Free Love Bats Last (The Heart of the Game) by Pamela Aares Page B

her mother’s aristocratic acquaintances were more than she could bear. She’d been more than humiliated—she’d been broken. She’d accepted the job at the Center and moved to California a month later.
    Nope. She did not need a jock in her life.
    The Center might, but she didn’t.
    It’d be a replay of her younger self getting crushed, and she’d barely begun to crawl out of that hole.
    She turned her attention back to the field. The hitter before Alex had made it to base while she daydreamed, though she wasn’t sure how.
    “Watch how the pitcher hides his hands until the last moment,” Gage said, elbowing her so he wouldn’t have to put down his beer. “The great ones know how to disguise their release. That’s Taylor pitching now. He’s good, but he’s no match for Alex. Alex is one of those hitters who’s not just gifted, he’s trained up, and the more trained up a hitter is, the longer they can wait. It gives them just that extra fraction of time to read the pitch.”
    Gage passed her the beer. “The sports press says he’s going for the Triple Crown this year. He could do it.”
    His admiration of Alex was impossible to miss.
    She took a big breath, followed by a big swallow of beer. “Sounds like a horse race,” she said as she handed the cup back.
    A ballplayer, she thought, gritting her teeth. Great. Just great.
    A roar sounded as the crowd leapt to their feet and booed wildly. Alex waved his hand and backed out of the box.
    “Did you see that?” Gage shouted. “Taylor nearly drilled Alex. There could be blood yet.”
    “ There’s the hockey player,” Jackie said, laughing.
    But as she watched the replay on the massive screen that towered above center field, she realized just how dangerous it was to stand in front of a ball heading straight at you at ninety-five miles an hour.
    People around them began to sit back in their seats, most of them still muttering and shouting at the field.
    “This’ll either be a sweet, sweet pitch or we’ll have a brawl,” Gage said.
    She watched as Alex tapped his shoe with the bat, then flexed his arms and brought the bat up near his shoulder. It seemed that not only his eyes but his whole body was focused on the pitcher. A hawk watching prey couldn’t have had a steadier stare.
    Alex swung on the next pitch, hitting the ball between two players, neither of whom could get it. He ran to the first base.
    The crowd cheered, and Gage jumped up, punching a fist into the air.
    “That’s the way, Alex.”
    Jackie stood too, feeling odd about it, and then felt odder when everyone else sat before she did.
    By the time she sat and got comfortable again, the crowd was groaning. She looked to the field. The players were jogging off.
    “What happened?”
    “Double play,” Gage said. “We’re out.”
    Jackie tried to absorb all the rules Gage threw at her in the next inning, but some seemed downright nonsensical. A player could get on base if he hit the ball, but he didn’t have to hit the ball to get on base. She sipped more of Gage’s beer, joking that obviously drinking helped with comprehension.
    The second inning went quickly, with no one for either team getting on base, though a couple of the players managed to hit the ball fairly far. But there was always another player directly where the ball came down.
    “Why don’t they hit where the other players aren’t?” she asked.
    “I’ve often wondered the very same thing,” Gage said.
    She guessed he was laughing at her, but he was straight-faced when he asked if she could handle another beer.
    “Why not?”
    When Alex’s team was up for the third time, their first batter got on right away. But the next batter, the pitcher, swung three times without even touching the ball.
    “He’s not very good, is he?” Jackie said.
    “Not at hitting. But he has a wicked fastball.”
    She’d have to take his word for it. Every pitch looked the same to her—they went rushing toward the batter somewhere around