A shy high school senior jock and a closed-off girl battling an immune disorder fake a relationship to win a social media contest.
Being shy isn't easy, especially when you're the new kid at school. Scotts Valley's football program is subpar compare...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Spring baseball was my favorite transition. Still in football shape, my body was strong and fit. I needed to loosen it more than bulk up.
The endless possibilities of a new season rushed through me, which I welcomed to flush away some lingering feelings from my last football season being over. New excitement surged through my veins, and my new team greeted me with appreciative smiles.
I nodded and knelt to pull my socks up to my calves. The thwock of the ball in my glove at each catch and ping off the bat were so satisfying. A breeze cooled my heated skin, and the field carried relaxed, positive spirits. The slower pace allowed me to ease through warmups and tryouts, even with Coach Williams putting me in one of the busiest positions.
"First base...Mc—Hightower," he announced to a round of smattering applause.
The hopefuls—let's be honest, walking onto this field earned a roster spot—sat in a semicircle around Coach Williams. His Falcons polo shirt and track pants were identical to football, and Patel was the pitching coach. A third of the players carried over from football; thankfully, Pierce and Caden weren't among them. Some of the football team chose to run track & field.
Most of the baseball team were sophomores, putting us in a rebuilding phase. I didn't care, embracing self-imposed pressure of not fucking up for scouts or, worse, injuring myself. We started slow, losing our first three games, but pulled up to a respectable 7-5. The team vibe was much more chill. Not one-quarter of the number of football fans attended the games—although, unfortunately, Mom did— and the game pace was slower. We still needed to be in top shape and stay alert to react.
Halfway into baseball season, the number of scouts at our games increased. Two to three approached me daily. One unknown scout, a bald, overweight man, always wore a suit jacket, sat in the top back of the bleachers, and spent most of the games scrawling on something propped on his right knee. He never spoke to the coaches or players, so we didn't know who he scouted.
All I needed to do was not fuck up or injure myself, but I couldn't take a lazy approach. The Falcons were decent. Not terrible, but not excellent like Santa Cruz. The field conditions weren't much better than the football version; during the first week, Thomas, our right outfielder, rolled his ankle fielding fly balls. Carrying a team in baseball was difficult. I fielded first base, setting my stance and refusing to allow anything past my reach, but I couldn't control the pitcher and other hitters.
Despite already recruiting me, Mr. McMillan attended my games, both home and away. We traveled a lot, as much as three times per week. I wanted to prove I was worth the investment, and my game fucking soared. My throws were faster, I snapped catches with wicked accuracy, and my hitting edged .45. Home runs were difficult to achieve, but RBIs and Ws were important.
"Brody!" Mr. McMillan waved me over after our 7-3 win over Soquel. I left the field with a grin, earning my eleventh and twelfth RBIs. "Great game, son."
