clarify this, I’m not sure. I can’t remember the last weekend night I didn’t spend with Evan, but I’ll play along.

Laney: K…?

Evan: I meant let’s do something different.

Laney: Like?

Evan: Idk, maybe a nice dinner out?

Laney: Evan, are you asking me on a date?

Of course he’s not, Evan and I aren’t like that, but I love to tease him.

Evan: Maybe.

Laney: Maybe you should slide me a note tomorrow and I can check the box yes or no.

Evan: Huh?

Laney: Come here please.

I’m leaning out my open window when he saunters up. He’s changed into black basketball shorts and a grey t-shirt, no shoes. He runs one hand through his hair as he walks up to me, a sure sign he’s nervous. Why?

“Hello again, Mr. Allen. You could have stopped to put on shoes.” I nod to his feet and laugh.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“I guess you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting.” I have to really try to keep a serious face but he’s smiling.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Well, should a young man wish to take a young lady to dinner, he should probably ask her in person. There are certain things still not textably acceptable.”

He laughs; I love that sound. He really is the most adorable guy alive. No wonder the girls at school make fools of themselves over him.

“I mean, I know it’s not a date date, but still…humor me.”

“Laney Jo Walker, I would very much like to take you out for a nice dinner this weekend. I would like to open doors and bring you flowers. You can call it, or not call it, whatever you want.”

Hand through hair again; why is he anxious? We’ve eaten together more times than I can count, and usually whichever of us has money right then pays, so what’s the big deal?

He looks past my shoulder. “Sound good?”

“I accept. It sounds very nice.” I cock my head to the side, forcing him to meet my eyes, and smile. “But how nice are we talking? You know I’m not wearing a dress, right?”

“The crazy thought never crossed my mind, sunshine. Wear whatever you want.”

“K, then I’ll see you in the morning. Am I riding with you?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” And with that, he winks and walks back to his house.

***

Despite my clammy, fidgeting hands and perpetual cotton-mouth, dinner is amazing; even better than I expected. Vicenza’s is a new Italian restaurant one town over, with candlelight, soft music and all those other “date restaurant” things. It is the nicest place I’ve ever been to and the food is delicious. I’m always grateful when he gets me to try new things and I can’t help but reminisce.

Evan’s 11th birthday party was the first time I’d ever ice skated. I only fell on top of him like five times before I got the hang of it, which I counted as a success.

The first time I jumped off the bluff at Miller’s Landing, it was because Evan had jumped with me, hand in hand. There had never been an encore and we pinky swore not to tell our parents.

My first try-out for a team my dad didn’t coach, in ninth grade, Evan gave me the pep talk to do so. He’d left a Good Luck card in my locker that day and rode with my dad to pick me up after tryouts.

He clears his throat to bring me back to the present. One glance at him tells me he has something big to say. “Laney, I’m signing. I’m going to play ball at UGA.” The University of Georgia, our dream.

I jump out of my chair and round the table to hug him. “Congratulations, Evan! I’m so proud of you!”

He pulls me into his lap and kisses my forehead. “Thanks, boo! You heard from them yet?” Sweet Evan, his eyes optimistically hopeful, like perhaps I just forgot to tell him, because he just knows they should have called for me. He believes in me completely.

But I haven’t. As of right now, my options look like Tech or Southern. I don’t understand; my visit in the fall to the Bulldog campus went great. The coach talked as though he’d been watching me for a while and my showcase for him was spot-on. I’d timed his pitchers instantly and hit their change-ups the first time.