Page 6 of Pitcher Perfect (Big Shots #4)

“You’re what?”

“You heard me, Dina.”

“Did I?” Skylar’s pitching coach stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the net where she’d been aiming. “Because I

think you just told me you’re taking a fake boyfriend to your parents’ house for a week.”

Skylar wouldn’t waste time living in regret over telling Dina what had happened that morning at Café Lil Italy. There were

no secrets between a girl and her pitching coach. Was she a member of the team? Yes. Her position tended to keep her isolated

a lot of the time, however. During games, while everyone was in the dugout, she was either on the mound or in the bullpen.

At practice, like now, she trained on a different section of the field, had her own coach, her own game schedule and recovery

techniques.

Dina, a former all-American collegiate pitcher in her own right, stood at an impressive six foot two, the messy bun at the

top of her head giving her those final two inches, and her ability to spit from the mound into a bucket at home plate was

her claim to fame—and rightly so.

“Because I’ve met your parents, Sky, and they’re too quick on the uptake to fall for something like that. They’re going to

see through you a mile away.”

Dina made a good point.

An excellent point.

One Skylar hadn’t taken into enough consideration. She might be able to fool her parents for an afternoon, but for a whole-ass week ? If she’d stopped to think about everything this ruse would entail, she would have said no. She and Robbie—whom she barely

knew!—would have to share a bedroom. They’d have to hold hands and kiss. Tell stories about each other. Make goo-goo eyes.

God, she’d have to smile at him. Laugh at his jokes.

Relying on her next pitch to keep her from spiraling, Skylar leaned forward, took a centering breath, locked in on the strike

zone, led hard with her left leg, and let fly, sending the late-breaking rise ball into the back of the net... which wasn’t

half as satisfying as listening to the ball hit Madden’s glove.

Madden.

The reason she’d agreed to this totally unethical scheme.

Absently, she put up her glove to accept a catch from Dina, taking her position at the mound once more. She wasn’t seeing

the net, though. She’d traveled into her mind’s eye where she, Elton, Madden, and Eve were swimming in the backyard of her

childhood home. Madden in the shade with a book, quietly observing everything over the wind rustling pages. Elton on the phone

with a girl, trying to convince her to come over. Eve sunning herself in the daring sophistication of her black, vintage-style

one-piece. Everyone so comfortable in their lane, except for Skylar, sixteen, who hadn’t been able to find a bathing suit

at the mall that was exactly the right balance of modest, practical, and cute, so she’d donned the Speedo one-piece with the

racer back that her mother wore to water aerobics. And paired it with some board shorts Elton hadn’t worn since the fifth

grade.

She didn’t know how to get Madden’s attention.

She didn’t know how to get anyone’s attention, even that of her parents, by any other means but her athleticism, so that’s what she did.

She swam laps, hoping Madden would notice her perfect form.

She’d been practicing. When that didn’t work, it was backflips off the diving board, dunking on the floating basketball hoop.

She smack-talked her brother, as per usual, trying to be funny, but looking back, she could see she’d only ever known how to be one of the guys.

Now, at twenty-two, it wasn’t as though she couldn’t dress up and apply makeup, if she so felt like it, but the impostor syndrome

never quite left her alone.

Skylar was not naturally graceful and sexy like Eve.

She couldn’t pair the perfect outfit, like Elton’s revolving-door girlfriends.

Flirting? Might as well ask her to perform an appendectomy in a blindfold.

Since starting at BU she’d gone on dates, usually set up by her teammates or one of her brother’s friends. Some of them went

well, others were awkward, at which time she’d defaulted to talking sports and ended up with drinking buddies instead of a

boyfriend. A couple of times her dates had ended in sex that started off feeling really good, but somewhere in the middle,

everything started going too fast, no plan, no practice helping herself have an orgasm with a partner, and the men never seemed

inclined to give any input, so the whole business of sex had sort of been back-burnered for a while.

Sex would be good with Madden.

She knew that in her soul. He was the most patient, intuitive person she knew. It wouldn’t be a frantic dash to the ending

with him. He’d talk to her, take his time, because he knew her. Cared about her.

But if Skylar was being honest with herself, she’d stopped attempting to draw Madden’s eye because she wasn’t so sure she’d satisfy him . Or be the person he needed.

How could she with so little experience?

Was Robbie “Redbeard” Corrigan her chance to get some?

“You’ve been midwindup for ten minutes, Sky. You mind focusing?”

Skylar went through her breathing routine, fired her arm in a reverse circle, and let fly. Pow. A little high, but into the

net nonetheless. “You’re the one talking my ear off.”

“Excuse me,” Dina sputtered. “It’s not every day my star pitcher lands a phony boyfriend. Thank you for being interesting

for once.”

“You’re welcome,” Skylar said, catching Dina’s toss. “So you don’t think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of me pulling

it off, huh?”

“Correct.” Dina laughed and shook her head, appearing distracted by a flock of birds flying overhead. “Not unless you do some

serious practice first. Practice wins games. I don’t need to tell you that.”

“Practice wins games. Planning leads to execution.” Skylar slowly turned to face the pitching coach, also known as the woman

with Skylar’s dream job. The one she dreamed of calling her own one day. “You’re right. I need practice.”

“Are we talking about boys or baseball now?”

Skylar was already making a detailed itinerary to present to Robbie.

Flirting instructions. Kissing practice. Goo-goo eyes training.

Robbie. She’d found herself thinking about him on her train ride to the field, remembering how genuinely contrite he’d looked

when apologizing over the scene at the baseball game/brawl. How he’d gotten a little choked up talking about his grandfather.

How his huge body had shuddered when she kissed him.

Had she actually... affected him? Or was he just surprised?

Probably the latter, since she’d had no practice.

Not yet, anyway.

Robbie scrubbed at his wet hair and beard with a towel, parking himself on a bench in front of his locker. Around him, his

Bearcats teammates were in various stages of showering and getting dressed to go home after practice. Today had been a light

one, thankfully, as playoffs started at the end of April and now was not the time for anyone to get injured. But even a light

practice in this profession meant his whole body ached.

And he loved it.

The more pains and strains, the better. That’s what he’d signed up for.

If his morale light was a little dim over the veteran players ganging up on him for every tiny mistake he made out on the

ice, so be it. All part of being a rookie.

When did the constant teasing and berating end, though?

Robbie shook off the sinking feeling. Be positive. Smile through it.

In addition to his usual full-body throb this evening, his shoulder was still on fire from leaning into Skylar’s pitch. Instead

of reaching into his duffel bag to dig out a T-shirt, he reached up and touched the sore spot now, smiling at the memory of

her flinching back on the mound, hands covering her mouth, almost like she didn’t fully relish the idea of murdering him with

a fastball. So romantic.

Mailer sat down heavily a few feet away, shoving his feet into a pair of rubber slides. “What’s for dinner tonight, Mom?”

Finally, Robbie pulled on his white T-shirt, followed by his favorite hoodie, which—incidentally—said Orgasm Donor across the front. “There are three Stouffer’s lasagnas in the fridge. We each get one. Rock paper scissors for the third.”

“Why don’t we just split the third one?” Mailer asked.

“Too easy.”

His roommate snorted. “Everything is a competition with you.”

“Yeah. Well.” Robbie spoke without thinking, visions of a certain brunette spinning in his head like an army of tops. “Turns

out that’s going to work to my advantage.” A wet towel was launched at Robbie’s head, soaking the shoulder of his hoodie with

shower water before he could duck. “What the hell, man?”

Mailer didn’t look the least bit remorseful. “Stop being cryptic. You’ve been like this all day. Just tell me how the fucking

date went.”

“No.” Robbie sniffed. “I don’t kiss and tell anymore.”

“Does that mean you kissed her?”

“I’m not going to confirm or deny.” All right, apparently it took more than a lecture and one afternoon to evolve, because

the truth was tap-dancing on his tongue. Not necessarily because he wanted to brag, like he usually did, but... he felt

kind of victorious for pulling off a kiss with Skylar Page. That alone had to be harder than making it from one end of Boston

to the other without hitting traffic. “But if I were going to do either of those things, I would confirm.”

Mailer slammed his locker shut with a hoot. “Even for you, that’s impressive. She went from wanting to harvest your bones

to kissing you?”

“She still might harvest my bones. Violence is part of her mystique.”

“You know what?” Mailer stood, pointing at Robbie with the look of a proud papa on his face. “You get the extra lasagna tonight.”

“Seriously?” Robbie pretended to well up. “You’re too good to me.”

His roommate pointed to his own Orgasm Donor sweatshirt. “Hey. I wouldn’t want to match hoodies with anyone else.” He heaved his hockey bag onto his shoulder. “You can tell me your game plan on the ride home.”

“My game plan for what?”