About a 17-year-old girl named Parker who falls for the new 23-year-old coach of the baseball team.And the Excerpt:
Companion to CATCHING JORDAN.
Bubblegum pink is the nail polish of the day.
Matt Higgins will definitely like it – he’s into all things girly-girl, so I add another coat before blowing on my nails. Tonight we’re meeting at this field party and I fully expect we’ll make out in the bed of his truck.
Drew is lounging on my bed, reading Cosmo. “So I signed you up to be manager for my baseball team.”
“What?!” Careful not to mess up my polish, I mute the TV and sit up to face him. “Why?”
“I can’t stand the idea of you holed up in your room while I’m playing ball this spring. You should come to practice tomorrow morning.” He smells a perfume ad, cringing and sticking his tongue out.
My heart pounds faster than light speed. I hate baseball. I know, I know. That means I’m not a true American. It probably means I’m not human. But I gave up foam fingers, peanuts and the Atlanta Braves when my mom announced she’s a lesbian and ran off with her friend who was more than just a friend. A year ago January, she divorced my dad and I divorced her dreams of me playing softball for Hundred Oaks.
“No way,” I say, examining my nails.
“Come on, Parker!” He thumbs through the magazine. “Please?” he whines.
“What’s involved?” I try to act nonchalant, but Drew looks up with a knowing smile. He’s been my next door neighbor my whole life – I’ll do anything for him.
“Taking stats and helping with equipment.”
Taking stats is way easy. I could do it in my sleep.
“It’ll be a cinch,” Drew says, reading my mind. He focuses on a cartoon couple using a dining room table for Kama Sutra maximum effect, if you get what I mean. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “Is that move physically possible?”
“Try it out with Amy and let me know.”
He turns the magazine vertical and studies it closely. “I’m flexible but not that flexible.”
“Can you imagine needing a hip replacement at 17? You could get a cane with smoke and fire painted on it.”
“Or maybe one with skulls.”
“Don’t change the subject… So there’ll be plenty of guys for you on the team.” He snorggles. That’s mine and Drew’s special word for snorting and giggling. It’ll be in Webster’s any day now.
I have to admit I love the way cute guys look in baseball uniforms. Plus, I’d get to spend more time with Drew. Lately his idea of fun has been going to Hardee’s with Corndog and Sam Henry and acting like they’re the characters from Seinfeld, talking about nothing. Drew invites me along sometimes when they need an Elaine because I’m really good at punching Corndog (George Costanza) and yelling “Get out!” and Drew says I dance worse than the real Elaine. But it’s been getting kinda old. How many times can those guys debate who has better fries: Sonic or Jiffy Burger?
And what else do I have to do this semester? I’ve got a 4.0 and classes don’t matter at this point: the only way Vanderbilt could revoke my early admission would be if I encouraged Tennessee to secede from the union.
On the other hand, this could be a lot of work. I’d probably end up doing hard stuff like lugging water coolers around and washing dirty jockstraps or something.
On the other hand, I don’t want to be lonely.
Jockstraps, it is.