It's a Prank: A Sweet YA Romance (Sweet Water High) Read online

  It’s a Prank: And Other Teenaged Mistakes

  Sweet Water High

  Lucy McConnell

  Orchard View Publishing LLC

  Copyright © 2019 by Lucy McConnell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Welcome to Sweet Water, NC

  It’s a Prank: And Other Teenaged Mistakes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Now Available from Bestselling and Award-Winning Author Lucy McConnell

  About the Author

  Welcome to Sweet Water, NC

  1 Town, 1 School, 12 Sweet Romances

  Book 1

  Misunderstanding the Billionaire’s Heir

  By Anne-Marie Meyer

  Book 2

  Crushing on My Brother’s Best Friend

  By Julia Keanini

  Book 3

  Kissing the Boy Next Door

  By Judy Corry

  Book 4

  Flirting with the Bad Boy

  By Michelle Pennington

  Book 5

  Chemistry of a Kiss

  By Kimberly Krey

  Book 6

  Falling for my Nemesis

  By Tia Souders

  Book 7

  Falling for My Best Friend

  By Victorine E. Lieske

  Book 8

  It’s a Prank

  By Lucy McConnell

  It’s a Prank: And Other Teenaged Mistakes

  Sweet Water High Romance

  When Summer Snow is told she’s on the cut list for softball tryouts, she’s desperate to fix her swing. Her fear of being the only senior cut this year lands her at the local batting cages, bartering her time for free batting practice. The owner isn’t willing to make the trade; but, his son, Gabe the hottie rich kid, is willing to help her out when his dad’s not looking—as long as she cleans the men’s bathroom. Ew! But, whatever. Anything to make the team.

  Even with a few nights in the cages, her swing’s not improving. Gabe’s sincere suggestions help and before she knows it, she’s daydreaming about the cute baseball player instead of the scholarship she's been working toward.

  A stolen first kiss at a party and she’s falling fast, but tryouts loom ahead of her. If she can’t keep her head in the game, Summer will end up watching, softball and Gabe, from the sidelines

  Chapter 1

  “Summer!”

  I threw my catcher’s mask into my gear bag and glanced up to find Coach Mackensie staring down at me. Her platinum blond hair was still slicked back into a neat ponytail, which was a huge contrast to the hair falling out of my braid and into my face. Catcher’s masks weren’t made for beauty queens. Small beads of sweat broke out on my hairline. Practice was over and I was less than fresh, but I knew what was on the hitting coach’s mind, and it wasn’t good. “Yeah?”

  Mackensie rolled a softball around in her hands as she stared at me. “Look. I shouldn’t say anything, but the other coaches have been talking …”

  Crap. I fumbled my grip on the zipper as it stopped suddenly and couldn’t go any farther.

  “Your swing has gone stale. If you can’t get it fixed by tryouts, we’re going to have to cut you.”

  We’d just started winter workouts in the basement of the high school to prep for tryouts in two weeks. With seventeen-foot ceilings and a lot of open space divided by nets, we could practice fielding grounders, pitching, and batting rotations. The place was something out of a horror movie with cement walls and support beams, bad lighting, and a cracked floor. It didn’t help that the far corner was a storage space for the theater department. The sets and props from the 1980s were piled up in heaps. The eyes on a Hello, Dolly! play board followed us as we ran the track to warm up, like a creepy stalker who made you shiver.

  And I loved this place. It smelled like an old sock and never quite got up to temperature, but it provided us the chance to practice when the weather was icky.

  This was my senior year. I wasn’t giving up my shot at a scholarship or the chance to take my team to a state championship without a fight, no matter what the coaches had been saying behind my back. “I’m the best catcher you’ve got—you know that.” I wanted that senior jersey with Snow across the back so bad I could smell the plastic bag it came in.

  “Every player has to contribute at the plate. You know that. That’s how we win championships.”

  I dropped my chin to my chest. The last softball championship Sweet Water High won was my sophomore year—not long enough ago that it was legend, but not close enough to skate by on. I’d caught two games in that tournament and earned the nickname Blond Wall because nothing got by me. “All right. I’ll meet you here whenever you want.”

  Coach Mackensie shook her head. “I can’t coach you outside of winter workouts—it’s against district rules.”

  I groaned. Stupid district advisors and their fear one girl would get an advantage over another. I get it. I do. It wouldn’t be objective for Coach Mackensie to spend more time on me than on some other girl, but still. “Can you give me some pointers now? I’ll do what I have to do.” I worked hard to keep the desperation out of my voice, but some might have leaked out.

  “You need time at the plate. You don’t get as much in practice as the other girls.”

  She was right. I spent most of my time catching bullpens for the pitchers. “Maybe Mazzie could throw for me.” Mazzie was my closest friend on the team. We’d played on all the same accelerated teams growing up. She hadn’t pitched since our freshman year when they’d put her at shortstop. We talked about going to the same college, wearing the same uniforms until we became coaches.

  Mackensie held up a hand. “She’ll set you up with easy pitches to make you look good. You need to get into the cages and work on your timing. A solid two weeks’ worth of practice would have you up to snuff.”

  “Timing. Got it.” Finally, something specific. “I can do timing.” I grinned and offered her a fist bump. She left first while I figured out why my zipper had snagged. My batting glove was caught in the teeth. I hoped that wasn’t a sign. I headed for the tunnel that would take me to the parking lot.

  Mazzie sent Tommie, one of the other pitchers, ahead and waiting for me at the door. She must have seen Coach pull me aside. Great. How many other players had seen our exchange? A fire of gossip could start from much less, especially with tryouts less than two weeks away. Girls were always trying to one-up each other, and getting in someone’s head could ruin their tryout.

  Mazzie pulled the rope that lifted the door high enough that we could duck under. It clattered loudly, making it impossible to hear one another. As the unholy noise died out, Mazzie brushed off her hands. “What is up with Coach?”

  I flipped my long braid over my shoulder. “She wants me to work on my swing.” Even with Mazzie, I couldn’t admit how precarious my position was on the team. I had two sist
ers who looked up to me—what would I tell them if I failed?

  I gritted my teeth. I would not fail.

  “I’m going to head over to the Park.” I checked the time on my phone. I was supposed to pick up my sisters after practice, but they wouldn’t be done until nine. “If I hustle, I can get a half hour in.”

  I’d put on a good face for Coach. That’s what you do. You tell Coach you got it, you’ll practice more, and you put your nose to the grindstone and make it happen. It’s what I’d done my whole life. But there was only so far that hard work and determination could take me. The problem was, the only indoor cages in town were at Home Run Park—the arcade, mini golf, and batting cages set up to entertain tourists.

  The locals like going too. My family had gone several times—before Dad decided family life was boring and left to find adventure beyond his three daughters and adoring wife.

  Needless to say, he wasn’t my favorite person.

  My problem right now wasn’t my absent father; it was that batting cost money, and that was one thing we Snows were constantly short on. Mom did great paying the bills, and Dad was good about paying for softball gear for me and my sisters, along with the occasional camp or tournament fee. Two weeks of extra practice at the Park? Not in the budget.

  Addison pulled her shoulders up to her ears and grinned. “You sure you can practice there? Gabe closes up every night.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Pa-lease. Like some pretty-boy ball player is going to turn my head. Besides, he’s too much of a snob to talk to the likes of me.”

  Gabe Washington and I didn’t run in the same circles, yet I was always aware of him in a way that drove me insane. I’d walk into a classroom on the first day of school and—like I had some sort of Gabe radar—I’d pinpoint him sitting near the back of the class with his baseball buddies. The same thing happened in the cafeteria, at a pep rally, or an assembly. I couldn’t get rid of the guy. He was in my honors English class, college-level history and chemistry, and regular math. It didn’t help that the softball and baseball teams traveled together to away games, either. The bus ride put us in smaller quarters and made it all that much easier for my Gabe-dar to find him.

  You’d think, after being shoved into so many situations together and having so much in common, that we’d eventually speak to one another. But we didn’t. He never so much as looked my direction. His family had money coming out their ears, and mine had regular old earwax—we weren’t meant to mingle.

  Maybe I could cut a deal with Gabe’s dad and trade time for time. He seemed like a good guy, always volunteering with the baseball team and sponsoring both the softball and baseball teams each year. I’d heard him say he loved nurturing young athletes to be all they could be. Either that was a load of rich people bull-garbage, or he would be willing to work with me on this. I hated that my fate rested in his gold fingers. Ugh. Maybe I should have made a point of being Gabe’s friend. He definitely had perks.

  I threw my bag into the back of my ancient vehicle, noted the rust that fell from the back bumper to the pavement as I slammed the trunk, and dug my jacket out of the back seat. The weatherman had promised we’d have a spring full of sunny days within the week. I hoped he was right.

  Mazzie opened the driver’s side door to her mom’s van. Her family sank everything they had into pitching lessons for Mazzie, so she rode in my death trap or borrowed her mom’s car to get to practice. “If anyone can withstand Gabe’s hotness, it’s you.”

  “Aw.” I cocked a hip and tipped my head. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “I only speak truth.” She held up the live-long-and-prosper sign. “I gotta go. I still need to find another source for that English essay.”

  I waved goodbye and ducked into my car, feeling the rip in the seat grab at my pant leg. One of these days, the seat would win our little tug-of-war and I’d end up giving the world a nice view of my hot-pink underwear. I checked the dash clock as I prayed for the engine to chug to life. I had to finish my essay too, but first, I needed to get in good with the teams’ biggest sponsor.

  Chapter 2

  The Homerun Park parking lot was dark and almost empty. February wasn’t a big time for tourists, so they had limited hours. I recognized Gabe’s truck next to a Jag. His family drove beautiful, shiny, big-engine cars. I found a spot as far away from theirs as I could get—just in case rust was contagious.

  I was pushing it by getting there so late, but my car couldn’t go faster than 40 miles per hour. Sometimes I wonder if my mom bought a car with a speed cap on purpose. She worked a lot and didn’t have time to monitor things like my driving skills. Since I was the firstborn, I swear every move I made toward adulthood was scary for her.

  Speaking of scary, the atmosphere inside the Park’s arcade was so tense I could have bludgeoned it with a bat. My Gabe-dar kicked on and I found Gabe and his dad standing behind the counter, their faces red. They must not have heard me come in, because neither backed down to welcome the customer.

  They looked so much alike that they were like Gabe and future Gabe locked in a battle of wills. Both had wavy brown hair and brown eyes with olive skin. Their jaws were hard—chiseled with determination. Mr. Washington wasn’t as broad in the shoulders as Gabe, and he had a little bit of a belly, while Gabe’s stomach was washboard ready. Not that I’d checked out his abs. It just so happened that guys tended to take their shirts off after a big game and I had been in the general area once or twice.

  Mr. Washington had his hands on his hips and his nostrils flared. “You need to get your head on straight.”

  “I’m doing fine. I just want to get off early.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like being grown-up.”

  “How can I not? You won’t stop yelling at me about it.”

  “Gabe!”

  Okay, clearly this was not the time to ask for a favor. I stepped backward, blindly reaching for the door with my right hand. I couldn’t take my eyes off the two of them fighting—it was like watching a train wreck, horrible but fascinating.

  Instead of the door handle, I whacked a display of children’s sunglasses and knocked the whole thing over. The glasses clattered to the ground and the tube made a hollow boom that went through me like a nuclear blast. I dropped to my knees, my face burning in humiliation. In my defense, it was made of cardboard.

  “Let me help,” said Mr. Washington as he crouched beside me. He must have run around the counter while I was dying of mortification and unaware of my surroundings.

  “I’m so sorry.” I picked up a pair with lime-green frames and then another with yellow.

  “It’s all right. We’ll get it cleaned up in no time.” His voice was calm, nice even. My heart rate began to slow down. “You’re Summer, right? You play catcher for the Pride.” He talked as we cleaned up. He really was good at his job. The cardboard tube was upright and he filled it with glasses, putting them in according to colors so they looked like an all-seeing rainbow.

  “Yeah.” I tucked some stray hair behind my ear and glanced over my shoulder at Gabe. He had his head down over a math book, his pencil poised above a sheet of lined paper. If I was going to ask, this was the time. “Tryouts are coming up, and I was hoping to get some extra hitting practice in tonight.”

  “I think we can squeeze you in.” He smiled at his dad joke. “It’s fifteen dollars for an hour. Gabe can ring you up.” He stood, and I followed, still holding the green and yellow glasses in my hands. My average-level math brain added up two weeks of daily practice pretty quick, and my wallet chirped in that it wasn’t holding the $150 necessary.

  “Um, see the thing is, I was hoping maybe I could work a trade of some sort.”

  “Trade?” His face clouded over as if he’d never heard the word before.

  Heaven help me, I was going to have to explain the barter system my family pretty much operated on to survive to a rich man with his stuck-up son listening in. Mortification was a small price to pay for makin
g the team. My whole future was riding on this. I had to sell my idea or go down swinging. Although, I’d rather not strike out—ever again! The whole point of this was to get my swing back.

  “I can work here in exchange for the time in the cages.” I glanced down at the glasses in my hand and added them to the display. I stepped back to admire my work and realized that I’d put the green glasses in the pink line and the yellow ones in the blue. I stepped in front of the display to hide my error. “Or if you need a babysitter or something, I can make that happen.”

  His lips twitched. “I’m tempted to take you up on the babysitting. Gabe doesn’t understand the need to finish a shift, and I can’t stick around to make sure he keeps the place open.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he glared at his son.

  I tried not to look at Gabe. I mean, who wants a witness when their parent is calling them out? But my eyes have a mind of their own when he’s in the room, and they zeroed in on him. He kept his head down, his pencil gouging into the paper.

  “I didn’t mean Gabe. If you have younger kids …” I trailed off, grabbing the end of my braid and twirling it around my fingers. It wasn’t until I stopped talking that I remembered Gabe was the youngest in his family. Stupid. “Anyway, I’m a hard worker and catch on quickly.”

  Mr. Washington shook his head. “I’m sorry. As a sponsor for the team, I can’t give preferential treatment to any player. Even Gabe’s friends have to pay when they come in.”