Page 39 of Play For Me

“The stats.”

That has me looking up again. “The stats?”

He nods, looking eager. “Baseball is all about the stats. Going to a game and filling out a scorecard is one of my top five favorite activities, easy.”

I laugh, incredulous. “You’re seriously telling me the best thing about your favoritesport—a physical, competitive activity—is statistics?”

His self-deprecating grin is seriously dangerous for my peace of mind. “What can I say, I’m a giant nerd.”

“You’re the one who said it.”

“It’s not all boring,” he goes on, and there’s something in his tone that has me sitting up straighter. He almost sounds a little too casual. “Worst sports injury of my life was in baseball.”

I feel on my guard, though I’m not sure why. “What happened?”

“Took a ball to the face when I was batting. Total fluke thing, a wild pitch and I didn’t duck in time. Broke my jaw. I had to eat through a straw for months.”

I gape at him. “Holy shit.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t too terrible. I got to have a lot of milkshakes.”

“A broken jaw sounds pretty terrible to me!” I study his unconcerned face. “How old were you?”

“Sixteen. Luckily it was the end of the season so I didn’t miss many games.”

I have to smile at that. His prime concern being missing games is incredibly relatable.

“The weird thing, though,” he continues, “is how I played at the beginning of the next season.” He takes a moment to sip his soda, and I get the feeling he’s intentionally not looking at me. “I went oh-for-fifteen in my first five games.”

“I take it that’s bad?”

“Pretty bad.” He finally looks up and meets my eyes. “I was scared to take pitches. Didn’t want to admit it to everyone so I kept going up to bat when it was my turn, but I was petrified of the ball. No way I was going to be able to hit it when I felt like that.”

My stomach drops, emotion whipping through me. I’m just not sure whether it’s fear or anger. “So that’s what this little heart-to-heart is about? You think I’m scared to play.”

He studies me for a long moment and I shift, uncomfortable. “I think you had a very serious, very painful injury, and it kept you from doing the thing you love most in the world for a long time,” He shrugs. “Makes sense for that to dredge up some pretty overwhelming feelings.”

I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. I want to deny what he’s saying—Ihavedenied what he’s saying, over and over again since las season—but I find that I can’t make the wordscome. And how messed up is it that this near stranger clocked me so quickly? He watched me hesitate, just once, and in that single moment of doubt he saw the thing I’ve been hiding for months. Hiding from my coaches, my teammates, my brothers, even my mom.

I’m fucking terrified to get hurt again.

And now Solomon Barnes knows it.

He doesn’t give me time to stew. Instead, he stands, brushing the grass from his legs, before offering me a hand. “Ready to head home?”

I’d been expecting a lecture or, worse, a pep talk, so I end up staring at him in surprise for a few bewildered seconds.

“Come on,” he urges softly. “It’s gonna start getting dark. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Wordlessly, I take his offered hand and he pulls me from the grass. I help him gather up the trash from our dinner and then we start across the field.

It’s not until we reach my car in the athletic complex parking lot that I speak. My voice sounds strange to my ears, rough and a little unsteady. “How, um. How did you fix it?”

“Fix it?”

I force myself to look up at him. “Your batting. How did you stop being afraid?”

His eyes are dark and kind in the dimming light of evening. “I could show you, if you want.”