Whatever Life Throws at You by Julie Cross Read Free Book Online Page B

*lights candle* *lights 2 candles* is 2 really better than 1? Says Doublemint gum…
    17 minutes ago
    Lenny London: Just to set the record straight, being proud of white women who accomplish great things and overcome obstacles does NOT mean that I’m not proud of my African American heritage. Can’t I just be inspired by inspiring people regardless of race? And yes, the purpose of this status update is to justify my obsession with foreign cars. Sorry, America.
    30 seconds ago
    I’m running outside in shorts. What the hell is up with this bipolar weather?
    Dad and I mapped a two-mile route around the neighborhood so I could complete my weekend running per Coach Kessler’s “non-required” extra workouts. What a relief it is to not have to worry about death by frozen lungs. If this were my team in Arizona, I probably would have ignored the extra workouts. But after a week of St. Teresa’s academic excellence, my brain is so fried all I want to do is run. Amazing how lazy substandard education can make you.
    Savannah came by to go over meeting schedules with Dad the other day, and she drove me around the neighborhood, pointing out her apartment complex. A quarter mile down my street is where the houses start getting really big, and Lenny’s is like a mansion.
    I round the corner, kicking hard, focusing on the mailbox in front of my house. My lungs are ready to burst.
    “Come on, Ann!” Dad shouts.
    Finally, I hit the finish line, gasping for air. My hands lock behind my head, and I walk in circles until I can talk again. “Time?”
    He looks at his stopwatch. “Five-oh-five, not bad?”
    I shrug. It’s not the time I want for the first trials, that’s for sure. I strip off my T-shirt and wipe the sweat from my face. The second I lower my shirt, Jason Brody comes into view. He’s opening the screen door, a bottle of water in one hand.
    I suppress a groan. We haven’t spoken since the other night at the bar, but he’s stopped by here three days in a row to work with Dad on his technique. Seriously, how much technique is there to be learned? Especially for him. Throw straight and fast. It’s not rocket science. But I guess maybe the picking up women and panty-discarding activities are reserved for evenings and he’s got nothing to do all day.
    Grams is sitting on the porch swing. I divert my eyes from Mr. Nosy Pitcher and plop down next to her.
    She hands me my water bottle. “You should slow down, child. You’ll fall on your face.”
    “Thanks, Grams, I’ll do that.”
    Dad and Brody both have gloves and Dad’s got a practice stand set up in the yard. I try not to look pissed off, but really, it’d be nice if he could warn me before inviting hot guys over. That way maybe I wouldn’t be sweaty and I’d be wearing something cuter than a hot-pink sports bra and lime green running shorts. I don’t even match. Not that I care what Jason Brody thinks. Actually, I already know what he thinks—that I’m a brat. And too young.
    “The slider is all in the way you plant your front foot,” Dad says.
    He takes a stance a measured distance from the practice stand, a baseball in his right hand. If I focus on Dad’s upper body, the way he licks his fingers before rotating the ball in his hand, eyes narrowed at the target, I can almost see the major league pitcher in him. The biggest problem for him is putting all that weight on his left non-leg. He’s doing it halfway right now just to demonstrate the motions, and it’s obvious he’s already in pain. But pain isn’t the main issue. It’s balance and not having a foot to turn outward. I wonder if it’d be different if he’d lost his right leg instead or if he were left-handed.
    Dad moves aside to let Brody take his spot. He rubs the top of his non-leg absentmindedly. I know better than to ask him if he’s okay in front of one of the players, so I make a mental note to bug him later. He’s a coach, not a player. He shouldn’t have to be hurting.
    Brody’s