Who knew?
Widening my feet, I tip my chin. “Okay, Tutor Girl, I’ll humor you. We’ve got four bases.”
Her muddy eyes meet mine and she nods. “Four bases.”
“That’s what I said.”
Aaand that hip pops out a bit more.
Wonder if she’s double jointed?
“The heart has how many chambers?”
“No fucking idea, why you think I said this was a waste—” I cut myself short.
Well, holy shit.
A slow grin spreads across my face and she can’t hold hers in this time. I watch as those thick lips of hers pull to one side.
“Four. The heart has four chambers.”
She nods. “Four bases, four chambers. Good.” She steps off my mound and motions for me to take her place.
Smirk in full effect, I make my way to her, slipping past and onto the dirt-caked clay. I lift my arms out wide, and she shakes her head, quickly giving me her back.
I think she does it to hide a smile.
I feel like she’s smiling right now.
“Okay.” She spins, walking backward now. “Who, loosely speaking, has control of the game?”
“Me.”
“Who.”
“Pitcher.”
“Right, the pitcher has control of the game. So, if we think of your position as the core, as what keeps the game alive, we can take the others and their jobs, and connect—”
“The four chambers of the heart and the roles they play.” I scan the field, running through the setup she’s just given me.
“Good, so say the pitch is thrown and the ball is hit—”
“If. If the ball is hit.”
She sighs, but it’s a different kind, a playful kind. She’s softening. “Work with me here, Mr. Perfect.”
I grin. “Ok, fine. Pitch is thrown, ball is hit.”
“So, the batter runs to first base ...” She nods encouragingly.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, squinting at the first baseline. “To the right, so ... the pulmonary valve sends blood to the right ventricle?”
“Yes!” Meyer’s mouth curves, a wide, proud smile forming and fuck me ...
I kinda want to be right again.
We work through the next few steps, each answer coming easier than the last and then we’re at the final step. “To your lungs.”
“Yes.” She stomps her foot, excited. “Exactly. Great job!”
In my head, I repeat the steps again, glancing from one position to the next, without having to pause and think. She just taught me this in a matter of minutes, brought me here and worked her little ass off to speak my language, on my level.
I turn to her with a smile and she stares back a moment, but a look I can’t explain slowly sweeps over her.
She spins away from me. “Okay, time’s up today. I think you’ll do great.”
“Not so fast.” I jog past her and pull out my keys, mitt, and ball from my backpack—always keep one on me.
Curious, she tracks my every move, but I wink, hustling to unlock and step into the dugout. Pulling open the orange bin, I grab a bat and run back, shoving it into her hand without giving her a chance to say no.
“You taught me something, let me teach you something.”
She holds my gaze a moment and then drops hers to the hardwood in her hand. “Tobias…”
“Come on, try. I’ll go easy on you.”
She scoffs, making me grin, and when she hesitates, I add, “Don’t be afraid to get schooled, Tutor Girl.”
Meyer licks her lips, glances over her shoulder, and back at me before taking position at home plate.
I’m about to instruct her on how to stand when she does it on her own, lining her feet up with the plate, her stance even with the width of her shoulders, bat raised high in the air.
Okay, so she’s shown no interest in what I do, but has good form?
Hmm ...
I cock my head, but the girl simply stares me down, clearly aware I’ve got questions, but not wanting to divulge, so I show her the ball, letting her know it’s coming and lightly toss it to her.
Meyer stands to her full height—all five foot something of it—and again, cocks that hip out.
“What?” My shoulders rise innocently.
“You have me standing here with a bat, the least you could do is give me something to hit.”
“Okay, hotshot,” I tease. “You want some heat?”
Her face flushes slightly, but she doesn’t back down and readies herself once more.
I throw the ball with a bit more power.
She swings and misses, a small grunt escaping her, but I don’t say a word, and she picks up the ball, throwing it back to me.
The next pitch she nails, sending it sailing past short and into midfield. I watch it go, then turn back to her with my brow raised expectantly, but the girl just shrugs, rests the bat on her shoulder, and waits.
A low chuckle leaves me, and I hustle for the ball and back.
“Again.”
We continue for a good ten minutes, both of us working up a sweat despite the chilled March evening.