Read Full Count (The Catcher Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Bri Izzo
“You
’
re fine. You know how she
is,” I deter from answering in any further detail. If I do, Buzz will find out
and be even more upset that we are talking about her when she wasn
’
t here.
Around noon we have the boat all ready to go, and my
dad drives us out into the lake so we can all take turns wake-boarding. I go
first, and it takes me two tries before I can actually stand up and skim the
water since it has been a while since I wake-boarded. But once I get up, I ride
in the wake as my dad speeds up a little faster, cruising around the lake
filled with other families enjoying the holiday weekend just like us. After a
few minutes, he slows down and Buzz trades places with me. She
’
s
the professional out of all of us kids, standing up immediately like she
’
s skateboarding on the water. My dad turns slightly, and I
watch as Buzz purposely shifts outside of the wake.
Show off.
Her
muscles define her entire body from her calves all the way up to her shoulders.
She
’
s holding on for dear life, but her facial expression
appears as though she
’
s strolling down the street.
In the next moment, Buzz surprises all of us, even
me. As she glides back into the wake and out onto the other side, her board
lifts off the water, and she lets go of the bar with one hand to grab the board
for a split second before she lands perfectly back on the water.
“Whoa!” Baylee screams when she sees her sister
perform a trick she can barely do with her character on a video game.
My dad mistakenly takes this squealing as Buzz
falling, so he slows down. She reels herself into the boat to let someone else
have a chance on the water, but I can see her trying to hide her beaming pride.
She
’
s been wanting to learn tricks on the water for a
while, and her dare-deviled self just broke the ice.
Once the summer ends and three weeks into their freshman year of
high school, the boys have homecoming, and I feel like Ross Gellar as I sit in
the background watching them take pictures with their dates. I may or may not
be making bunny ears and sticking my tongue out behind the line of moms trying
to take pictures, but I have to do something to get the boys to look like they
care, even if it is at my expense. The whole group consists of Rex, Skyler, and
Benny and a few of the neighbor boys Evan Smith and Tommy Buschman. Each of the
boys have a date, but all I can focus on is Skyler
’
s. She
’
s blue eyed and fake blonde with way too much makeup on and
wearing way too high of heels. Standing next to Skyler, she does need some kind
of lift since he hit his growth spurt over the summer, but she can barely
stand, let alone walk, in them. He knows this girl from his private school he
went to for elementary and middle school, but I can’t say that I’ve ever met
her. None of us ever bring random friends to the cabin, and when we’re at home
we’re pretty much always together, plus or minus a few people depending on what
we’re doing. To be honest, I’m a little jealous of his hand awkwardly shaking
as he grazes her hip, but I don’t think he’s going to marry this girl so I won’t
let that feeling destroy me.
The moms agree they have enough pictures of the boys
and their dates and then insist on a sibling photoshoot. I was unaware that
this would be happening, even though I should have assumed my mom would make
this request. I
’
m in a shoeless in a Cubs t-shirt and a
Rockette
’
s hat as we stand outside on the
deck. At first I think we
’
re going to do a boring
find-your-window type of picture, but all of a sudden Rex grabs my shoulders as
Skyler lifts my legs so I
’
m completely horizontal. Skyler
is trying to tickle me, and I
’
m trying equally as hard to
calm the goosebumps creeping throughout my entire body so he won
’
t
notice. He totally does once they reach my legs. To make things more awkward,
he winks at me in between a few of the snapshots, which gives the moms an
opportunity for candid photos. Of him flirting with me. In front of our moms,
siblings, and his date. I swear his whole goal in life is to kill me.
As they are all about to pile into our moms
’
SUVs and vans so they can drive them to school for the dance,
Benny stops me in the hallway.
“You okay?” he asks me. Why does he care? Oh, yeah…
my
brother
is the evil twin, not Benny. During their Rocket baseball playing
days, Rex and Benny were mistaken for twins all the time; even I agree with the
majority that I can see it. The three of us have very similar eyes and hair
color, and the two of them have nearly identical noses and jaw structures.
Because of that, Benny is nothing more than a brotherly figure to me. It
’
s weird because he and Tiffany look like they are two different
nationalities, him Italian and her German, so he seems more like my brother
than hers.
“Yeah, I
’
m fine.
Why?
” I tell him, trying to avert my eyes from his handsome composure.
For a moment h
e doesn
’
t look like the
little third baseman that can pass as my brother
’
s twin
anymore. The tie and dress pants temporarily give him a whole new appearance.
In normal clothes they still look like little kids.
“Cuz you were glaring at Skyler
’
s
date in between mocking our moms during pictures,” he chuckles, tapping the
brim of my hat.
“Who, Barbie? My bad. I thought she dressed like that
so people would play with her like a doll,” I joke, trying to hide my evil
smile.
I just insulted Barbie.
“Not everyone can be naturally good looking like us,”
Benny implies that he agrees with me. Then he wraps one arm around my neck,
takes my hat off, and messes up my hair with his free hand like true brotherly
love, even though we aren
’
t really siblings.
“
Thanks, bud,
” I groan, pushing
him away and trying to comb through my hair with my fingers. At least there
’
s no more pictures for me tonight.
“You still look better than her,” he compliments me
with a stern face, generously offering my hat back to me. Benny is very much
like another older brother to me. He constantly jokes with me about having a
crush on Skyler. Once this past summer he announced in front of a whole group
of their teammates, siblings, parents, and Skyler himself that Sky was coming
over to my house before the game the next day so I better get my binoculars
ready. I still want to kill him for exposing me like that.
One fall night after my mom picks me up from my
softball team
’
s open gym, I determine that I need to
practice pitching faster and more accurately if I want to make the Junior
Varsity team as a freshman next year, which is my own personal goal. With
Skyler
’
s expertise in catching, he
’
s the first one I think of to talk to about making
improvements.
“Hey, are you busy?” I call him when I reach my
bedroom so no one can hear me.
“No, why?” Skyler asks coldly.
“Meet me at the park in five minutes,” I blurt out
and hang up before he can say no or ask me more questions.
As requested of him, Skyler meets me at the
neighborhood park down the street from our houses. I hand him the softball
catcher
’
s mitt that my dad bought for when I first started
pitching and then start counting out the correct distance from the rubber home
plate and pitching plate I brought with me.
“You didn
’
t want to play catch
with your dad or brother?” Skyler wonders, walking over to stand behind home
plate. After I measure out the distance, we start casually throwing the
softball back and forth to warm up our arms.
“No. I need you to help me pitch,” I tell him. “Rex
is studying anyways.”
“So typical. What do you need help with? You
’
re one of the best pitchers I
’
ve ever
seen,” he compliments me with a harsh look like this will be wasting his time.
“I want to make JV as a freshman, so I need to start
throwing better,” I explain. He
’
s the first person that I
actually told that this was my goal, and I hope he won
’
t
take it lightly.
“In case you haven
’t noticed, I don’
t
play softball, sweetheart,” he reminds me as if I don
’
t
already know.
“I know,” I reply, throwing the ball extra hard at
his chest. “But you
’
re a catcher. And I know you critique
every pitch I
’
ve ever thrown. You might as well put those
criticisms to good use.”
“You warm enough?” he asks, his brown eyes somehow
shimmering in the moonlight.
He
’
s talking
about your arm,
I remind myself when my immediate thought is more on the
romantic side.
“Yeah,” I answer, taking my spot on the pitching
plate as he squats behind home plate.
“If you fucking hit me in the balls…
well,
just don’
t even think about it,” he half threatens, and I realize I
probably should
’
ve warned him to bring a cup so I won
’
t hurt him.
“Really, what would you do?” I tease, tossing the
ball in my bare hand, egging him on.
“Find a dog and make it bite you,” he finishes,
dropping one of his knees to protect himself.
“That
’
s the best you can do?” I
joke even though I know it
’
s a good threat. Ever since
that Halloween night where I was chased and he got bit, I
’
ve
been terrified of
bunnies
and he knows it. They
’
re
one of the few things that make me strike fear. I can
’
t
even say their real name, even in my head.
“Just throw,” Skyler demands. This causes me to
jumble the ball and throw it high and outside in what would be the batter
’
s box. “My balls are down here,” he states after he catches the
ball and drops his gloved hand in front of him.
“I wasn
’
t aiming for your balls,”
I reply, trying not to look at him down there.
“Were you aiming for two feet above me?” he
antagonizes me.
“No,” I admit. “I told you I need help, Sky.”
“Alright. Here
’
s what we
’
re going to do,” he begins as he takes off his hoodie followed
by his t-shirt underneath.
Oh, yeah, because your abs aren
’
t going to distract me at all
.
But then he
puts his hoodie back on his bare chest and walks over to me with his dark
t-shirt in hand. “I
’
m going to blindfold you, and you
’
re going to learn how to control your pitches to get them
exactly where you want them without aiming.”
“Sky, this is ridiculous,” I retort as he walks up
behind me and ties the shirt into a knot around my head.
“Do you want my help or not?” he snaps.
“Promise you won
’
t leave me out
here alone. Stray bunnies come out at night,” I command, the fear of being left
alone in the park with a creepy woods and the possibility of a wild animal
attacking me completely overcoming me. I can see him doing it.
“
I won
’
t.
But even if I did, you would be fine. You
’
re tougher than
almost every guy I know,” he declares. His voice gradually distances from me
but only far enough so that I know he
’
s taken his place
back behind home plate. “Throw me a pitch.”
“I can
’
t even see!” I exclaim,
slamming the ball into my glove to regrip.
“Come on. Just throw one,” he insists. I don
’
t want to hurt him or disrespect him, so I take my stance,
feeling that my feet are exactly perpendicular to the pitching plate, and bring
my arm around to release the ball once it gets past my thigh. Skyler catches
the ball and crunches his feet in the hard grass as he walks it over to me.
“What was it?” I wonder, wanting to know what the
pitch looked like.
“Ball high,” he reports as he sets the ball in my
bare hand. Just as I think he
’
s going to release and
resume his catching position, he curls my hand so half of the ball is covered
by his hand and half by mine. “But it was a good miss considering you were
trying not to hit me in the balls.” I can hear the smile in his voice but try
to keep mine contained as he walks away from me. “Now, listen to me; focus… get
your grip on the ball… now, what do you see?”
Puzzled, I tell him, “Nothing. Black everywhere.”
“Buzz, listen to me,” he tries again. “Think about
pitching in a big game in front of a big crowd. What do you see?”
Taking a deep breath, I actually close my eyes
underneath his shirt tied around my eyes. “
Your glove,
” I
answered.
“
Good,
” he says firmly. “Now,
throw.” All I think about is him catching a perfect strike like I have seen him
do thousands of times during his own games as I sit behind the backstop. I
control my arm as it makes a large circle and release it once my hand barely passed
my leg.
A moment after I hear him catch the ball, I ask
again, “What was it?”
“A fucking strike,” Skyler announces. “Right down the
middle.”
“Shut up; you
’
re lying,” I
whine. I don
’
t want to be babied. I went to him because I
think he will take me seriously and actually help me.
“I
’
m not lying, B. It was a
perfect fastball,” he promises. “Now this time put a little curve on it. Think
about hitting a corner.” Once again, he places the ball in my hand and walks
back to his ready position. “Focus… and throw.” I do as I am told; first I
focus on the image of his glove, then the idea of it being the bottom of the
seventh in a close game and Skyler sitting behind the backstop watching me.
“This is my heater,” I joke as I quote DeNunez from
Sandlot.
And I throw it. When the ball hits his glove it
sounds like a gunshot just went off, which I know isn
’
t
probable in our ritzy neighborhood. I throw off my blindfold just in case
Skyler is on the ground bleeding. “Holy shit!” he says with laughter and amazement
in his scratchy, deep voice.
As I examine his glove from afar, I notice the ball
is neatly tucked inside of it and on the ground just in front of his feet. “What?”
I wonder cautiously.
“I feel bad for your catcher. Tell her to wear a
batting glove underneath her catcher
’
s mitt when she
catches for you,” he teases. When my facial falls to equal what I think is his
sarcasm, he excitedly shouts, “Put the blindfold back on and do it again.”