Free Full Count (The Catcher Series Book 1) by Bri Izzo

s from the storm or from crossing county lines, but it makes me
a little paranoid.
                “Sky, you can see okay, right?” I try to ask calmly.
                “Yeah, I got my lights on,” he assures me. I reach to
switch the radio station and a clearer one comes in so I leave it alone and
breathe deeply. “If you want me to get off and let some of this pass, I will.”
                “Just if it gets any worse,” I tell him. I have to
trust that he ’ ll keep me safe.
                We drive for about a half hour until we ’ re
directly in the storm ’ s eye. Before I can even ask, Skyler
is slowly getting off at the next exit. He pulls into a nearby Ma and Pa diner
parking lot.
                “You want to eat or just sit here and wait it out?” he
offers me.
                “Let ’ s eat,” I decide, throwing
the hood of his sweatshirt over my head. We both get wet just going the twenty
feet from his Jeep to the door of the diner, but it ’ s only
enough to make us cold. When the waitress escorts us both to a booth, Skyler
follows me into one side like we ’ re waiting for two more
people to join us. Except we aren ’ t.
                “What are you doing?” I question him.
It ’ s like we ’ re suddenly on an
awkward date but the only reason it ’ s awkward is because I ’ m acting like a nervous little school girl. I haven ’ t talked to him since his birthday party when he kissed me
because we both got yelled at afterwards by my brother and our friends. And
then I made him promise not to kiss me again this morning. I ’ ve
spent fourteen years swooning for him and he finally kisses me and I make him
vow to never do it again. What am I doing to myself?
                “I want to stretch my legs and don ’ t
want to get you all wet,” he explains. Oh… right.
                “Can we just split something? I ’ m
not overly hungry,” I confess. I ’ m overly
nervous though.
                “Sure. Your usual? Pancakes, eggs, and hash browns?” he
rattles off. When I give him a are-you-stalking-me look, he laughs. “I ’ ve eaten breakfast with you enough to know what you like, so
don ’ t give me that look.”
                “That one summer we spent almost every day together
with Rex and you couldn ’ t remember my freaking name come
October, but sure, you remember what I like for breakfast,” I tease, rolling my
eyes. He ’ s full of surprises, I guess.
                “I was like nine,” he reminds me. “And you got a
kickass nickname out of it.”
                “A kickass nickname that let ’ s
people make fun of me and call me butch,” I mutter, fidgeting in the booth
beside him. There ’ s a tear in the lining with some fuzz
poking out of it that reminds me of his sweatshirt I ’ m
wearing.
                This makes him lean over the table slightly to look
at me at a different angle with intense eyes. I didn ’ t
mean to piss him off, but I guess I did. “Who the fuck makes fun of you?” he
demands to know. This is the protectiveness I love from him. It ’ s
possessive without being brotherly.
                “People at school. They know I play softball and that
my nickname is Buzz. That ’ s all they need to know,” I tell
him as I try to look away and brush it off. It ’ s mostly
just people who no one respects at school anyways; I really don ’ t
care. Cheerleaders are bitches.
                “I ’ m sorry. That ’ s
really shitty of them. I can try to stop calling you that if you want,” he
genuinely apologizes, sitting back against the booth again.
                “No… I like it. And I can handle the criticism,” I
shrug.
                “I know you can, but that doesn ’ t
mean you have to,” he argues. “You know you ’ re the
furthest thing from butch. You are a