Not the Only One (Book 1 in the Four of Us Trilogy)

Twenty-Seven

Rachel

It's the bottom of the 9th, and even though I've been trying hard to pay attention to the game, two things have distracted me: how sexy Miles looks when he pitches, and how big of a dickhead his dad is. The latter was pissing me off.

Bay was down one run to South Walton, and I could tell that Miles was getting frustrated. I know little about baseball, but I could tell he had been pitching his hardest, and I also knew the pitcher couldn't carry the whole damn game.

But if you watched Mr. Jefferson, you'd think Miles was the only person playing, and that everything was his fault. He was that parent. I didn't even have to steal a glance to glare at him; everyone in the bleachers was watching.

"Jesus, Jefferson, get it together!" he was yelling at Miles.

Even from where I was, I could see Miles' ears turning pink.

I crossed my arms over my stomach and tried to control the pit of lava that was bubbling within me.

I tried to focus on Miles. Bay was in the infield, on their last out, and Miles was up to bat. This was it, the entire game riding on this one hit. He tapped the ground with the bat, spit once, and got into position.

"Don't screw this up, son!" Mr. Jefferson shouted.

What the hell?

Miles glanced up at his dad, and his cheeks were red. The South Walton pitcher threw a fastball, Miles swung and missed.

"Strike one!" the umpire shouted.

"Damnit, Miles," his dad scoffed.

I held my breath as Miles swung again.

"Strike two!"

I winced.

His dad booed. He actually booed.

I saw the muscle in Miles' jaw clench. His knuckles closed around the bat as the pitcher threw his last chance.

"STRIKE THREE—YOU'RE OUT!"

Miles threw the bat and helmet down, stalking away from the plate as the visitor's side went wild.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Mr. Jefferson murmured, getting up and going to the fence. Miles tried to walk into the dugout, but his dad wouldn't give up.

I stood where I was, not wanting to get involved but that lava in my belly getting hotter by the second.

"Miles, what's wrong with you? You just threw the entire game!" he shouted, and I winced for the second time in less than three minutes.

"Dad, please," Miles pleaded, his sandy hair falling into his bleary blue eyes.

Mr. Jefferson looked around like he was reminding himself where he was. "Fine. We'll talk about this later."

Miles rolled his eyes. "Can't wait," he muttered.

His dad turned on his heel, ignored my presence, and shoved past me, nearly knocking me onto my ass.

I caught myself, stumbling against the brick wall of the dugout, and when I glanced at Miles, his face was crimson; he was livid.

"What in the actual-" he started, stepping in my direction, but I put my hand up and shook my head vehemently.

"Don't," I mouthed.

"But-" 

"Miles. Don't," I hissed. "Get your stuff and meet me by the concession stand."

His nostrils flared, and he set his jaw. "Fine."

Miles

Did my dad just shove Rachel? Did that actually happen?

I swear to God, if he ever hurts her, I will kill him with my bare fucking hands.

I threw my ball bag over my shoulder, not bothering to change out of my uniform. When I reached the concession stand, Rachel was leaning against the blue wooden wall, legs crossed at the ankles, her hands in my hoodie pocket. 

She pushed herself off the wall when she saw me approaching, and I dropped my ball bag, running to her, needing to feel her in my arms.

She nuzzled her face into my chest, and I pressed my cheek against the top of her head. "Did he hurt you?" I murmured into her ear.

Her head shot back, and she looked me right in the face. "No, Miles. He didn't even see me, to be honest. He was just stalking away because you wouldn't let him publicly berate you anymore," she insisted.

I felt my pulse slow. Okay, so he didn't hurt her on purpose. Maybe he'd live to see another day and I won't end up on Death Row.

"Okay...I'm sorry you had to see that, Rachel," I apologized, picking up my ball bag and draping my arm around her shoulders as we walked down to the gate toward the parking lot.

"Me too. How can he talk to you that way? I just don't understand it," she mused, looking down at our feet as we walked.

"There's no understanding it. I gave that up years ago. I fucking hate it when he comes to my games because it's like that every damn time. I would've made that run if he hadn't been there, I guarantee it. Now we've lost our first district game. Coach is furious," I said, kicking a rock in our path.

She looked up at me and then back at the ground again. "Miles, I don't even know what to say. There's nothing I can say that will make that better." She paused for a moment. "But I can say this—you look hot as hell in those baseball pants," she said, slapping my ass and darting away.

I laughed. "Oh I do, do I?" I asked, running after her and popping her back, making her dissolve into giggles.

I pulled her to me and lifted her off her feet, kissing her like it was my last chance I ever had.

Countless times since my mother died, my father had humiliated me at my baseball games. He brought me down every time. But never have I had someone there to catch me after the fall.