told me Ryan Mullins is some kind of superstar. What position does he play?” I asked Eve.
“He’s a pitcher.”
“Pitcher?” I asked, stunned.
“Yeah, he’s really good, too. He has a ninety mile an hour fas tball.” My mouth fell open. “Ninety.”
“Well, it’s actually like ninety-eight, but that’s what they call it.”
“Wow.”
“He’s been known to throw as fast as one-o-three, but he doesn’t do it often.”
“Have you seen him do it?”
“Once, when they played in Florence. It was all over the papers. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.” I frowned. I didn’t read the newspaper . “I think channel 5 even interviewed him for the ten o’clock news after that game,” she added. I didn’t exactly watch the ten o’clock news, either. I was usually asleep by then.
When the first batter stepped to the plate, I noticed three men standing along the fence behind him, each of them held a r adar gun. Then I noticed a fourth man with a clipboard waiting to record the results. I realized Ryan’s pitching was serious business. Anticipating seeing him throw was maddening.
The first pitch Ryan threw was a fastball. A low gasp and murmuring rose from the visitor’s stands. A chill flew up my spine. The speed on that ball was amazing. I’d never seen a live person throw that fast before. The batter seemed a little stunned, too. He hadn’t swung. Maybe because he didn’t have time.
Ryan followed up with a slider and the final pitch was a fastball on the inside corner, striking the batter out. He finished off the second batter in the same manner, and the third with two fastballs and a scre wball, because the batter was left handed. It’s thrown to lefties in place of a curve ball.
It was all so neat and quick, stunning actually. He’d only thrown nine pitches—nine strikes. I knew now what he ’d meant when he told me he understood having to be focused.
The men behind the fence shook their heads and adjusted their hats, nodding to one another while comparing their numbers. One of the men had broken into a full sweat and was da bbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.
The voice in the press box declared that Ryan’s top speed was one hundred miles per hour. Hurst fans erupted with cheers. No wonder he was being handed scholarship offers one after the next.
I peeked over at John hoping to make quick eye contact, but he was talking with a man wearing a Blackman University cap. He must have been the scout Ryan said would be here.
Ryan pitched through the third inning and again had only thrown nine pitches in each. Someone else came in after that, I i magined so the others would have a chance to play—maybe field a hit.
Ryan was so focused while he played. He kept his eyes commi tted only to what was happening on the field, until he left it for the final time. He glanced over to smile at me. I thought my heart would stop.
I couldn’t get too excited and make Eve suspicious. I didn’t want her to figure out that I had a thing for Ryan and then narc on me to Ju stin. That would really make me look bad, if his girlfriend revealed that I, his best friend, had purposely kept something from him.
I hadn’t missed all the girls hanging around. Like Justin told me, there were a lot of them, giggling, and whispering about Ryan. I concentrated on him instead, doing my best to ignore them, reminding myself that I was the girl he was leaving with.
After the game, Eve and I went straight to Justin while Ryan went to speak to his dad and the four men who surrounded him. Blackman, Harmon, Wexford, and Martin Universities were represented. I figured Ryan would be busy with them long enough for me to see Justin off, so he wouldn’t know I was leaving with Ryan.
Procrastination seemed to be my plan when it came to tel ling Justin about Ryan and me, which was no plan at all, really.
I smiled when Eve wound herself around Justin like a snake.
“We’re going to my house for dinner. You should
“He’s a pitcher.”
“Pitcher?” I asked, stunned.
“Yeah, he’s really good, too. He has a ninety mile an hour fas tball.” My mouth fell open. “Ninety.”
“Well, it’s actually like ninety-eight, but that’s what they call it.”
“Wow.”
“He’s been known to throw as fast as one-o-three, but he doesn’t do it often.”
“Have you seen him do it?”
“Once, when they played in Florence. It was all over the papers. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.” I frowned. I didn’t read the newspaper . “I think channel 5 even interviewed him for the ten o’clock news after that game,” she added. I didn’t exactly watch the ten o’clock news, either. I was usually asleep by then.
When the first batter stepped to the plate, I noticed three men standing along the fence behind him, each of them held a r adar gun. Then I noticed a fourth man with a clipboard waiting to record the results. I realized Ryan’s pitching was serious business. Anticipating seeing him throw was maddening.
The first pitch Ryan threw was a fastball. A low gasp and murmuring rose from the visitor’s stands. A chill flew up my spine. The speed on that ball was amazing. I’d never seen a live person throw that fast before. The batter seemed a little stunned, too. He hadn’t swung. Maybe because he didn’t have time.
Ryan followed up with a slider and the final pitch was a fastball on the inside corner, striking the batter out. He finished off the second batter in the same manner, and the third with two fastballs and a scre wball, because the batter was left handed. It’s thrown to lefties in place of a curve ball.
It was all so neat and quick, stunning actually. He’d only thrown nine pitches—nine strikes. I knew now what he ’d meant when he told me he understood having to be focused.
The men behind the fence shook their heads and adjusted their hats, nodding to one another while comparing their numbers. One of the men had broken into a full sweat and was da bbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.
The voice in the press box declared that Ryan’s top speed was one hundred miles per hour. Hurst fans erupted with cheers. No wonder he was being handed scholarship offers one after the next.
I peeked over at John hoping to make quick eye contact, but he was talking with a man wearing a Blackman University cap. He must have been the scout Ryan said would be here.
Ryan pitched through the third inning and again had only thrown nine pitches in each. Someone else came in after that, I i magined so the others would have a chance to play—maybe field a hit.
Ryan was so focused while he played. He kept his eyes commi tted only to what was happening on the field, until he left it for the final time. He glanced over to smile at me. I thought my heart would stop.
I couldn’t get too excited and make Eve suspicious. I didn’t want her to figure out that I had a thing for Ryan and then narc on me to Ju stin. That would really make me look bad, if his girlfriend revealed that I, his best friend, had purposely kept something from him.
I hadn’t missed all the girls hanging around. Like Justin told me, there were a lot of them, giggling, and whispering about Ryan. I concentrated on him instead, doing my best to ignore them, reminding myself that I was the girl he was leaving with.
After the game, Eve and I went straight to Justin while Ryan went to speak to his dad and the four men who surrounded him. Blackman, Harmon, Wexford, and Martin Universities were represented. I figured Ryan would be busy with them long enough for me to see Justin off, so he wouldn’t know I was leaving with Ryan.
Procrastination seemed to be my plan when it came to tel ling Justin about Ryan and me, which was no plan at all, really.
I smiled when Eve wound herself around Justin like a snake.
“We’re going to my house for dinner. You should
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