Page 26 of The Way We Swing Back

But I snapped. The frustration, the helplessness, the months of being useless—it all pressed in at once. I snatched the ball off the ground and slammed it into the turf so hard it bounced sideways and rolled across the field.

“HEY!” Coach’s voice boomed, bouncing off the metal ceiling. “What did I JUST say about not risking your shoulder?”

The whole team froze. Every eye landed on me. My breath came in sharp bursts. My fingers trembled.

“I didn’t—Coach, I wasn’t—”

“I don’t care!” he barked. “You spike a ball like that, you jerk your arm wrong, and suddenly it’s not only this season, it’s next season. You do that again before you’re cleared, and you’re done with grounders, too.”

He turned away before I answered, signaling for Zach to take my place.

The shame hit harder than a punch. Everyone avoided looking at me except Gavin, who stood next to Coach with his catcher’s glove and nodded at me, trying to tell me I was fine.

I stayed silent through the rest of practice, fielding cleanly, stepping aside to roll the ball gently to another player every single time. Each time I rolled, it felt like swallowing glass.

When Coach dismissed us, I headed straight for the gym attached to the facility. No one stopped me, but Gavin and Zach followed, taking a seat on the bench, ready to drive me home.

I climbed onto the treadmill and slammed the speed button up until the belt whirred under me. My legs burned instantly, but I hit the up arrow again and went faster. The air was too thick. My breath was too shallow. Sweat pooled at the base of my neck.

Faster.

My feet slapped the belt. My shoulder throbbed with each jolt, but still—faster.

The world narrowed to the beat of my footsteps until—

“Again.” My father’s voice is rough as gravel.

I’m fourteen, standing in our backyard, sweat dripping down my ribs. Dad is fifteen feet away—way too close—smacking grounder after grounder at me as if I am a machine.

The ball hops up and smashes into my shin. I hiss, grabbing at the sting.

“Again,” he says, hitting the next one hard enough that it shoves my hand backward after thudding into my glove.

“Dad, that—”

“Stop whining. Toughen up. You want to be a ballplayer, don’t you? Act like it.”

My arms shake. My legs hurt. My vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. And I don’t dare ask him to.

He smacks another one at me so fast I barely see it.

“AGAIN,” he snaps.

The treadmill beeped under me, reminding me I was here—not there—but I didn’t know the difference. I ran harder, chest burning, lungs clawing for air.

Just toughen up. Just be better. Just fix it.

My foot caught the edge of the belt for half a second. I stumbled, grabbing the rail. My breath tore out of me in a gasp. I hit the stop button, slamming it again and again until the machine slowed to a crawl. My legs wobbled beneath me as I stepped off, bracing myself against the wall. The world tilted.

The piece of metal was back in my arm, crunching and spinning; softer than before rehab, but still there.

I pressed my forehead to the cool painted cinder block, squeezing my eyes shut. I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or break something. Or all three. Instead, I bit the inside of my mouth. Blood seeped onto my tongue.

I told myself—lied to myself—that tomorrow would be easier. That I’d be better. That I’d make myself tough enough.

Chapter 13

Music thumped through the floorboards, giving the house a pulse. I leaned against the kitchen counter, the edges of my vision soft and fuzzy, a half-empty solo cup dangling from my fingers. I’d only meant to have one drink after practice. One. But then Joe had shoved a shot at me, and someone else had shoved another, and now the world rocked enough to be dangerous.