Page 37 of All I Have Left

EVIE

T he game starts uneventfully after a drawn-out national anthem and speech by the mayor about the charity event.

I watch Grayson through it when they welcome him home and for serving his country.

He’s polite and says thank you, but what strikes me as odd is the way Grayson stares at the American flag.

It’s like he’s off in his own world, remembering a time he won’t share with others.

I know something happened while he was in Iraq, but he’s yet to say.

With his arms crossed over his chest, Shane stays in the dugout and keeps his distance from Grayson and Ethan, who shows up before the first pitch is thrown.

After the third inning, and helping out in the concession stand, I’m fucking dying.

I can’t take it any longer. I have sweat in places it shouldn’t be.

The sweatshirt has to go. Either that or I’m about to start convulsing from heat stroke and, believe me, I briefly contemplate heat stroke over taking this goddamn sweatshirt off.

With Shane here, it seems like a dumb idea to be flaunting myself. Not to mention, I still have bruises and bite marks on my body. It’s obvious that I’ve gone through something traumatic recently and taking my shirt off to display it, what’s that going to prove?

Trying to be sneaky about revealing so much skin, I turn my back to the field and slip off the sweatshirt. I haven’t even gotten it over my shoulders before Frankie whistles. I don’t know why, but I twist around to see if Grayson has seen or not.

Yep. He’s staring at me in the middle of a game.

Flopping down in the chair, I attempt to use the hoodie as a blanket but it’s too late.

Everyone has seen already. My eyes lock on Grayson, curious what his reaction will be to me half-naked.

There’s no reaction but his brow is furrowed in what looks to be maybe confusion?

Annoyance? I can’t get a good read on it.

“I can’t believe you made me wear this,” I whisper to Frankie, pulling the hat down lower on my head.

“You look amazing,” she assures me.

Kelly frowns, eyeing Frankie. “Yeah but don’t you think it’s a little revealing for the circumstances?”

Frankie stands. “I’ll see if I can find a shirt somewhere.”

“It’s okay.” I grab her hand and motion for her to sit down. “I’m fine. The hoodie will cover me.”

The pitch is thrown and apparently Grayson isn’t paying attention because it’s a line-drive right at his leg. Consequently, the ball ricochets off his shin and then toward second base.

“Fuck,” he growls, jumping around in obvious pain and then leans over, rubbing the spot.

“Eyes on the ball, man!” Ethan shouts from left field, laughing.

Grayson flips his hand back at Ethan, as if to tell him to shut up, but it’s the smile he sends my way that has me blushing again. It’s crooked and still has that boyish edge to it I can’t resist.

Okay, so he was looking at me.

Hoping the heat from my cheeks wanes, I position the sweatshirt over my stomach to hide what little I can of myself .

“Looks like someone likes what he sees,” Frankie teases, handing me a diet Pepsi she’s dug out of the cooler.

On the field, Grayson runs his hand through his hair and then replaces his baseball hat, his eyes on first base as he limps with each step.

My heart pounds faster. “Shit, did he hurt himself?”

Frankie looks back at me, and then Grayson. “Looks like it, huh.”

He doesn’t leave the field though and after a few minutes, walks normally.

It’s then I see why. Shane emerges from the dugout.

With his eyes down, he approaches the plate. I watched Shane play every Thursday night in the fall baseball league for Larson Landscaping. He hits right to shortstop every time, never fails.

This time Grayson has his eyes on Shane.

The first pitch is a ball. The second he gets a hold of. Sure enough, Shane hits a fast grounder up third base between Josh and Grayson.

Josh steps aside and Grayson twists around to stop it backhanded, but he doesn’t throw it right away.

He tosses it lightly to himself for a minute while Shane rushes to first base.

As if it’s the easiest play he’s ever made, Grayson’s head comes up arrogantly, smirking.

A few feet before he reaches the base, Grayson throws a rocket right toward the baseline and nails Shane in the helmet.

It’s hard. You can literally hear the sound vibrate through the field.

Naturally, Shane stumbles, rocked by the hit but doesn’t fall to the ground like I’d hoped he would. He stops, his hands on his knees.

Grayson has a pitcher’s arm on him. He can throw a baseball over ninety miles an hour, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be hit with one of them.

There’s a small part of me that hopes the hit gives Shane brain damage. The other part of me wants to pick up the bat sitting next to me and beat the shit out of him in front of everyone.

“My bad,” Grayson mumbles when Sheriff Hicks gives Shane the base for interference. “I’m a little rusty on my aim.”

That’s bullshit, but Hicks lets it go.

Shane staggers again before throwing the helmet off and stepping toward Grayson, only to be stopped by Lance, who is coaching first base.

“Let it go,” Lance urges, pulling on Shane’s arm. He motions for a base runner. “Why don’t you take a seat? I think that one hit you a little too hard.”

I don’t think Lance is stupid. Actually, I know he’s not. He knows if Shane starts something again, Grayson will finish it.

Shane flings his arm away from Lance. “Get off me.” He looks to Grayson again, pointing his finger at him. “Your turn’s comin’, man!”

“I’m right here.” Grayson raises his hands up. “Come show me what you mean.”

“That’s enough!” Hicks yells from his place behind the base.

As Shane reluctantly walks away, a base runner taking his place on first, Grayson turns around.

Our eyes catch and I smile at him, grateful for the small act of retribution he handed out.

Grayson winks.

“Maybe you need to work on your aim,” Josh teases.

Grayson smiles at Josh. “Just a smidge off.”

At the start of the fourth inning, Grayson comes up to bat for the second time. Guess who’s pitching?

Yep. Shane. Grayson’s first time up to bat and Shane walked him. And judging by the look on Shane’s face now, I have a feeling that’s not how this one will go.

I snap my eyes to Grayson. Yep. This, this is a really bad scenario for Shane because Grayson loves to hit up the middle when a pitcher is being an asshole. He didn’t do it often, but when he did, it always scared me.

Part of me wonders if Shane knows that. I don’t think he does. His sport was football, not baseball.

But then again, maybe he does know. He knew way more about Grayson than I ever suspected.

“Oh, this can’t be good,” Julia notes, shaking her head beside me. So wrapped up in my own thoughts, I forgot she’d sat right beside me.

“He won’t do anything stupid,” Frankie notes.

Kelly snorts. “Yeah, right.”

I’m going with Kelly’s theory because I know the expression Grayson’s wearing.

I can also see the look on Shane’s face, in his eyes, when he turns on the mound. The hate, the discontent he holds within them is noticeable. He’s vile and angry, for reasons even I don’t understand. But still, his focus is clear.

Revenge.

Without warning, his eyes shift to mine. He blinks slowly and then flicks his stare back to Grayson.

I know the expression he’s wearing. The darkness in the way his brow is pulled together and the emotionless smirk. It makes me want to run to Grayson, afraid of what will happen next.

I blink, and along with the thirty-some others attending this game, we watch as Grayson approaches home plate, tugging on his left sleeve. His bat hits against his cleats once. It’s a habit he’s always had, and never broke.

I watch his feet and the angle of his stance. I’ve seen Grayson drive one back at the pitcher many times, and I know exactly what’s about to happen.

Fuck you, Shane. I hope this stings like a motherfucker.

Shane shifts his position on the mound, his arm drawn back when the umpire gives the signal.

It’s a purposely delivered pitch off to the right. Grayson sees it just in time and twists around, the ball bounces off his right shoulder as he drops into it, but the sound is awful.

It stung, it had to have.

If it did, Grayson doesn’t let on. He simply steps back off the plate and stares at Shane, reluctantly refuses to take his base, his jaw tight, face unreadable.

“My aim’s a little rusty,” Shane says, repeating Grayson’s words. Smiling, he stands relaxed on the mound, his glove hanging loosely at his side, waiting on Grayson’s response.

“Take your base,” Hicks says, motioning to first base, his eyes heavy on Grayson.

“Nah.” Grayson refuses. “I’ll give him that one.”

“Whatever,” Hicks mumbles, rolling his eyes. “You’re going to do what you want anyways.”

“Just take your base, Grayson,” Wyatt warns from the first base line.

Naturally, he ignores his dad.

Wyatt shakes his head, his hand on his hip.

Julia does the same. “Why is he so stubborn?”

Frankie laughs and reaches for her water bottle. “Probably because he’s related to Kelly.”

“You’re no angel,” Kelly notes, rolling her eyes at her sister.

I drown out their bantering because all I can think about is the hatred on Shane’s face. Part of me thinks Shane has been counting on Grayson taking the base because if he does get a hold of the ball, it’s coming back at him.

And it does—too fast for Shane to react. I hear the crack of the bat, and then Shane holding his stomach where the hard, and solid, line drive nails his left hip.

A little lower would have been nice, I think to myself, only to have Frankie actually say it out loud, as Grayson runs to second base. Before Shane can recover and make the play, Grayson is sliding into second.

Sighing, Shane turns around but doesn’t look at Grayson, or me. He’s holding his hip .

I smile at Grayson as he stands on the base, dusting off his pants, watching me.