It Was Me by Anna Cruise Read Free Book Online Page A

part. Came off the probation clean and I just finished a year of junior college classes. I put it all on the registration form.”
    He nodded slowly. “Alright. I've heard way worse. Mighta done worse myself.” He chuckled to himself, adjusted the hat again. “Now here's the big question. Can you hit like you throw?”
    I took the last swallow of water in the bottle. “If I don't try to pull the ball, yeah, I'm decent. But if I start trying to pull it, I'm awful. I can hit anything up in the zone, doesn't matter how high. Low fastballs give me trouble, but I can lay back and go opposite with breaking stuff. Probably not patient enough. Sir.”
    He chuckled again. “I like that. Man who isn't afraid to be honest. Alright, Mr. Montgomery. Thank you for the chat. I'll be watchin'. And trust me. I may have been the only one to walk my fat ass down here, but so's everyone else. Your arm got everyone's attention. So remember who walked down to talk to you when all those squirrels come chasing you after you take some swings.” He winked, turned around and waddled back toward the stands.
    I looked up to where Abby was sitting with her dad. She was looking at me and held up her hand, waving. I waved back. A year ago, I probably would've been too self-conscious to wave back. Now?
    I didn't give a shit who knew I was with her.
    I pulled the bat from the duffel bag. The size and weight were right on, but it still felt foreign in my hands. I dug out the batting gloves and tugged those on. I swung the bat easily, trying to get a feel for the barrel, where the weight came through, how it moved when it was level. I watched the guy pitching on the hill. He was throwing fairly hard and pretty straight. The intent wasn't to fool anyone. It was to see who could do what with the ball. They'd find out if we could hit breaking stuff later on. They were looking for short, compact swings, swings that didn't have massive holes that would take forever to correct.
    Some guys could hit, some couldn't. They lunged at pitches, they swung too hard or they just couldn't drive the ball. Unless you were a pitcher, hitting is what separated the good guys from the really good guys. A good bat could always find a home. I saw a couple of guys who I thought swung it pretty good, but most looked overmatched.
    My turn came and I stepped into the box, getting my feet set, digging in just a little bit. I took a deep breath, adjusted the helmet on my head, then nodded at the pitcher. He held up the ball so I knew he was coming. I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the bat and nodded again, waiting as he wound up and threw.
    I whiffed completely on the pitch, swinging over the top of it as it zipped by me.
    I felt the color rise in my face. I stepped out of the box for a second, pretending to mess with my gloves. I took another deep breath and stepped back into the box. The pitcher held up the ball again and I nodded.
    Don't look like a douche.
    I drove the next twelve pitches I saw into the outfield gaps, spraying the ball just enough to show I could hit to any field. The ball jumped off the barrel and my timing was good, the thwack of the ball hitting wood echoing through the stadium. I was balanced and getting through the ball.
    The guy finally waved me off and I stepped out, the next guy passing me on his way into the box. I walked over to my duffel, dropped the bat on top of it and pulled off the gloves.
    “Montgomery, right?”
    I turned around. The guy who had brought us all together at the outset was walking toward me.
    “Yes, sir,” I said.
    “You filled out the reg forms, correct?” he asked, looking down at the clipboard. “Your info is current?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He nodded several times. “I think you'll be hearing from a few folks fairly soon. Keep your phone nearby.”
    “Alright. Thank you.”
    “No promises,” he said, smiling. “But enough people have asked for your info sheet and I nearly got run over after you stuck a couple of