Pretend You Love Me by Julie Anne Peters Read Free Book Online

a sacrifice fly and I stole home on a wild pitch. We scored two more runs in the first inning.
    Amy Babcock was the best pitcher Coalton had ever had. Unfortunately, Amy graduated last year and her sister Gina was our
     starter now. Gina wasn’t Amy. Her first three pitches scudded off the plate. She was rushing it. I rose from my crouch behind
     home base and signaled her to slow down, take a deep breath. On her next pitch, the ball hit the strike zone, at least, but
     the Buffs batter connected and tripled to left.
    Gina looked shaken.
    I called time and loped to the mound. “Forget it,” I told her. “She got lucky.”
    “Yeah, right. That was my best pitch.”
    “Gina…”
    “I know. I’m sorry.” She shook her head at the ground.
    I smacked the ball down hard in her glove. “You got the whole game, girl. Show ’em what you’re made of.” If not steel, I thought,
     aluminum foil. Don’t crumple.
    The next pitch was a rocket, in there for a strike. Atta girl, I sent Gina a nod of encouragement. The Buffs batter popped
     the next pitch high in the air over my head and I threw off my catcher’s mask to snag it. Easy out.
    Their third batter singled up the middle, then made the mistake of trying to steal second. Guess she hadn’t heard—no one steals
     on Mike Szabo. My bullet smoked her so bad, she’d be embarrassed to show her face in Garden City again.
    After the first inning jitters, we settled into our game.
    Bottom of the last inning, it was Cougars nine, Buffs eight. Two outs. Gina had hung in there. She was getting tired, though,
     a little wild. Garden City’s power hitter was up next. Lacey Hidalgo. I’d been hot for Lacey since Little League, not that
     she knew it. She pumped twice and took her stance at the plate. “Nice ass,” I said under my breath.
    “What?” She turned as the ball whizzed by.
    “Stee-rike one,” the ump called.
    Lacey slit eyes at me. I grinned behind my mask. Signaled Gina, inside corner. Lacey’s weakness. I don’t know if the ball
     got away from Gina or her arm gave out, but the pitch sailed. Lacey’s bat caught the ball high and ripped it.
    T.C. sprang like a cat toward second base and nicked the ball with her glove, but it dropped behind her and rolled into the
     outfield. I groaned inwardly. The runner on second tagged up and sprinted to third. Then T.C. mishandled the ball and the
     runner got waved home.
    “Throw it, T.C.,” I hollered.
    T.C. whirled. I kept my focus on the base runner. As she went intoher slide, kicking up a cloud of dirt, the ball smacked into my outstretched glove. Perfect throw. I brought my glove down
     hard on the runner’s ankle an inch away from the plate.
    “Out!” The ump punched the air.
    I said to the runner, “Gee, sorry. Didn’t mean to soil your new unie.”
    She nailed me with a death look.
    I loved this game. I don’t remember when I started playing softball. Probably the day I was born. Dad said I had a sixth sense
     about the game, that I could size up a hitter with one swing of her bat. An accurate assessment, if I do say so myself. I
     was built to be a catcher. Strong leg muscles, center of gravity low to the ground. Speedy too. I could fly. I had to improve
     on timing, though, and upper body strength to turn those doubles into homers.
    For the limited time left I had to play, that is.
    “T.C.” I caught her arm on the way into the dugout to gear up for the second game of the night. “Dead-on throw, girl.”
    T.C. beamed. “It was, wasn’t it?”
    We knocked fists.
    In a doubleheader you can’t let the first loss affect you, but the Buffs did just that. By the end of the fourth inning it
     was clear they’d checked out. We routed them twelve-zip.
    Most of the people who’d driven down from Coalton made a point of coming by to high-five, or say, “Good game, Mike.” They
     congratulated the other girls too. It wasn’t like I was a one-man team. Maybe I did bring in the majority of our runs, but
     I