A Life of Inches Read Online Free Page B

ever daydreaming of it happening to the soundtrack of screams. Though, as I pull back to peck down her left cheek toward her neck, I can’t imagine a more perfect moment.
    Noticing that the screaming has stopped, we pull apart. Woodie is facing away, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath he takes.
    Molly rests on her elbows, looking about as flustered as I feel.
    I stand. “W-Woodie, you all right, man?”
    My attempt to gloss over the fact that I just kissed the girl Woodie drove to the park garners no response, so I add, “How’s your head? Looked like you clipped it.”
    “I’m fine.” His tone sounds anything but. “Just a bruise, is all. I should’ve made that freaking shot, man. I should’ve…” Woodie’s sentence ends in an aggravated growl.
    Before I can tell him the shot dropped through, Woodie walks toward his car. “Molly, let’s go. I need to get out of here. I cut my forehead open.”
    I can’t clear my head fast enough. He must realize she’s coming home with me, right? Maybe Molly and I will get dinner or at least some coffee. I’m sure she wants to talk about what happened as much as I do. Heck, forget talking about what happened. I want an instant replay.
    Molly brushes past me without looking, her head hanging low, and grabs Woodie’s hand.
    “I’ll call you,” Woodie whispers, low and raspy.
    They cross arms and head toward his car. Though I have spent just about every free moment I’ve had with these two, I begin to believe that I don’t know them at all.
    The rumble of Woodie’s truck echoes around the park. I can see Molly conversing with Woodie through the window. At first it looks like she’s arguing with him, but before they pull out, my friends hug. I fight back tears as they peel out without a goodbye.
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
    August 10, 1994
     
    “Woodie and Ryan are neck and neck.” My roommate Biff’s voice booms throughout our off-campus house as he announces a play-by-play, or sip-by-sip, account of the first drinking competition of the party.
    Tonight, I’ve crammed forty-five or so people into a house that hosts twenty comfortably, intending to party until the last man stands. Of course, we all know that man will be me.
    Biff continues his commentary. “These two baseball studs are representing their rival colleges with the title of biggest party school on the line. Will the crown pass to State or can Ryan renew the bragging rights here at Baldwin Green University. Each man has downed four beers and is now chugging the last can in the challenge.”
    Even after I blew the championship game, a team took a flyer on me in the 17th round of last year’s MLB draft. On the advice of my agent, I stayed in school, hoping to be picked higher in the future. To pass up the opportunity to join a minor league team when drafted low is a common occurrence, and while painful, my gut assures me it was the right move. In baseball years, I’m still just getting my feet wet on the mound.
    Biff continues, “As if synchronized, each man gulps his last sip of liquid gold. The last step to victory for Woodie and Ryan involves biting a chunk from each can and tossing the empties into the garbage. Since it’s full to the top, our contestants must implore strategic tossing techniques to avoid their can ricocheting.”
    My first can enters the basket dead center, sending droplets of cheap beer spraying onto posters of Sonic Youth and The Cure on the far wall. My second can sails about three inches wide left.
    A sonic boom of excitement or anger erupts from one of the partygoers from clear across my house. Woodie and I forget our little game, darting toward the noise.
    A guttural plea of desperation explodes from across the house. “Get out. Go. Go. Goooo .”
    Our only fear tonight revolves around cops busting the door down and earning us suspensions from our teams before the season even starts. Hustling into the dining room, I approach