Nothing Like the Movies

Liz

“Why does he look like that?”

“Like what?” Clark was on my left, filming, and I was crouched over by the visitors’ dugout with my camera.

“Like he isn’t pitching,” I said, my zoom fully engaged on Wes’s face. “He always looks like he’s going to murder someone when he’s throwing, but today he looks like he needs a nap.”

Clark made a noise like he found that funny. “I don’t know what that means.”

I watched as Wes threw another ball that Mickey had to chase, and I could sense in the dugout across from me that the coaches who appeared to be standing around doing nothing were actually watching closely.

I looked through the camera and could almost see the doubt about the new freshman lefty. It had that vibe, like they were watching something fall apart and didn’t quite know what to do.

Shit.

Regardless of my feelings for him, I didn’t want him to fail.

“It means he needs to find whatever always pissed him off on the mound,” I said, feeling panicked as Wes looked nothing like the way he’d looked every time I’d ever seen him pitch. “Or something.”

I wasn’t sure why, but I felt anxious. Like, anxious to the point where I wanted to talk to him, to find something I could say to remind him to chill the hell out and just do what he knew how to do.

Just pitch, Wes.

I didn’t know him anymore and had no idea what was going on in his head, but it was obvious that his issue was there. He still had the talent and mechanics, but he was clearly sabotaging himself.

Which, honestly, wasn’t surprising.

Right after his dad died, when his coaches wanted to know when he’d be coming back to school, Wes kind of lost it. I vividly remember the panic in his eyes as he told me (on a FaceTime call) that he didn’t think he could even look at a baseball now that his dad was gone, much less throw one.

The idea of it made him physically ill.

So that had to be what this was, not the actual pitching itself.

He had to know that, right?

I mean, of course he did.

But what if he didn’t in this moment? I set down the camera, reached into my bag, and ripped a page out of my notebook.

“Can you do me a huge favor?” I asked Clark, digging out a pen. I knew my words probably wouldn’t help, because he had an entire coaching staff with all the baseball wisdom in the world to share with him.

But I was compelled to do something to try to help him.

Just in case.

I scrawled out a sentence, then folded the paper in half.

“What do you need?” Clark lowered his camera and looked over at me.

“I need you to run this over to the dugout and give it to Wes Bennett when he comes off the field.”

It was insane, both that I thought my words about baseball could help and also that I was trying to help the jackass who’d broken my heart, but I couldn’t stop myself.

This wasn’t about us, after all; it was about, like, UCLA sports.

“I was going to move over there for the first pitch, so sure,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “But are you sure you want your boyfriend to be the one passing notes to your ex?”

“It’s not a love note,” I said, suddenly nervous as hell about what I was about to do. It was a terrible idea, reaching out to Wes Bennett, but I somehow felt like I needed to. “So I think it’ll be fine.”

“Then I’m on it,” he said, taking the paper from my fingers before walking away.

When the team started coming off the field, I pretended to be taking shots while I watched Wes through the camera lens. He dropped his glove onto the bench and grabbed a bottle of water, his face full of tension.

Where the hell is Clark?

I kept watching, the voyeur with the camera, as Wes squirted water into his mouth, his throat moving around a swallow that was wildly distracting. Why is that distracting? My heart was racing—oh God—when Clark appeared beside him. I couldn’t read his lips, but as Clark spoke to Wes, I had regrets.

Maybe I shouldn’t have sent him into the dugout.

Wes lowered the bottle and looked at Clark through narrowed eyes, like he didn’t quite understand, but Clark just kept talking.

And then he held out the paper—oh Gawwwwwwwwd—the paper that I had sent over.

Oh my God.

I felt shaky as I watched Wes’s big fingers unfold the note.

What was I thinking??

His dark eyes spent a few moments on the paper, and I felt like a fool.

Like a ridiculous, childish moron who thought her inane words about baseball could somehow help a D1 college pitcher throw himself out of a funk.

My face was on fire because I was mortified by my impulsivity.

Wes looked up from the paper and said, “Thanks, man”—with a nod—before Clark turned and walked away.

But as soon as Clark was gone, I watched Wes’s mouth slide into a slow, wide smirk.

That smirk, dear God.

And then he was looking at me.

Even though the camera was between us, as well as the home-plate portion of the infield, his eye contact was intensely direct as he mouthed the words “thank you.”

To me.

I quickly turned my back to him, unwilling to acknowledge what’d just transpired. My face was scorchingly hot as I started taking shots of the outfield, of the fans in the stands, of anything that wasn’t Wes Bennett.

I was the world’s biggest loser because it was such a Little Liz move, sending a missive via courier to the pitcher in the dugout. The little weirdy loved that stuff, and I was mad at myself for accidentally doing something she would’ve approved of.

But as soon as the game started, I stopped caring.

The stadium had a first-game-of-the-season electricity about it, where it seemed like every attendee was watching with bated breath in anticipation of what was about to come. It was sunny and warm, without a cloud in the sky, and the whole package was a creator’s dream: the perfect setting with the perfect action.

I was almost overwhelmed by the wealth of images in front of me, my hands in a frenzy to capture as much as I could. My camera and I were all over the place, but I froze when “Power” started playing over the speakers.

I turned just in time to see Wes take the mound.

He was all powerful legs and wide chest as he walked out, big and imposing in the pin-striped uniform. He moved like he was going to get an easy three or kick the crap out of any batter who dared to make contact, and holy, holy shit, he was a sight to behold.

Underneath the Bruin-blue baseball cap, his face was a mask of rigid concentration.

I was holding my camera, but too stunned by his walkout to do anything but stare.

Wes Fucking Bennett, ladies and gentlemen.

I had zero interest in him, but objectively speaking, he looked like baseball perfection.

I moved to a better vantage point so I could get shots of his warm-up throws, which were relaxed and accurate. So far, so good, I thought, but I was nervous when the first batter from the other team came out.

Again—I had no skin in Wes’s game, but as a fan of all things Bruins, I wanted the team to do well during their first official outing.

I watched Wes take a breath and trace the seam of the ball, and then he kicked up that front leg, and it was on. He threw a fastball down the middle, then another one, then finished off the first batter with a curveball that was ridiculous.

The fans cheered, and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief as Wes readjusted his cap while the next batter came out.

And as I snapped photos of the next two hitters that he made light work of, I realized that my concern for him was actually a great sign. It was proof, indisputable evidence, that I was light-years away from being the girl he’d once destroyed.

Our history was so far in my past that I was genuinely able to cheer for his success.