Pitcher Read online

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, places, and companies is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in the work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Proofing: All Encompassing Books

  Cover Design: RBA Designs

  Formatting by: Champagne Book Design

  All song titles and lyrics mentioned in Pitcher are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  This adult contemporary romance novel is not recommended for readers 18 years and younger due to mature content.

  Copyright © 2019 Kristy Marie

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Other books by Kristy Marie

  Acknowledgements

  For Jaime and Kathrine.

  You’ve seen the worst sides of me and yet, you still remain my friends.

  You deserve a medal.

  Or at least a book dedicated to you.

  Every story has a villain.

  In our story, the villain is not a person but an emotion.

  Our villain is fear.

  Fear of the unknown.

  Fear of losing the most important thing in our lives.

  Each other.

  But we have hope. Because for every villain lies a hero.

  Wrong.

  Our story doesn’t have a hero either.

  Our story sucks.

  We suck.

  We allowed fear to dictate our lives to the point we became stagnant—hopeless—as we watched each other move on and fight the feelings between us.

  No one comes to our rescue in this story.

  In this story, we are the villains and the saviors.

  Enjoy the shitshow that is our relationship.

  I’m not sorry.

  Not even a little bit.

  The asshole deserved it.

  “Anniston, do you have something to say to Preston?”

  I smile sweetly at the round man, known as the principal of Hawkins Middle School, home of the suck-tastic tigers. I’ve been trapped in this mauve-colored room that smells like bad decisions and mold for over an hour now. I’m bored and I have yet to see the point of Principal Taffert’s stern scolding. Can’t he see Preston is a lying, fourteen-year-old, sack of dog shit?

  Why is it only me who sees his true colors? Me, who sees the rotting of his evil soul as he sits all surly, holding a bag of ice to his face.

  “I…” I chance a look at my grandpa, his hands clasped over his dirt-stained overalls. He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve the granddaughter he was left in charge of. He deserves a good girl, one who acts like a lady. Unfortunately, he isn’t so lucky.

  With a devilish smirk, I meet the glare of Preston and his haughty mother next to him and smile as sweetly as I can. “I wish Coach Carey would have taken longer smoking his cigarette in the supply closet so I could have broken more than your nose, assface.”

  “Anniston,” my grandfather says on a sigh.

  “Hines,” Principal Taffert says over Preston’s mother’s gasp of horror. “As much as I hate to do this, I must suspend Anniston for the rest of the school year. We can’t encourage this kind of behavior.” He looks at me and frowns. “Even from a girl.”

  That’s right, Preston! A girl beat your ass. How’s that taste? I bet it tastes bitter, much like big, salty tears of defeat. Little bitch.

  “I understand, John. Grace and I will handle this at home.”

  I don’t even spare my grandfather a look. All I’m looking at is the bump on Preston’s nose that I hope will haunt him the rest of his life. Maybe he’ll remember it the next time he decides to be a bully.

  “I’m sure you will,” Principal Taffert responds before clearing his throat and addressing me. “Anniston, I hope to see a changed young lady next year. Use this time to reflect on your actions and decide on the type of woman you want to be.”

  I want to be an ass-kicker, John. A Katniss freaking Everdeen.

  “I will, sir.”

  I will hone my right hook and make sure I go for Preston’s balls the next time he dares breathe in my direction.

  Standing, my grandfather motions for me to follow.

  “We’re so sorry,” he says to Preston’s mother who is still sitting like she has on the tightest pair of underwear imaginable. She manages a “humph,” and I almost want to take a swing at her for birthing such a horrible human, but I don’t.

  Hines McCallister is a patient, God-fearing man, but if you get on his bad side, he will act first and ask for forgiveness later.

  Before I can get us into any more trouble, I slam the office door behind me and follow like the dutiful granddaughter I am.

  “Did he tease you about your mother or father?” he asks when we leave the building to walk to his truck, which is parked in a visitor space in the front of the building.

  I shrug at his back. My grandfather has worked hard to build a life for me. He’s sacrificed so much to make sure I have everything I need. I want to protect him from the ugly truth, like he’s always protected me.

  “Anniston…,” he prompts softly and oh so patiently.

  I’d rather go back inside and deal with Taffert than to break my grandfather’s heart.

  “Last week,” I swallow, “in computer lab…”

  “Last week, what?” he urges.

  I sigh. “I had a hard time typing, and he saw.”

  Gently. You must be gentle with Hines McCallister.

  The lines in his forehead crease before he frowns, looking much older than a few minutes ago. “Was it a flare up?”

  I nodded. “I couldn’t control it, and I started to cry.” I shrug like it wasn’t nearly as bad as it was. “He started making jokes—”

  “That little shit made fun of your condition? A child with cerebral palsy?”

  Oh hell. I knew he would be mad.

  “It’s okay, Grandpa,” I soothe, hurrying to clasp his hand in mine. “I took care of it. He won’t make fun of me again.”

  He grumbles but lets me pull him to the truck. When he unlocks my door and helps me up like a gentleman, I smile.

  “Thank you, fine sir.”

  That makes him laugh.

  When he’s in and has the barely working a/c on blast, I cut him a sneaky grin. “So what are we going to do since we have the rest of the day off?”

  He snorts. “We—” He motions back and forth. “—are going to finish my deliveries since I was interrupted.”

  I cringe. “I’m sorry.” I really am. “I wasn’t thinking when I hit Preston. I just don’t like feeling weak.”

  The man that has been the only father figure in my life grasps my chin between his strong fingers. “Don’t be sorry for standing up for yourself. You hear me?”

  I try to nod, but I don’t get very far with his firm grip on my chin.

  “You’re not weak, Annist
on McCallister. Not. At. All.”

  And this is why I try to behave. For him. For my grandma. These two people are the only ones who care about me.

  “Okay,” I whisper, straightening up and plastering a smug smile on my face. “Now, whose day do we need to make with this dairy fresh milk that I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to acquire?”

  Yeah, it was bad. Cows stink. So do goats and other animals that live on a farm. Old McDonald should have gone with fish. They are much less maintenance.

  “The Von Bremens. They need an extra delivery this week since their boys are home from school.”

  Really? The elusive Von Bremen boys you say?

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Pops? Let’s get this delivery done. We have Jeopardy to watch.”

  “Are you sure you want to wait out in the truck?”

  I look around the upscale home, notice the baseball bat leaning against the front door of the massive brick home, and decide to leave the elusive Von Bremen house a mystery.

  “I’m sure,” I tell him, but then add quickly, “I might get out and stretch my legs, though. If that’s okay?”

  “Okay,” he says after a minute, eyeing the backyard as if something evil lurks behind it. “But stay close to the truck.”

  An easy smile and a promise that he’ll return soon sends him up the driveway with woven baskets hanging from his arms. I unbuckle my seat belt when he’s out of eyesight and ease out of the truck. The cobblestone driveway is uneven underneath my sandals, and the humid breeze plasters my clothes against my skin as soon as I shut the passenger door.

  Madison, Georgia is known for its sweet, family-like atmosphere. At a mere two thousand people, no one is a stranger—except for the Von Bremens. All we know is they keep to themselves and run a large insurance agency in the city. Rumor has it that Oscar Von Bremen, the head of the insurance empire, has twin boys that he ships off to boarding school in the city every year.

  I’ve lived in this town my entire life, and I’ve yet to actually see them. A girl I know said she saw them once at a gas station and they were, and I quote, “smoking hot.” Smoking hot boys in this town are like rare unicorns; mostly because we grow up with the same faces since daycare.

  Small towns can be a problem when you’re trying to reinvent yourself, or when trying to escape the nickname “Mac.” It’s not a cute nickname born out of love, trust me. Kids at school call me Mac because they think I want to be a boy.

  I can’t help I’m better at sports than most of the boys. I also can’t help the fact they can’t throw up a block or dodge my fist… like Preston.

  I am who I am.

  And if I’m really being honest, I don’t give two shits if the kids at my school like me.

  I don’t need friends.

  I’m perfectly fine entertaining myself.

  With nothing left to do but stare at the baseball bat against the door, I get back in the truck. Then I hear the garage door rise, and a voice I will never forget booms across the driveway.

  “Thad, I would rather drown in ball sweat than go to Michelle-whoever’s birthday party with you.”

  The air surrounding me seems to grow thick as I hold my breath, waiting to finally see what he looks like. My gaze darts everywhere until I find them. There, standing as identical replicas, are two boys around my age. Both are the same height as one another, but where one has short, dark hair, the other has a baseball hat covering most of his. Even with the hat, I see the dark curls furling out from underneath. The girl was right. They are smokin’ hot, but it’s the one with the basketball and the smart mouth who gives me goosies.

  “We have to go,” says the one without the hat. “It’s her birthday, Theo.”

  So his name is Theo. It has a certain ring to it.

  Theo scoffs and makes a disgusted face at his brother.

  “Is this the girl that sounds like she’s hocking a loogie every time she laughs?”

  I nearly laugh out loud at his description of the girl and wonder who she is. I’m not friends with any Michelles, or girls that sound like they are hacking up phlegm when they laugh.

  “She’s our cousin, Theo. Mom expects us both to be there.”

  His cousin? My stomach clenches with barely contained laughter. Surely he knew that. Surely he’s just getting on his brother’s nerves by acting like he’s clueless whose party they are supposed to attend.

  “No thanks, bro. Tell Mom I have mono.” He looks pensive for a moment. “Or chlamydia. She definitely won’t want to explain that to her country club friends.”

  The brother looks to the sky as if he’s praying before losing his temper. “Can’t you do me one favor?” he snaps, snatching the basketball from his brother and shooting it from his spot beside him. It makes a swooshing sound before bouncing back to the guy with the hat. He scowls and gives his brother the middle finger.

  “Letting you borrow my shirt is a favor,” he says, all smug before shooting the ball and barely hitting the backboard. Glaring at the board like it offended him, he continues, “Attending this nightmare of a party is a fucking charity donation. Don’t confuse the two, Brother.”

  You would think after the day I’ve had, I would be done with assholes, but that’s not the case. Call me curious—and hungry, apparently. Since when does my stomach flutter when I get hungry?

  “I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you. Mom will make you go. You’re fourteen, not twenty.”

  Fourteen? Interesting. He is my age.

  “Why do you think Mom cares if we go? She’ll be too busy with her sister gossiping about God knows what. She won’t even realize we’re not there.” He shrugs like he has the world all figured out and gave it instructions to adhere to his standards.

  “Maybe I want to go,” Thad says, lowering his voice as if he’s trying to convey something to his brother. “Maybe I want to go and see Heather…”

  Theo laughs, not getting sucked in by Thad’s obvious feelings for this girl. “By all means, go ‘see’ Heather. I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic to have another loser follow her around while she burps out the ABCs with her horrible laugh.”

  Finally, his comments get to his brother. “Heather is not the one who hacks,” Thad argues, but stops when he sees the shit-eating grin on his brother’s face. “You’re an asshole,” he spits. “One day you’re gonna think about someone other than yourself.”

  The boy makes a disbelieving scoff.

  “And when you find her… I hope she breaks your heart.” With that parting remark, Thad heads back through the garage and disappears.

  Theo, unaffected by his brother’s comment, takes another shot at the basket and misses. Again.

  “You know,” I holler, hopping out of the cab and strutting up the driveway like I didn’t just watch the two boys fight, “the goal of basketball is to actually get it in the net.”

  If I thought I was going to get a big reaction out of him, I would have been wrong. Theo’s head doesn’t whip around to face me. He simply retrieves the ball and takes another shot, barely sparing me a glance.

  “I was wondering,” he starts off low and hypnotic, a slow grin pulling across his face, “if you were here to sell Girl Scout cookies or talk to me about Jesus.” Theo raises his brows, and I don’t know if I want to hit him or smile. “What’s it gonna be, little Miss Goody-goody? You got cookies or a Bible? I’m hoping for some Thin Mints.”

  This ass. This cute, ridiculous ass.

  “I’m not a Girl Scout,” I say, snatching the ball out of his hand, gripping it with my fingers, and shooting effortlessly from my hip. It goes in—of course—and I flash him a smile that conveys all the smugness in the world.

  “That’s how you make a free throw, sweetheart.”

  Why I said that, I have no idea. Call it a challenge. Something about this boy sparks a fierce competition within me.

  His grin is slow and dangerous. “Touché, little Brownie.”

  I shrug. “It’s all in the hips.” I toss him the ba
ll and frown. “Maybe you can practice and suck a little less next time?” I say, already turning and heading back to Grandpa’s truck. My job here is done. I taught the boy how to shoot. Somewhat.

  “What’s your name, Michael Jordan?”

  I grin, not turning around. “Anniston,” I call back, almost to the truck.

  He’s silent at first, but then… “Hey, Ans?”

  I turn at the new nickname that makes me feel all kinds of girly.

  “Want to come to a party tonight?”

  The smile on my face dies along with his dreams of becoming a basketball star.

  “Can’t,” I say, as I reach the truck.

  “Why not?”

  His voice is much closer, and I whip around to find him right behind me. His deep blue eyes are piercing when he grins—attempting to be charming—and a dimple forms in his right cheek. Yeah, that dimple is a killer.

  I shrug at the rude and insanely cute boy in front of me.

  “I’m probably grounded.”

  His smile ratchets up his face. “Sounds like my kind of girl.”

  Sounds like my kind of guy too, but I would never admit it to him.

  “What’d ya do?”

  Again, I go with a shrug before locking stares and admitting, “I broke a boy’s nose.”

  It takes two seconds for him to react. Two seconds for him to throw his head back and belt out a laugh that bounces off the bricks, making the sound seem melodic.

  “No shit?”

  I nod slowly.

  “Hang out with me tonight, Anniston. I’ll even let you pretend to show me how to shoot hoops, not that I care if I’m any good. I play baseball.”

  He plays baseball… Of course he would have to play my favorite sport.

  “What position?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Pitcher.”

  Why God? Why must he be a pitcher?

  “Are you a southpaw?” I ask, referencing the baseball term for a left-handed pitcher. I figure he is since he shot the basketball from his left side.

  One side of his lips pull up, but he doesn’t answer me. “Hang out with me, Ans, and maybe I’ll tell you. I promise you’ll have fun.”