Hangovers sucked. Especially this one. I couldn't remember ever having such a raging full-body hangover, and I blamed Cameron Shaw. Instead of letting me rot in silence and darkness, he dragged me to his little pee-wee baseball practice, forced me to suffer the far-too-bright late morning sun, and made it even more difficult to hate him. Who in their right mind volunteered to teach a bunch of unathletic ten-year-olds about baseball? And an hour from where he lived, no less? Just thinking about it gave me a splitting headache.

I already knew I should have been grateful that he saved me from getting in a car with Kelly. But to take me to his childhood home, give me his bed, and buy me lunch? Hating him was impossible now. Especially since he had agreed to coach me.

An embarrassing warmth flooded my chest at the thought. I may as well have been one of those kids at my game that night. Exhausted. Head pounding. Not a second of playtime, as predicted. Even if I had managed to put on a glove, I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't drop every ball that came my way.

That was nothing new. I could handle not playing. What really got me this time was that my parents dragged themselves and my four younger siblings to the game, something they rarely did, just to watch me sit in the dugout. Because carting four kids under the age of twelve anywhere was a battle nobody wanted to fight unless they had to. I would know. I purposefully failed my driver's license exam twice just to put off chauffeuring my gremlin siblings around for as long as possible.

Now that I was at SHU, I finally had a taste of what freedom was, even if I was just on the other side of the city. I was on my own, living life without responsibility for anyone but myself. But that still meant going home every Sunday and braving family dinner.

It took a grand total of thirty seconds after I stepped foot in the door for my mom to tell me she needed help. So now, I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing green crayon wax off the walls in the dining room, still hungover enough that my arms felt like spaghetti noodles.

I tried not to think about the fact that the crayon was the same shade of green as Cameron's eyes. That he had looked at me with that tender gaze like I was the only person in the world. I couldn't think about that anymore. Not if I wanted him to coach me. The shameless flirting and teasing just to get under his skin had to stop. If there was one thing in my life that I took more seriously than anything else, it was softball.

The crayon marks were only half-removed when my mom called us for dinner. The Young family—all seven of us—were crammed around the dining room table, which my ten-year-old sister, Joy, made sure I knew was my fault.

"We don't have to squeeze when you're not here," she said, as if the metal folding chair I'd been stuffed into at the corner of the table didn't make it obvious enough. That chair had been my seat for the last four months, since the one I had before I moved out broke, and the remaining family members decided to redistribute instead of replacing it. Like I was never here.

I glared at my sister from the corner of my eye, because snapping back in front of our parents was on par with digging my own grave. I'd held that shovel too many times to know better. Usually, the result of stating that it wasn't my fault that Justine and Hank Young had so many kids. In my humble opinion, I would have stopped after the first one. I was great as an only child. Perfect, even. And then they had to ruin a good thing by having Nathan when I was ten years old. For reasons unknown to me, they intentionally repeated their mistake three more times.

"At least she doesn't bring that weirdo home anymore," Nathan said. Big talk for someone who became my first ever competition when he knocked me off my favorite child pedestal before he even knew he had hands.

Our dad, calmly but with the threat of a lifetime constantly burning behind his eyes, said, "We are not discussing Norah's ex-boyfriends at the dinner table."

Hank glanced at me, like I should have been grateful for his coming to my rescue. I pressed my lips together, a half-hearted attempt at faking gratitude. He didn't seem to notice that he said "boyfriends," plural. A reminder that I'd messed up with more than one boy. Especially the last one, whom my parents had not been fond of from the start.

I barely got a word in the entire meal. I never did with my family. There was always something more important to tend to, like trying to get my five-year-old brother, the baby of the family, to eat his vegetables.

Dishes don't do themselves, as Mom always said. So while the rest of my siblings wandered off to their bedrooms or wherever they went to avoid chores, I cleaned up dinner with my mom.

After twelve years of being Mom's "helper," as she called it when Nathan was born, we had a system down. I cleared the table while she put away food. I washed dishes and she dried them. This was our time to talk, just the two of us. No interruptions, because the little kids didn't want to be a part of chores if they didn't have to be. This was Norah and Mom time.

"Thanks for coming to my game yesterday," I said over the running faucet as I scrubbed off bits of hardening food from a bowl.

Justine smiled at me, warm and genuine. Motherly. That was why I put up with everything. Because, for at least a little bit of time, my mom was mine, and no one else's.

"We were bummed you didn't get to play," she said, taking a towel to the bowl I had just washed. "Maybe next time you won't be so hungover."

I paused, and I felt my mother's eyes burning a hole through my head. Damn it.

"It wasn't that bad," I muttered. My mom clicked her tongue.

"You were pale as a ghost and looked like you were about to puke in the dugout."

Lacking a decent defense, I pressed my lips together. She was right, but not about the notion that my hangover was the reason for not playing. It was April, and we were about to head into the playoffs to get to the Women's College World Series. If I hadn't played all season, I definitely wasn't going to play in our upcoming games. That could all change next year, though, with Cameron's help.

"I actually got a private coach," I said, hoping she wouldn't recognize the heat creeping up my neck or the smile on my face. "You know, to help get me to a place where I can play again."

Mom hummed. A telltale sign that she heard, but didn't want to admit that she didn't get the hype about softball. "I don't see why your coach can't just put you in. You played all the time in high school and at your community college."

"Saint Helena is on a completely different level, Mom. They're Division I, the highest level you can get in collegiate sports. They have the best of the best. Some players even go pro."

Mom's forehead wrinkled, and she wiped at a fork as if it refused to dry. "You promised to go to SHU for a degree first and play softball second. This coach isn't going to interfere with your classwork, right?"

I clenched my jaw, regretting bringing it up in the first place. At least she hadn't seen the video making its rounds on the internet of me taking three consecutive shots. I'd never hear the end of it.

"No," I said, my eyes falling to the sink. This conversation alone was enough to bring back my nausea.

Mom hummed again, a grating noise against my ears now. A reminder that even though she cheered for me on the bleachers, she didn't mean it with her whole heart. I heard the words she didn't say: "A woman can't make a living off of swinging a bat." Because, to my parents and the rest of the world, men's sports were the only lucrative way for an athlete to succeed. All the money was in men's sports.

It wasn't that I thought I could go pro eventually. Hell, I couldn't even get off the bench. It was the constant reminder that, even if I were good enough, it would never be good enough for my parents.

The amount of dishes in the sink seemed to double before my eyes, and I couldn't wait for them to be gone so I could leave. My home wasn't my home anymore. It hadn't been for a long time, but I wasn't sure when that shift happened; if it was the day I moved into SHU, or when I became an older sister.

I couldn't get back to SHU fast enough. It was only half a city away, but it may as well have been on the other side of the world. Two halves of the same whole, where Norah Young barely existed.

— — —

The next day, I was sitting in a lecture hall. I would have much rather been holed up in my dorm room for the day until softball practice, but alas, my mother's words rang in my ears like a squawking parrot. On repeat, nonstop, twenty-four-seven.

Learning before softball. Learning before softball. Learning before softball.

Just because I was present didn't mean I had to pay attention. I eyed one particular spot on the ceiling that was eerily beginning to resemble a softball diamond. I ran through imaginary plays on the field while my Classic Literature professor droned on. I wasn't quite sure about what. Probably something Shakespeare-related, considering that was the book I had open in front of me.

The Complete Works of Shakespeare: Volume III. The bane of my existence. I didn't understand a majority of the words in that book. It all read like an Elizabethan-era jumbled mess. I had no idea what the hell I was doing in this class, but for some reason, it was required for my sports management major. Something about getting a well-rounded education, as if whoever designed the curriculum wanted to watch athletes suffer.

Athletes and literature were not exclusive, but I certainly had a preference for one over the other.

Even though Shakespeare turned my brain to mush, I had to admit that it was starting to grow on me. It was here, something to prove to myself and everyone else that I could do. Usually, at least, when I wasn't still suffering from my hangover headache, which seemed to intensify with every "thou" and "hath" I read.

If this hangover ever left me, I swore I was never going to touch another ounce of liquor again. I felt so sick at the thought of throwing back another shot that I barely heard the professor's dismissal at the end of class. As people shuffled around me, scooting their chairs against the floor and rustling their backpacks on their shoulders, I turned to the person next to me, my partner in crime for this overly confusing class, my first friend from SHU. Hao.

"Riveting stuff," I said, closing my book. Hao smiled at me, the way he always did. He was a warm person with a smile that lit up his face and made me feel like he actually cared about me as a friend, but his smile never changed. He made everyone feel like they were his best friend at first sight, and it made me wonder if he was just naturally that inviting or if he kept everyone at arm's length with the illusion of closeness.

"I did not understand a word of that," he said. "Did you?"

I gave him a lazy shrug. I could have understood it if I didn't still have a persistent thrum behind my eyes. But Hao didn't need classic literature. Not when he was practically destined for the MLB draft in a few months. His one-way ticket to the Majors.

I shoved my book into my duffel bag next to my practice cleats, and we walked out of class together. We didn't make it far before another classmate stopped us.

I recognized the guy as one of the many English majors in that class, but I didn't know his name. He was shorter than both Hao and I, which probably made us look like giants. He was scrawny, clearly not an athlete. I noticed a piece of paper and a pen in his fidgety hands.

"Sorry to bother you," the guy said. He avoided eye contact with Hao like he was nervous, but he avoided me like I wasn't there. "I've been trying to get up the courage to ask you this all semester. My dad was in the crowd at the College World Series when you won two years ago with Javier Hernandez. He gave me this scorecard he kept. It's stupid, but since we're in the same class, and you're going pro this summer, would you... Would you mind signing it for him?"

I watched with downturned eyes as Hao showed that smile again and agreed. The guy's face lit up like outfield lights at a night game as Hao took the card, signed it, and handed it back with a "Thank you." Our nameless classmate left as quickly as he appeared.

"Does that happen often?" I asked, turning to Hao to see that his cheeks had turned a rosy red. He shrank in on himself as if he wasn't the tallest person on campus.

"Only sometimes," he said, his voice a sheepish whisper.

I nodded in understanding, but also perhaps with a twinge of jealousy. It was common knowledge that Hao came to SHU four years ago with the intention of playing to get into the Major League. He was the golden boy on the golden team. The university's pride and joy. So much so that he was on just about every poster, pamphlet, and flyer that came out of SHU. I had yet to see anyone from the softball team on one, but that wasn't Hao's fault. He was just the most visible person, the easiest way to attract attention. The Taiwanese-born giant who came to the States to play at a Division I school was a story that sold itself. A regular sports fairytale.

"Don't let him know you had one whole beer last weekend," I said with mock caution. "He might rip up that scorecard."

Hao's laughter blended in with the squeal of the door opening as we stepped outside into the glaring afternoon sunlight.

"At least I did not empty a bottle of tequila."

My brain pulsed at the thought.

"It was vodka, and I did not empty the bottle. I simply... helped."

Hao hummed and smiled again. He practically beamed from ear to ear, which wasn't uncommon for him, but he'd been doing it the entire time we'd been walking.

"You're chipper today," I said. His smile only grew to prove my point.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. You're just happier than usual. I mean, you thanked that guy for stopping you outside class. And you haven't stopped smiling since he left."

The corners of Hao's lips curled down the slightest bit, like he'd only now realized he was smiling.

"I am just happy that I did not get caught drinking," Hao said.

"Like it matters. Nobody cares, anyway."

Hao sucked in a breath.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"I have heard that the softball coach is a little more strict about those things."

I waved him off. I'd been out partying plenty of times in my first year at SHU, and nobody ever said anything. My teammates treated the no-drinking rule more like a suggestion than anything else.

"It's done and over. Not a big deal. We both still won our games the next day."

Hao raised questioning eyebrows at me. I ignored him and we walked together until we reached the athletic park with the baseball and softball fields.

"Good luck," Hao said, his grin as strong as ever as he walked away.

I'd said it before, and I would say it again. The rule about athletes not drinking was an antiquated one. Nobody actually followed through on punishment. I was about to walk into practice with only the slight remnants of a hangover, and I was ready to put the weekend behind me. To forget everything and focus on what mattered: softball.

The softball field was holy ground to me. As soon as I stepped foot on that patch of dirt, I was home. There were no outside worries like families or green eyes to cloud my mind. Once the cleats went on, my mind turned off everything except the game.

Even if my coach did manage to find out what I'd been up to, what was the worst she could do? Talk to me? I could handle being talked at. I'd sat through enough Hank Young lectures to know how to nod and apologize my way through. All I had to do was put on my apologetic face, say a few words about how I regretted what I did, and put that awful weekend behind me once and for all.

— — —

Community. Fucking. Service.

I stared at my coach, my mouth dropped open wide enough that a fly would think it was a cavern if it buzzed by at the right time. So this was the worst she could do. She couldn't bench someone whose ass was already glued there, so this must have been the next best option in her mind.

"I didn't do anything illegal," I told my coach, who couldn't seem less interested in my explanation. "It wasn't even that big of a deal, I swear."

"Save it, Norah," Coach Riley said. "You drank. Breaking the rules has consequences."

"But the whole baseball team was there," I said, fighting to keep the panic in my voice at bay, and then instantly regretted ratting on every baseball player.

"I'm not their coach, and the whole baseball team wasn't stupid enough to get in a car with a drunk driver."

"I didn't—"

Kelly. Abandoning me in Cameron's arms wasn't enough for her. She had to hitch a ride with someone else just as drunk as she was.

I'd never been angrier at her than I was right now. She jeopardized both of us just so she could continue doing what she wanted. She could have left with me and Cameron, stayed with me to make sure the man she dumped me on wasn't a creep. Her carelessness made it seem like I was guilty by association when I was passed out in a sober guy's bed.

Still not a great look, but at least I wasn't behind the wheel of a car.

"I didn't drive drunk," I said. "Someone else took me home."

"But you went with her, and there is a very convincing video circulating of you taking more than enough shots. I'm not going to sweep this under the rug like everyone else does. I brought you to SHU to play on this team, not to party on a game weekend. Do you have any idea how serious a DUI is?"

I sighed in defeat, and my shoulders fell. Of course, I knew. I wasn't stupid. I'd heard the horror stories. That was exactly why I trusted Kelly to get me home safe.

"I called the Hometown Nursing Center," Coach Riley continued. "They're short-staffed right now, so you have graciously volunteered your time to help them out until the end of the semester."

A retirement home? My lips parted, but she stopped me before I could protest.

"Graciously," she said, then turned her attention back to her clipboard. "If you can drink there, you can work there. Now gear up and get ready. Practice starts in three minutes."

I slumped back over to where Kelly was tying up her cleats. The scowl on her face told me to stand down, but I couldn't stop the frown on my own lips from growing. We had hardly said a word to each other in two days. I hadn't considered asking her how she got home because I was too upset about her abandoning me. Now I wasn't just upset; I was pissed off.

During practice, I took my frustrations out with a bat in my hand. Unsuccessfully, I might add, considering that every pitch sent my way during batting practice went straight into the net behind me.

I stepped out from in front of the pitching machine to gather myself without softballs flying at my head. I adjusted my helmet, kicked at the dirt to level out my mind, and stepped back into position. I took my stance, tapped the end of my bat against my cleats three times. A ritual for every at-bat, even during practice. I didn't know why I did it that way, or why it had to be three times. It just felt right.

I'd always thought that calling softball slow-pitch was misleading. The balls didn't travel at one-hundred-plus miles per hour like they did in baseball, but calling it slow-pitch made it sound easy. On the contrary, it was anything but easy. Playing softball was like comprehending Shakespeare: it took practice, and that was why I loved it.

The machine spit out the next pitch. It moved with more precision than it would have if it came from a pitcher, which meant that I could hit it more easily.

Regardless, I swung and missed. Then the second ball came, and I missed again. It wasn't until the third ball came that I made contact and sent it flying until it caught in the net around me and fell to the ground.

Despite the contact, my face burned and my gut clenched. That was why I rarely ever played. My bat hadn't connected with a ball during a game in ages. God knew I tried, but something about facing some of the best pitchers in softball threw off my swing. I'd never been a consistent hitter, but when I made a hit, I was strong. Powerful. Nobody could knock it as far as I could. I just couldn't get out of my own head long enough to hit one.

My coaching sessions with Cameron couldn't start fast enough. If I could nail down my swing, I had a real shot at making the starting lineup next year. I could find my home on the field again. Be somebody other than a bench warmer. I could be Norah. Everyone would know my face and name, regardless of whether they'd met me or not. Even the baseball assistant.