Whatever Life Throws at You by Julie Cross

before state last year,” I admit. “I didn’t tell anyone else, not even Dad. We can keep each other’s secret.”
    “Deal.” He stares down at his feet in the water. “And I’m sorry for what I said last week about your dad.”
    Right. The part where he declared that he would never let anyone cut off his leg.
    “You didn’t really say anything about him, you just said what you’d do if you were him.” I pull my hair up off my neck and secure it with the hair tie around my wrist. “It gets old sometimes, explaining his non-leg to people. No excuse to snap at you though. I could chalk it up to PMS if that helps?”
    This being-nice-to-Brody direction is easier than I thought, but I still have this feeling things will turn awkward any second now. I mean seriously, what do we even have in common?
    He laughs again. “A little. And that’s the thing, I’m not him, so it’s not my place to say what should have been. He’s a great coach. It obviously worked out fine for him.”
    Did it work out fine? I don’t really know any different, I guess. Actually, I don’t even know this baseball coach version of Dad much better than the baseball player version of him. But I know he deserves to be this person.
    “I was so nervous for both of you today.” I cover my face and groan. “God, that was awful. And your warm-up pitches were so wild I thought you might knock someone out.”
    He gives me a tiny shove in the shoulder. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
    “Seriously, the game was amazing. I couldn’t care less that we lost.” I hesitate for a minute and then plunge into a question I’d only be able to ask after drinking two beers. “You didn’t happen to see me, did you? Like in the stands during the game?”
    “Yeah, I did.” The smile fades from his face. “That’s kind of what got me to focus and not suck.” He laughs. “Not you exactly, but seeing you reminded me of what you said before. How Jim only got to play one game. I hadn’t let myself think about that possible scenario. But today, I told myself this would be it, and I had to make it count.”
    “What are you going to tell yourself next game?”
    He exhales. “Fuck if I know.”
    I laugh. “You’ll think of something.”
    Some random guy stumbles out of the guesthouse and shouts at us. “Hey, baby! Can I get your number?”
    “My number or yours?” I ask Brody.
    “Looks like a real winner,” Brody whispers, leaning close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine— I swear he did that on purpose . “Don’t get up too fast.”
    “You look like my little sister’s Barbie doll!” the guy shouts at me.
    “Hey, buddy,” Brody says, fighting laughter. “Fuck off.”
    The guy turns around and pukes into the bushes. I wrinkle my nose and twist my body to face Brody and not the puking guy. “Disgusting.”
    “I bet London pays someone to clean up after them,” he says.
    “How did you end up staying here?”
    He levels me with a look. “Jake London’s wife insisted on it.”
    At first it makes sense, given what Lenny said about her mom being the self-elected “welcoming committee” leader, but the way Brody says it sends my thoughts in a very different direction…
    “Please tell me you haven’t…”
    “God no.” He drags his hand through the pool and then flicks water in my face. “I just turned nineteen last month. You’ve got me hooking up with forty-something-year-old married women who have had way too much cosmetic surgery. Where do you get these ideas, anyway?”
    “Don’t know. Guess I’m stereotyping and being judgmental.” I shrug. “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”
    “No. I need to focus on making this chance count.” He glances at the guesthouse. “What about you? Did you leave some guy crying back in Arizona?”
    “Not even close. I had a boyfriend for almost a year. We broke up before I moved.”
    Why am I telling him this? He’ll use it later to make fun of me or call me a