Whatever Life Throws at You (19 page)

“Fine,” I say.

His face sinks into his hands. “Thank you, Ann.”

“I’m late already so I better get going to help Savannah,” I say. “Have a good trip.”

Dad stands up from his desk and walks around, pulling me into a hug before I can escape. “We’ll figure something out when I get back, okay? I’ve got some thinking to do.”

“Good.” I pull away and then casually add, “Also…I’ve been helping Brody with his GED studying, just a little bit. And he passed one section of a practice test the other day. If I have time after you guys get back, I’m gonna try and help him study for the next part.”

You know, alone in his apartment…

He leans in, kisses the top of my head, and gives me a winning Dad smile. “That community service is really carving a hole into your steel heart, huh?”

I roll my eyes. “Not a chance. I just know I’m going to end up editing all his social media stuff if he doesn’t educate himself on the finer points of grammar and spelling.”

“You don’t fool me, Annie Marie.” He gives me one more big hug. “I love you. Be good while I’m gone?”

“I love you, too, Dad,” I say. “And I’ll be a perfect angel while you’re playing the Angels.”

But when you get back, that’s when I’ll start taking cues from the little devil seated on my other shoulder.

Chapter 20

Jason Brody Royals Pitcher:
L.A., you move way too fast, even for this Chicago boy.

3 hours ago

Annie Lucas:
has played out the remainder of her day inside her head during hot, sticky cross-country practice run and is still anticipating the outcome. Correction—I’m anticipating being in the moment more so than seeing the end.

27 minutes ago

It takes me an unnatural length of time to gain the courage to actually knock on Brody’s door after days of anticipating this moment. We’ve spent so much more time as friends and hardly any time like this. And this caused me to chew a few fingernails and feel my stomach churn before facing him. I mean, it is a confusing situation with our roles shifting so suddenly. Do we hug? Do we kiss right away? Do we swing our arms awkwardly and not make eye contact for several uncomfortable minutes before someone says, “So…?” followed by the other person saying, “So…?”

But lucky for me, Brody has a plan of his own.

The second he opens the door to his apartment, I’m tugged inside before I even have a chance to get a good look at him. He shuts the door quickly and presses me against it.

“Did you really have to run past my window in that hot-pink sports bra three times this morning?” he asks, leaning down, his mouth hovering close to mine.

My heart is sprinting despite the fact that my legs are completely void of any energy. You wouldn’t think three days apart would feel like an eternity, but they really did. “Coach picked the route. I just followed it.”

He pulls back a little, his gaze meeting mine. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get lunch?”

I can tell food is the last thing on his mind, but he’s trying to be polite. I drop my gym bag on the floor and lift my arms around his neck, pressing my fingers into it until our lips finally meet. My head spins, my vision blurring, my entire body tingling and completely at his mercy.

I barely take notice of his arms tightening around me, and then my feet are off the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me into the kitchen, setting me down on the counter beside the stove. Releasing my hold on his neck, I glance around, dazed and confused.

“This isn’t exactly where I thought you were taking me.” My eyes betray me and flit in the direction of his bedroom.

Brody leans back and laughs. “We’re going to be very good today, Annie. Got it?”

I eye him skeptically. “What’s your definition of good?”

He turns around and opens the fridge. “Making you lunch, kissing, studying, more kissing, avoiding my bedroom or the couch,” he rattles off like he’s rehearsed it.

And even though I’ve spent my fair share of time rounding the bases—well, three of them, anyway—a small amount of pressure lifts from my shoulders hearing that his intentions for the afternoon aren’t even R-rated. But there’s no way I’m going to let him know about any of this apprehension. Not when I’m trying to shake the high-school-girl image from his brain.

I wrap my hands around the edge of the countertop for balance. “If that was your plan, why did you practically assault me the second you opened the door?”

He’s sifting through half a dozen neatly stacked blue containers. “Only to keep you from biting your nails and turning bright red after seeing me.”

I smile down at my lap, my face heating up again. Isn’t that exactly what I did before he opened the door? “What’s with the fridge full of GladWare?” I ask, changing the subject.

“The trainer hired this nutritionist who delivers precooked, organic, healthy, full-of-vegetables-I-didn’t-know-existed meals.” He drops a stack of three containers into my lap and sets three of his own onto the stove in front of him. “Guess she came while I was gone. You inspect those, and I’ll try and identify these.”

I feel under my ass for the paper I remembered Brody sitting me on top of a minute ago. “There’s a cheat sheet.” I take a minute to read it over. “I’ve got chicken parm with asparagus, blackened catfish with apple stuffing, and roasted crab cakes with lobster sauce.”

He lifts the lid on the chicken dish on top of my stack and leans in, sniffing. “That doesn’t sound terrible.”

“I’m claiming the crab cakes.” I glance at the paper again for the reheating instructions. “I bet this fancy meal-delivery service costs a fortune.”

“I know,” he agrees. “Can’t believe they footed the bill. Beats buying groceries.”

“Wow, so you’re just gonna jump right from poor minor league player to not even doing your own grocery shopping and letting a fancy service cook for you?” Nobody except hired help cooks at Lenny’s house, and it’s just really weird.

Brody rolls his eyes. “I went to the grocery store. Several times. I even put things in my cart, but then I’d go to check out and I couldn’t bring myself to spend the money. I ended up putting almost everything back. Except the ramen noodles, pizza rolls, and ketchup.”

“No wonder you’re always eating at my house.”

I feel lips graze my ear, and it gives me instant goose bumps. “Right. That’s why I’m always at your house.”

My stomach flips over, anxiety bubbling. It’s one thing for him to have this impulsive urge to kiss me, this attraction between us. But it’s a completely different thing to hear that he simply likes being around me. It’s too much.

Too much like love.

But I’m enjoying this too much to let that thought stick around for more than a few seconds. I hand over the middle container of the three on my lap. “You can have the catfish dinner. It’s got the lowest calories, which is good, since you’ve spent two games sitting on the bench.”

“I wasn’t benched.” He grabs onto the side of the crab cake dinner. “It’s called the pitching rotation. It wasn’t my turn.”

“Regardless…” I yank the crab cakes from him and pat his stomach, feeling nothing but rock-hard abs. “Wouldn’t want you to get flabby while you’re on the lazy part of the rotation.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “I’m pitching tomorrow, but whatever. Eat my crab cakes.”

I hop down from the counter and flash him another smile. “Thanks.”

“Why can’t we sit on the couch?” I beg. “I know you haven’t exercised your legs recently, but mine are screaming at me.”

Brody finally sighs and snatches the thick GED study book, then pulls me up by my hand in one swift motion. We’ve been at his kitchen table for two hours now, and it took us less than twenty minutes to eat.

I skip my way over to the couch and flop onto my back, making a big show of leaving room for Brody. The way he’s acting all panicked today, I wouldn’t put it past him to sit on the floor instead of beside me. Luckily, he sinks into the empty spot, places the book on my stomach, and brings my feet onto his lap.

“So…why is it so hard for you to buy groceries? Aren’t they paying you enough?” I ask, wanting to take advantage of the GED break to drill him with more personal questions.

“Yeah, they’re paying me enough.” He glances at me and then at the ceiling. “My agent says people like me will either struggle to spend money once they have it or spend it all and go bankrupt every month. It’s a big change, you know?”

I guess maybe I do know. Sort of. Dad’s salary change was pretty big, but we went from lower class to middle class. Brody’s gone from lower class to rich. And he’s just one person. Dad is supporting three people. Four if we’re counting Mom now.

My stomach twists into knots of frustration and anger.
Don’t think about that now
.

“I hate putting money in the bank, too,” Brody admits. “I want to keep it all in front of me where I can see it and make sure it doesn’t disappear. I don’t trust banks.”

“Please tell me you don’t have stacks of hundreds piled inside a briefcase somewhere in this apartment.”

He leans in close to me, causing a shiver to run down my spine. “Just don’t look under the cushion you’re sitting on.”

My eyes widen, and my hand immediately fumbles around, reaching under my ass. All I feel is a cold metal bar.

Brody busts out laughing. “That was too easy. And I said I didn’t like banks, not that I refused to conform.” He removes his wallet from his pocket and spreads it open for me to see inside. “Less than a hundred in cash, plus I’ve got these…”

I watch as he drops a Visa debit card onto the coffee table, followed by an American Express card and a platinum MasterCard. “Whoa, look at you. You really sold out.”

“I know, right?” He tucks everything neatly back in but leaves the wallet resting on the table. “Now if I could just get myself to use one of these cards.”

My gaze sweeps the near-empty room. “Maybe buy some furniture.”

“Such a big commitment…” He smacks my knee playfully. “Are we studying or what?”

I raise the book and flip to the page in the social studies section where we’d left off. “Okay, number ten. If a drought severely reduces the amount of corn available to consumers, what would we expect to happen?”

He takes one of my bare feet in his hands and begins massaging it, completely distracting me from reading the rest of the question.

“The price of corn goes up,” he says before hearing the answer options.

I know nothing about corn, so I flip to the back and look up number ten. “Correct. What type of government does the United States have?”

His eyes are focused on rubbing my feet. “Democracy.”

“Uh-huh.” His hand creeps up to my calf, and my heart takes off again. “Which government official is appointed and not elected by the U.S. citizens?”

“Supreme court judge,” he says right away.

“It’s multiple choice,” I remind him. “Are you going to let me read the choices?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “If I don’t know the answer.”

I rest the book on my stomach again. “I don’t think you can call me a tutor. I keep having to look up answers. I’d probably flunk this test if I had to take it.”

His fingers drift over my other calf. I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling. “I’m older. I’m supposed to know more than you.”

“Not really. I’m the one still in high school. No one actually uses this stuff after graduating, so a year out and you’ve forgotten everything. I have no excuse for not acing it.”

He returns to massaging my feet, his eyes locked on my toes. “My mom’s a teacher’s aid,” he says. I freeze and try not to shake him from this potential sharing session. He’s said so little about his mom. “She went to college for two years, got a scholarship to Eastern Illinois University. She was the first person in her family to even graduate high school, let alone go to college.”

“So why didn’t she finish?” I ask, but the answer comes to me right away. “She got pregnant?”

He nods. “But she still got a pretty good job with her associate degree. She helped with a lot of special-needs kids who the school district had integrated into the regular classroom. She devoted every spare minute studying with me, reading to me, making sure my teachers all understood my disability and tested me properly. She knew every benefit the public school system was obligated to offer me and she got it.”

“Then why did you drop out? Why don’t you talk to her anymore?”

“Because I’m an unappreciative asshole.” He leans his head against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “I got sick of being her project. I guess to me, dyslexia has always been embarrassing, something I’d rather not discuss, and it was all my mom wanted to talk about.”

“How long since you’ve seen her?”

He shakes his head. “About three years. I was really messed up then, and it freaked her out. I have a younger brother and sister, too, and a stepdad. He told me not to go near my mom unless I cleaned up my act.”

I set the book on the floor and sit up. “What did you do that was so bad? You said you would tell me everything, remember? The good, the bad, and the ugly…”

He turns his head and looks at me. “I did say that, didn’t I?” I nod and wait for him to continue. “You name it, Annie, and I did it—drugs, drinking, stealing, breaking and entering.”

My eyes widen, but I use all my power to hold back any shocked reactions. “Murder? Identity theft? Robbing a bank? Did you do all that, too? Is that why you don’t trust banks?”

“No.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “Guess I got caught before working my way through the whole list.”

“How did you get from
that
to baseball?”

“Well, first off, juvie sucks. I spent six months there and, after turning eighteen and getting out, I had no desire to see how much worse real prison is.”

“Wait a minute…” I say. “So Johnson has been totally exaggerating all this time. You’re not an ex-convict. You’re a…a…?”

“Former juvenile ex-convict?” Brody suggests. “What did you think? That I went to real prison and that somehow didn’t make it into any of the papers or stories about me? Juvenile records aren’t public information, Annie.”

“Huh,” I say. “I probably should have asked you that a long time ago. Okay, back to your answer…Juvie to baseball, how’d it happen?”

“I’m glad you didn’t ask me those questions sooner.” Brody flashes me a smile so I know he’s not angry or upset with me for thinking he’s an ex-convict. “It’s cool how your dad and you just took me at face value—no past interfering with your judgment. And I got to play baseball in juvie. That’s where Frank Steadman found me.”

“They have baseball teams in juvie?” I ask, working hard to keep up. “And Frank trolls juvenile detention centers looking for recruits? Seriously? Does Johnson know this? He’d have a shit fit.”

He laughs again. “Some have baseball programs, and recruiting kids from juvie isn’t a regular thing for Frank. But he can’t ignore a seventeen-year-old with a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. Speed overlooks all kinds of indiscretions. Frank never said anything when he came to see me. But after I got out, he sent a bus ticket to a minor league tryout. He put me on the Royals’ farm team last summer, then invited me to spring training this year. And now here I am.”

“Here you are,” I repeat, my head spinning from this overload of Jason Brody info. “Don’t you think your mom would be proud of you? Look at everything you’ve accomplished. And what about your brother and sister; how old are they?”