Cat's Out...a Darla The Alpha Cat Novel

Chapter 2 - batter out

Darla 1.2

I'm not too sad to step into the locker room at Cherry Hill High for the last time this spring. For one thing, I hate being alone in here. I hear everything. The drops of water smacking the shower room floor, the hush of the ventilations system. The rustle of a mouse somewhere deep in the walls. I try to stop my mouth from twitching at that one.

But since I'm the only girl on the varsity baseball team, alone is what I am. I campaigned for access to the boy's locker room. Denied. My school is so stuck in the 20th century.

"Velasquez!"

I jump and turn toward the male voice shouting from the door.

"In here!"

"Are you decent?"

I smile. "No. I'm amazing. But I am dressed."

The click click of cleats gets louder as Brad Tucker joins me at my lonely little bench. He's a total babe. I'd eat him up if I weren't afraid of actually eating him up. Besides, he belongs to Jess, a girl who shouldn't be my friend, but is. Cherry Hill has a way of creating strange pairings like that. Near-death experiences draw people together, I suppose.

Brad lifts a cleat onto the bench and leans onto his forearms. "Coach wants you starting right field. He says get your ass moving."

"Really?" Up until now, I'd only played the final innings when we had a huge lead, which didn't happen very often. Impressive batting average or not, I had a lot of juniors and seniors to contend with.

"Yeah. Grover hurt his knee."

I chuckle at the nickname. "Okay. Be right out."

He pulls his foot of the bench, then hesitates. "Darla, try not to take the jabs so personally today, huh?"

Despite the fact that we are living in a new dawn of inclusivity and acceptance, some of my male teammates are still stuck in the distant past. "It was just one punch," I say.

"And you're lucky Kyle is cool and didn't say anything to Coach." He stands and shoves his hands into his back pockets. "You're a good ball player, Darla. But if you can't be happy with who you are, then the whole world will always rub you the wrong way."

"Nice philosophy, Socrates." I shove on my cleats and grab my bat and glove.

He shakes his head and turns for the door.

Happy with who I am. Right. And who am I, exactly? I didn't know six months ago, and I sure as hell don't know now. I shove my hand into the exit door and send it slamming into the wall. I would show them jackweeds today. I swing my bat one-handed at an imaginary ball, or Kyle's head, not sure which, and stalk toward the field.

The day is typical of a northern Michigan May. Too cold for baseball. But I don't care. After a non-eventful three innings, I'm finally up to bat. I tap my cleats with the bat because that's what ball players do, then tuck any wayward strands of hair up under my helmet.

The opposing team from Traverse City is quick to taunt.

"Well at least they're getting prettier!"

"Did you need a stool to get up to the strike zone?"

"Hey Freckles! You get lost on your way to the softball field?"

I glare at my teammates. Whoever had leaked my nickname to the other team must die. Not too slowly. I am a humanitarian, after all. I take a few practice swings at the plate and step into the box, setting my gaze on the pitcher's. He doesn't seem intimidated.

The tall black kid from Traverse City winds up and lets the first pitch fly. I watch it all the way into the catcher's mitt.

"Strike!" the umpire calls.

"You gotta swing the stick thing in your hands!" the catcher says.

I brace myself for the next pitch. It goes wide.

"Ball!"

"Woulda been a strike on a normal-sized batter," the catcher says.

I glare at him. Just ignore him. But I can't stop the heat spreading through my neck and face.
 
The next pitch comes straight down the middle. I watch it. The seams spin and...actually look as if they slow down. It throws me off and my swing is late.

"Strike!"

"At least I get a nice view while you strike out," the catcher says.

I turn and he's waggling his eyebrows. He mouths "Call me."

The muscles in my arms and legs quiver. Not like I'm shaking, but like I'm eager to pounce. This is new. I can't spontaneously change right here in the batter's box, can I? There's so much I don't know. Time to worry about that later. I take a couple deep breaths to calm my twitchy-ness and get in my stance to wait for the next pitch.

"Maybe I'll teach you how to hold the bat properly," the catcher taunts from behind me. "I have a special training tool."

Like an idiot, I turn and glare at him again.

His eyes go wide. "Holy sh--"

And something slams into the back of my helmet. Just before I hit the dirt, I hear cleats clattering on the dugout cement and onto the field. The last thing I see is the catcher looming over me.

"You okay?"

He sounds like he's talking under water. He reaches for me and I grab his arm.

The last thing I see is his blood streaming between my fingers.