Whatever Life Throws at You by Julie Cross Page B

around, and then presses his back against the only tree in my yard. “Can you check for paparazzi? How does my hair look in case they do get a photo?”
    I laugh and roll my eyes. “Are we running or what? It feels like your stalling?” I take off in a jog and Brody catches up with me right away. The swish of his track pants rubbing together creates a rhythm we can both move to without talking.
    “So what’s your definition of an easy five miles?” Brody asks after mile one. He sounds a tad winded, but it could be my imagination.
    “I don’t ever watch the clock when I run. Only after. But maybe seven and a half minute miles… Sometimes it’s probably closer to eight minutes.”
    He pulls his hat up just enough for me to see his eyes. “Can I request an eight minute day?”
    “Wimp.” I grin at him and then my eyes betray me, roaming over the length of his body. So much for solemnly swearing not to do that. To cover my slipup, I start tossing technical corrections at him. “Maybe if your shoulders weren’t all hunched up you could conserve some energy for your legs and lungs.”
    He grunts out a few choice words, but I see his shoulders drop.
    “You look good with a neck,” I say again and then regret the statement immediately. My face flames, and my gaze drops to the road in front of us.
    “If you say so.” Brody grins and falls into step with me, much less winded now. He’s probably one of those runners who needs a lot of warm-up to get comfortable. “You’re pretty into this running thing, aren’t you?”
    “Not like you and baseball,” I say.
    He’s quiet for several seconds then finally replies. “I think it’s exactly like me and baseball. Except maybe more like playing for my Triple-A team.”
    “Lower caliber, like I said.”
    He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just with Triple-A…my teammates were…”
    Nicer? Willing to shake your hand? “Were what?” I ask, afraid to admit to what I saw through the windows last night.
    “It’s hard baseball without the show,” he concludes, steering away from mentions of teammates. “Well, actually they do all kinds of weird crap for fans at minor league games, but our number one job is to play baseball.”
    “Isn’t that your job here?”
    “I don’t know,” he says, staring straight ahead, his expression shifting to what I know as the focused athlete face. “I’m just not sure anymore.”
    The awkward silence has finally arrived in time for the beginning of our third mile around the neighborhood. I concentrate on our steps and the sound of Brody’s swishing pants. Pretty soon sweat is dripping down my face, and I’m lifting my T-shirt to wipe it away. From the corner of my eye, I’m nearly positive I catch Brody checking out my stomach, but he looks away so fast I can’t be sure. And I’m not sure I’m ready to know that answer. I kick harder and increase the pace, despite it being an easy day. “Come on, superstar, let’s see if you can really keep up.”
    His response is instant, his steps matching mine. And for a little while, we stop being Annie, the coach’s daughter, and Brody, the new Royals pitcher. We have the same ability to leave our damaged outer shells behind and float through the streets as nothing more than two athletes.
    In less than thirty minutes, the pressure, the doubts and fears, the guilt of built-up lies and past mistakes will return full force, but for now, that weight is off.

pre-all-star
    Break

Chapter 8
    Lenny London: Good luck to my St. T gal pals—Annie Lucas and Jackie Stonington—who are running at sectionals today. In case you’re wondering, running is like driving only there’s more sweating and less sitting. I don’t recommend trying it if you haven’t already.
    2 hours ago
    “My dad’s not coming,” I say to Coach Kessler after tucking away my cell phone. “His flight got delayed in New York.”
    Coach K pats me on the shoulder. “It’s all right. You’ll