“This season is going to be so much fun with you coming to the games. The parents are nice and all, but I enjoy some younger company.” Mama G nudges my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. “You don’t talk about things like hip replacements and hemorrhoids.”
“Hemorrhoids?” I quiver. “Have some of the parents really talked about that?”
“Oh yeah, it’s retched.” She shivers. “But now I have a girlfriend I can watch the games with.”
Hannigan strikes out the batter, gathering a big cheer from the fans, while the boys jog off the field. Knox ducks into the dugout and then quickly reappears with his bat, batting gloves, and helmet. With every pull of his batting gloves on his hands, his forearms ripple, and his jersey emphasizes his strong shoulder blades, and pulls on the front revealing his prominent pecs.
Yup, a huge fan of baseball.
“Let’s go, Knox,” Mama G yells, startling me in my chair. She chuckles and clutches my hand with hers. “Sorry about that, dear, I have a bit of a megaphone mouth. You’ll get used to it.”
“It’s okay, I’m ready for everything now.”
The catcher throws the ball down to second as Knox steps up to the batter’s box. He stares at his bat for a few beats, then looks over at Coach Disik who does some fancy signaling with his hands, finishing it off with a clap. Large paw to the top of his helmet, Knox takes one step into the batter’s box, swings his bat around, and then sets up for the pitch.
“Does he always bat first?” I ask.
“Yes. In high school, he dabbled as the second hitter, but because he’s a contact hitter and has incredible speed, he’s usually number one.”
The first pitch is thrown and it’s high. Knox holds back.
“That’s it, Knox, let him pitch to you. Don’t hit that crap.”
I hold back the chuckle that wants to pop out. She’s so serious, I love it.
Knox resets and waits for the next pitch. I’m holding Mama G’s hand. It’s a game that doesn’t matter, but as Knox said, to Mama G it means everything.
The pitcher winds up his arm, delivers the pitch, and Knox swings, connecting with the ball and sending it into right center. Like a bolt of lightning, he’s out of the box and rounding first. Mama G is bouncing up and down and cheering as the rest of the crowd erupts as well. He hits second but doesn’t stop, instead, he flies to third as the ball is being thrown into the infield. I hold my breath, the play close as Knox slides into third and the third baseman delivers the tag.
Bent into position, the umpire waves his arms out to the side, calling safe. I jump out of my seat, screaming and clapping with Mama G.
“That’s my boy,” she calls out.
“Good job, Knox,” I say, feeling slightly out of place, but wanting to cheer him on. Either he doesn’t hear me or he’s really good at staying focused, because he doesn’t acknowledge my cheer. It doesn’t matter. Watching him in his element, seeing how intensely inserted into the game he is amazes me.
Holt steps up to the plate and instead of patting his helmet while he gets into the batter’s box, he holds it up to the umpire while slowly bringing his bat up to his shoulder after Coach Disik does his dance of hands.
“Oh, I think they’re going to squeeze.”
“Squeeze? What does that mean?”
Whispering, Mama G says, “That’s when Knox runs on the pitch and Holt bunt’s the ball, squeezing Knox in across the plate.”
“What if he doesn’t bunt the ball? Whatever that means?”
“Then Knox will be caught at home. That’s why it’s imperative Holt gets the bunt down.”
Sitting taller in her chair and a little more forward, she watches on bated breath as the pitcher winds up and just when he starts to release the ball, Knox takes off from third and sprints toward home.
“Ah, he’s going for it.”
The opposing team screams “squeeze” just as Holt lays down the bunt and knocks the ball toward the first baseman. The other team has no chance at getting an out as both Holt and Knox are lightning fast. Knox dives head first into home only to pop up and jog toward the dugout . . . but not before looking up at me in the stands and giving me a wink.
I swear to the Lord Himself, I nearly faint.
Feeling wobbly, I take a seat, unable to believe just how sexy this entire sport is. Diving men, rippling muscles, the element of surprise. How have I never spent any time watching baseball before?
Maybe because I wasn’t personally invested in it until recently. Now that my boyfriend plays, I’m already starting to work out ways to clear my schedule so I’m at every home game.
“Oh bless my romantic heart,” Mama G coos. “He winked at you.”
“He did, didn’t he?”
“He really did.” Mama G snuggles in closer, and I feel a sense of euphoria wash over me. I love everything about this: the feeling I get seeing my man play, Mama G at my side, the tight pants . . . it’s perfect. “I can feel it, this is going to be the best season, yet. The perfect way to end his college career and go on to the big leagues.”
Errr . . . what?
End his college career? As in . . . not this year, right?
“You mean, next year,” I say. I’m surprised she’s confused. My mind’s in overdrive right now too.
“No, this year.”
What? Not wanting to put Mama G on the spot, but needing some clarification, I say, “Oh yeah, this year . . .” What has Knox not told me?
“You know, when Knox told me he was entering the draft after his junior year, I was a little apprehensive because I really want him to finish his degree. But after his talk with Coach Disik, I can see this is the best move for him.”
What is she talking about?
I’ve just been sucker-punched in the stomach by Mama G—like a hit and run—but the culprit sits in the dugout twenty feet away.
Knox is entering the draft after this semester? Was he planning on telling me that at any point in time? What does the draft even entail? Does that mean any team could pick him up? What does that mean for us? I have at least three more years at Brentwood until I earn my master’s in library science, so there’s no way I can move around to wherever he’ll be.
Not wanting to make Mama G feel bad for completely dropping a bomb on me, I play it cool, needing a little more information. “Yeah, it’s such a huge opportunity for him. Do you know who might be interested in him right now?”
“Well, Coach Disik was saying Arizona, Miami, and the Bobcats, of course, but that last one is a long shot.”
Arizona?
Miami?
Those are so far away. A plane-ride away. Too far to comprehend at this moment.
“Wow, that’s amazing.” I swallow hard, my throat growing tight on me. He’s leaving? He’s pursued me . . . but he’s leaving? Surely, I must have this wrong, but Mama G just knocked all the air and hope right out of my lungs, leaving me with a sickening stomach ache and a bruised heart.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this? The man I think I love is leaving . . .
Chapter Twenty-Seven
KNOX
“Not bad boys, not bad,” I say, towel wrapped around my waist as I quickly dry off with another and slip on some boxer briefs. “That’s a great start to the pre-season.”
We ended up annihilating Riverbend eleven to one. After the sixth inning, Coach pulled all the starters and gave the second-string some playing time. Sitting in the dugout, watching the underclassmen perform just as well as us gave me a sense of excitement for the season. We have a solid group of guys with real talent. Even Farkle stopped prancing across the diamond. Riverbend isn’t an easy team, so I couldn’t be more excited about our victory, despite it meaning nothing.
Carson sits next to me, pulling on pants as he says, “I have plans tonight and they consist of me lounging in my bed, a plate of your mom’s brownies on my chest, and watching Downton Abbey.”
I stare at him blankly.
“What?” He shrugs.
“I don’t have a girl to go home to after the game like you and Holt, so I’m shacking up with brownies, unless”—he wiggles his eyebrows—“your mom is looking for a young stallion to keep her warm tonight.”
It’s not the first time Carson has joked about wanting to hook up with my mom, it’s been an ongoing joke since freshman year, but with every year that passes, it’s almost like he grows more and more serious about it.
I know he’d never make a move, but if he ever did, I would murder his penis. I would stick that thing so far in a meat grinder, he wouldn’t know I was serving up his own dick in a sausage casing until it was shoved halfway down his throat by me.
“Stay the fuck away from my mom.”
He laughs, knowing that shit pisses me off.
“Are you meeting up with Em?” Holt asks, tying up his shoes.
“Yeah, I think we’re going out to The Hot Spot with my mom.”
“Hey.” Carson slaps my leg. “Want to turn that third wheel into a double date?”
“Fuck off, man.”
“Come on.” He stands and pulls his shirt from the hanger in his locker. “I would be a really good daddy to you.”
Holt mutters, “I would pay good money to see that.”
“So would I,” Turbo, our centerfielder, chimes in.
“Me too,” Brock says from his locker.
I motion to the room, pointing to all of them. “Fuck off, all of you.”
They laugh in unison, and I can’t be too mad if it brings the team together . . . me being uncomfortable.
“Hey cap,” Brock calls out, letting the room die down before he asks his question.
“What’s up?” Pants now on, I do quick work of my shirt and shoes.
“About the locker room rules, as freshmen, are we allowed to bring someone back here?”
Oh Jesus, this bullshit again.
“No,” Carson answers for me. “Only upperclassmen. You’re a fucking baby, how do you even know what a vagina is?”
“I know better than you this year.”
“Ooo,” the team laughs and chants.
“Because I have standards, you motherfucker. I’m not about to fuck any willing pussy that throws itself at me. And the locker room isn’t a place for hookups. It’s sacred.” Carson steps on his “soapbox” and gives a warning to all the guys in the room. “There are only two upperclassmen on this team with serious relationships: Holt and Knox. They’re the only two permitted to bring girls back here.”
“Not interested,” I say, while slipping my jacket on.
“What?” Brock calls out. “I thought you and Ealson are serious.”
“We are,” I answer as the entire team listens in. “But I don’t need some stupid legend to confirm what I already know: she’s the girl for me.”
I pocket my loose items and give Holt and Carson knuckles before taking off. I told my mom and Emory to meet me outside the locker room so we can go to dinner. Normally I stay completely focused during the game, but for the life of me, knowing Emory was in the stands with my mom, I couldn’t refrain from glancing over in their direction on occasion during the beginning of the game. Loved finding the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen shining back at me.
I had one of my best games of my career, going three for three with two RBIs, a stolen base, and a stellar glove at shortstop. Having Emory there felt right, exactly how it’s supposed to be. Her confidence in me. Her cheers. It wasn’t a distraction but something that gave me strength.
When I push through the doors of the locker room, I quickly scan the hallway—thankfully only athletes and family members are allowed in this part of the stadium—and spot my mom in all her shiny glory, but no Emory. Huh, that’s strange.
Maybe she’s in the bathroom.
“There he is, Mr. Triple.” My mom pulls me into a hug and squeezes me tightly. “You were amazing out there today.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I pull her away and look around. “Where’s Em, is she in the bathroom?”
“Oh no, she left in the fourth inning.”
“What? Really?” How didn’t I notice? Maybe because at that point I chastised myself for looking in the stands too much and stopped, refocusing on the game. “Why?”
“She felt a migraine coming on. She told me she gets them on occasion.”
“She does.” I start to worry, remembering how bad her migraine was last time. “Was she sick? Do you know if she got home okay?”
My mom nods. “Yes, her friend Dottie came to pick her up. Lovely girl.”
“Okay.” I chew on the side of my cheek, wondering what I should do.
My mom presses her hand against my arm, pulling my attention back to her. “It’s okay if you want to go check on her, Knox.”
“But we had dinner plans,” I say as I start moving toward the parking lot.
“We can reschedule. It’s fine. I’m quite tired from all the cheering anyway. Go check on Emory.”
I lean down and kiss my mom on the forehead. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate it and hey, thanks for sitting next to Em, it was great seeing you two in the stands together.”
“I adore her.” She holds her hands to her heart and then something flashes over her eyes, changing her expression from content to slightly concerned. “Before you go, I think you should know we talked about you entering the draft today, she seemed to have some—”
“You what?” My stomach falls to the floor.
“I mentioned this being your last year.”
“Mom,” I groan, pressing my hands to my head. “Fuck, why did you say that?”
“Well, I don’t know. I thought it was public knowledge since there are articles written up everywhere speculating about who’s going to draft you. You didn’t tell her?”
“No. I didn’t. I was, shit, Mom. I was trying to find the right time to tell her. It’s been a slow process, getting her to date me, to trust me, and I was going to tell her this week, after you left.”
She cringes. “I’m sorry, honey. I really thought she knew.”
“What did she say? Was she mad? Is that why she left in the fourth?”
She shakes her head. “No, she said she had a migraine coming. Would she lie about that?”
“I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “Maybe, if your boyfriend’s mom tells you he’s leaving after this semester to God knows where. Jesus, Mom.”
“Oh dear. I really feel like a boob. I didn’t mean to let the cat out of the bag.”
I sigh, hating that I’m making my mom feel bad. Letting out my frustration, I pull my mom into a hug and say, “I know, and I’m sorry for getting angry, but I’ve worried that Em’s had one foot out the door, ready to bolt at any time. I told you a bit about her past relationship, but he cheated on her, and it took a while to convince her that I wasn’t him. That she deserved much, much more than that. That I’d never be anything but honest with her. And this . . .” Fuck. Em. I have no idea how she’s going to respond to this. I drag my hand through my still-damp hair. “You don’t mind if I take off, to make sure she’s okay?”
“No, I insist, please, go to her.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I give her one more parting hug and take off toward my truck where I quickly make my way to Emory’s dorm. Thanks to Dottie being friends with the resident director, she scored me a key to the dorms, so I make my way to their suite. Not wanting to barge in, just in case any of the girls are indecent, I knock on the door and stick my hands in my pockets, willing my nerves to settle.
Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to first make sure Emory is not in too much pain, and then I’m going to talk this out with her. Help her understand that this is my last semester at Brentwood, but I’m committed to her, and even if I move across the country, she’ll always be mine. I’ll always be hers.
As I wait for someone to answer the door, I try to work out what to say to Em. I’ve tried so hard to convince her that we’re solid, and I hope to fuck she’s only hiding while she processes what Mom told her. Th
at’s got to be it. She’s a thinker, needs time, and I’ll be there by her side so we can see this hiccup through.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
EMORY
“Okay, talk,” Dottie says, taking a seat on my bed next to me as Lindsay pulls up a chair along with a tray of Lofthouse cookies.
They both take one, but my stomach is too twisted and tied up to even consider anything at this point.
“We let you sulk for over an hour, and now it’s time you talk and tell us what happened.” Lindsay breaks off a piece of her cookie and plops it in her mouth. “Was it his mom? Did she say something mean to you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “His mom is amazing, and I don’t think she could ever say anything to hurt someone’s feelings.”
“Okay,” Dottie says. “So why did I have to pick you up from the stadium and listen to you cry all the way back to our dorm?”
“And how come you’re not eating our sacred cookies?”
“Yes, how come?”
Both my friends bear down on me. I should have known better than to call Dottie, but I had no choice with every out that passed by, my heart grew heavier and heavier. By the fourth inning, I was on the verge of tears, faked a migraine, and begging Dottie to pick me up ASAP.
The minute I shut the door to her car, I broke down, and I’ve been crying ever since, not as heavily, but tears are still falling.
Looking out my window, I say just above a whisper, “He’s leaving.”
“Knox is leaving?” Dottie asks.
“Yes, after this semester, he’s entering the draft.” I wipe a tear. “I had no idea, and his mom let it slip today.”
“Oh shit,” Lindsay says, cookie half-crumbled in her mouth.
“Like, he’s not coming back to school?”
“No.” I turn toward them. “I looked it up on my phone. You either enter the draft after you graduate from high school or you wait until after your junior or senior year in college. He’s throwing his name in after this semester and guess what, a million teams are scouting him from all over the country. I researched it. He’s considered one of the top prospects.”
The Locker Room Page 22
