Page 14 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter ten

RYLEIGH

I change my clothes for the millionth time and stare at myself in the floor-length mirror over my closet door.

My gaze trails up my body, nitpicking as I go.

I’m not thrilled with what’s staring back at me, but I acknowledge I’m being unfairly harsh with myself.

These days, all I see is disease. Dark shadows beneath my eyes.

Chapped lips. The hollows of my cheeks and the dry, slightly pale skin.

Mom says she sees a fighter when she looks at me, but I don’t. I see a shell of my former self, a girl who’s merely existing.

I reach a hand up to the wig I’m wearing beneath a Nike baseball cap.

The locks are long and brown, almost the color of my real hair but not quite—though the texture is all wrong.

It’s been so long since I’ve worn it, I feel like an impostor with it now.

Like the whole world will know the second they catch a glimpse of me that it’s not mine, when the truth is wigs have come a long way over the years.

Probably no one would ever guess it’s fake.

Still doesn’t make me feel better about wearing it, though .

So why wear it, dumbass?

I grunt and take in the length of my reflection.

I know why, and it’s the same reason I changed five times.

Because I want to look good—cute for Grayson’s game—which is ridiculous.

I’m not a normal girl and this isn’t a normal outing.

Grayson has zero interest in me, and I have zero interest in him.

I have no one to impress. Besides that, since when do I care about impressing anyone?

I’ve only ever cared about what I think of myself. But I guess things have changed.

I’ve changed.

I don’t have soccer to drive my confidence anymore, and the fact that Grayson is probably the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on makes me want to look the part.

What if he has friends there? What if his teammates ask about me?

God, the thought of embarrassing him—or myself—is almost too much to bear, but with the wig and cap, I almost look normal.

I might not be as toned or as tan as I used to be when soccer was my whole life, but I have a nice figure.

If anything, boys might prefer this look to when I was zipping around a soccer field.

My curves have softened. The muscle I dropped with treatment has given way to the quintessential hourglass figure.

I have no idea what the hell girls are supposed to wear to a ball game, but I assume it’s not much different from spectating a soccer game, so cool athletic wear seems the way to go, and the yoga shorts and cropped tank I’m wearing suit me perfectly .

Tearing my gaze from the mirror, I bend down and lace on a pair of sneakers, ignoring the slight cramping in my legs that warns of dehydration from my most recent treatment, then snatch my keys off my dresser.

I head for the hallway, ignoring the heaviness in my lungs?evidence of my morning coughing jag?and make my way into the kitchen where I know my mother is sitting at the table, going over bills.

Without glancing her way, I fill my stainless-steel flask with water and ice, readying myself to tell her I’m headed out when her voice breaks the silence first.

“Off to somewhere special?”

I clear my throat and turn to where she’s staring up at me, her gaze lingering on the wig.

“Um, kind of.”

Surprise dances in her eyes before shifting her attention to my outfit and arching a brow. I lean against the counter, reminding myself to play it cool. Be casual.

This is your opening to push the boyfriend needle a little more.

“It’s just a baseball game,” I say, screwing the cap on my bottle. “Grayson’s game,” I add.

Her eyes brighten. The couple of hours Grayson spent with me at the hospital really impressed her. I think she might be his number one fan, though I admit I’ve set the bar ridiculously low. I haven’t had so much as a single soul visit me throughout any of my chemo treatments.

I suppose I only have myself to blame .

That’s what happens when you keep everyone at arm’s length and when your sole focus is a sport and not the relationships around you.

Funny thing is I’m not sure I’d do it differently if I could go back. You have to know what you’re missing to miss it, and all I’ve ever known is my mother and soccer.

Mom crosses her arms, a smirk curling the corners of her lips. “So, you two are really doing this, aren’t you?”

I shrug, trying to act casual. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

“Well, you look adorable, like you just stepped off the cover of the Teen Vogue summer issue.”

I scoff. I wish. Maybe before. But not now.

“Mom, the only magazine cover I could pose for are those informational packets about treatment options they give you at the oncologist’s office.”

“Whatever.” She ignores my sarcasm and goes back to her Chromebook and the mountain of bills I know are mostly from me. “Just be safe and have fun.”

“Will do.” I turn to leave.

“Oh, and text me what time you think you’ll be home!” she shouts at my back. “And snap me a picture.”

I glance over my shoulder, appalled. “I am not snapping you a picture.”

“Just one?”

My mouth drops. “Mom, no. ”

When she shoots me a pleading look, I drive the point home and say, “No picture, but maybe I’ll have him stop by the house this week.”

“Yes!” Mom claps her hands, beaming at the prospect while the evil genius inside of me twirls the end of her mustache.

Playing Mom is almost too easy.

God, I’m a terrible daughter.

“That would be amazing, but no pressure,” she adds quickly, and, once again, I feel sorry for her. She’s so completely thrilled at the idea I’m acting like a normal eighteen-year-old, going out and talking to boys, it’s hard to watch.

Yet somehow, I manage.

I underestimate how long it takes to get to the field and wind up late. By the time I arrive, the game has already started, and despite the fact it’s just past six o’clock on a weekday, there’s quite the crowd.

People fill the bleachers. Camping chairs scatter along the fenced infield. A concession stand beside it sells sodas and snacks, the buttery scent of popcorn filling the air, along with the foil-wrapped hot dogs I see several people carrying toward the stands.

I pick my way past a group of people and up two rows of bleachers, feeling the burn everywhere, my lungs and muscles most of all.

It’s a reminder not to go any higher as I take a seat.

Several days have passed since my last chemo session, and though I feel better than I did when Grayson last saw me, I don’t want to push my luck.

Once I’m settled, I cough a couple times to clear my chest, then stare out at the field, realizing I don’t even know which team is his or what position he plays.

Considering my lack of knowledge about baseball, I’m especially clueless as I watch, my gaze skimming over the players as a new batter takes the plate.

A quick glance tells me it’s not Grayson.

Neither is the pitcher, who begins his windup and launches the ball.

The batter swings and makes contact, the crack of the bat reverberating in the air around me like lightning.

The ball flies low like a torpedo in what I imagine is a damn good hit, before a player in a gray-and-black pinstripe uniform launches his body off the ground.

He reaches out his glove and catches the ball midair, then falls to the dirt, all while keeping his hold on the ball outstretched in his gloved hand.

It’s more acrobatics than I thought was necessary for the sport, and I find myself impressed.

The crowd around me roars in agreement as he jumps to his feet and whips the ball back to the pitcher. It’s then I see his face and recognition hits me.

Grayson.

My eyes slide over him. A baseball cap shadows his eyes while his shirt hugs a firm chest. Baseball pants fit snugly over muscular thighs, and even from here, I can tell the view of his backside is most likely incredible enough to make girls weep.

But seeing him like this is odd. Kind of like watching this alternate version of him that’s clean-cut and radiating light, so different from the James Dean bad boy from my doorstep.

I take a closer inspection of the catcher from his team, and I can make out the name on their jerseys—the Aces—as well as the fact the catcher doesn’t have a bad ass either.

Maybe I like baseball, after all.

A sly grin splits my lips. I love soccer in all things, but a man in a baseball uniform is far hotter than a man in a soccer uniform any day of the week.

Then again, I’ve never been attracted to soccer players.

Maybe it’s my ego, or maybe it’s the fact that I intimidated most of the ones from my school.

I was always better than them. Faster. Smarter.

Quicker on my feet and to the goal. None of them ever challenged me.

Something tells me Grayson could give me a run for my money, though.

“One more, Cameron. You got this. Come on!” a middle-aged man beside me yells.

I turn to the man, squinting up at him and into the sun. “Excuse me, you know the guys on this team?” I ask. “The Aces?”

The man nods. “Sure do. The pitcher is my nephew.”

“So you know Grayson De Leon?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I know De Leon. Damn good player. He’s been going through a rough patch with everything that’s happened this past year, but today’s a good day. ”

I frown and squirrel this information away. “He plays third base?”

The man stares at me for a moment like he’s not sure if I’m being serious before he softens and points out at the bases. “See now, that’s the third baseman right there.” He points to another player, the one on Grayson’s left.

I frown as my gaze takes in the boy on third.

Noting my confusion, he motions toward Grayson. “See how he’s standing between the third baseman and the guy on second?”

“Yeah,” I say, following the trajectory of his finger.

“That’s called shortstop. It’s probably one of the hardest positions, but Grayson makes it look easy.”

Interesting. “Got it. Thanks.”

“People call me Buddy,” he says, stretching out his hand.

I shake it with a grin. “Ryleigh.”

“Ask me all the questions you want, Ryleigh.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” I say, then proceed to focus back on the game.

True to his word, he answers all of my questions as the game continues play. After a while, he starts explaining things without me having to ask, and thirty minutes later, it’s the bottom of the fourth, with two outs. The Aces are down one run, but Grayson is up to bat, and bases are loaded.

I hold my breath as he takes his spot beside the plate. Stretching his shoulders out, I watch unapologetically as his muscles flex under the thin fabric. My gaze dips south, and I confirm what I expected. His ass is miraculous. It’s almost unfair how completely perfect he is.

I wonder if the me before cancer would’ve even stood a chance.

Probably not, I decide. Besides, it doesn’t matter. I was too busy then, and no one will want me now when I have nothing to offer.

Pushing the thought away, I watch as he steps closer to the plate and raises the baseball bat. The muscles in his forearms flex and move as he waggles the steel instrument back and forth, his back leg planted as the pitcher winds up.

The first pitch flies and Grayson shifts his weight, but holds his swing, and it lands in the catcher’s glove with a snap.

“Ball!” the umpire cries.

Grayson steps out of the batter’s box, taking a couple practice swings before positioning himself once again.

This time when the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, he swings and tips one off the end of his bat causing the ball fly to backward and hit the fence.

Inhaling, he mutters a curse and stretches his arms out, readying himself for the next pitch. I wonder if he’s nervous, if he gets butterflies in his stomach like I used to before a game, a big play for the ball, or moments before I readied myself to kick a goal.

I wonder if he knows I’m here, watching.

My muscles tense with anticipation when the pitcher starts his windup, then releases the ball .

It flies down the center of the plate before dropping at the last second, but not before Grayson swings.

The bat makes contact. A thunderous crack fills the air, echoing through the stadium so loudly, I can feel it in my chest like thunder.

The ball arcs, airborne and moving so fast I can barely track it.

I hold my breath, my limited knowledge about the game telling me that if an outfielder catches it in in the air, he’s out.

“Drop, drop, drop,” I murmur.

Hands clasped, I watch with bated breath, oddly invested for someone who barely knows him or the game.

But the ball keeps going. It doesn’t lose velocity or drop. It was hit too hard, too high, and it soars right over the fence before it disappears from sight.

My eyes widen and I yelp in excitement, cheering along with the rest of the fans. “He hit a home run,” I say to the man beside me, astonished.

He nods and laughs. “It’s not his first, but they sure are fun to watch, aren’t they?”

I turn back to the field with a grin just as Grayson is rounding third base and coming into home. His friends and teammates surround him, patting him on the back and helmet as a pang of longing ignites in my chest.

I remember those on-field victories, the celebrations with teammates. I remember the adrenaline coursing in my veins, and the sheer joy of it all .

God, I miss it.

More than the air I breathe.

More than water. Or food.

More than sunshine.

More than the missing half of my fucking left lung.

I’d give both just to play one more time.

“Way to go, Grayson, baby!” a high-pitched voice breaks through my melancholic thoughts, and I glance beside me at the group of girls I noticed when I came in.

The blonde one is on her feet.

She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a T-shirt, every hair on her pretty bleach-blonde head perfectly in place. She’s absolutely gorgeous, and by the way she’s eyeing Grayson, she has her sights set on him.

Of course she does. I roll my eyes.

She claps, the billion bracelets on her wrist jangling, and a catty, bitter part of me relishes the fact that Grayson doesn’t seem to notice, when in reality, his focus probably doesn’t allow for acknowledging people in the crowd.

The team filters back into the dugout, Grayson a few steps behind when he lifts his gaze and catches my eye. For a single second, my heart skips a beat. Even from here, his dusty-blue eyes pierce straight through me.

I offer him a wry smile, arching one sparsely drawn-on brow beneath my dark shades as I give him a little salute.

Grayson De Leon is a little fecking liar .

He’s not decent at baseball. I can tell that just from the little I’ve seen and the way Buddy talks about him.

He’s incredible.