by Meghan Quinn
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” I say, stepping up in front of him, blocking the cameras from seeing how trashed Penn really looks right now. “I might hate you, but you’re still my pitcher and I need to know what’s going on.”
“Nothing is going on. Just a bad day.” He wipes his face with a towel and leans against the side of the dugout wall, about ready to pass out.
“If you’re going to fall asleep, get your sorry ass into the locker room, not here where everyone can fucking see you.”
“I just need to rest my eyes for a second.”
Enraged, I call over our pitching coach.
Baskin observes Penn and asks, “What’s going on?”
“He’s done,” I answer, not getting into why. This wouldn’t be the first time Penn pitched a game while completely hungover, nor will it be the last.
“I’m not fucking done,” he mumbles from under the towel. “Just give me a goddamn second.”
I turn to Coach Baskin and say, “He’s lobbing the balls in. He’s toast. Warm up Torres. Cutler can’t go another inning.”
Hands on his hips, Coach Baskin gives Penn one more look before shaking his head and saying, “Training room, now, Cutler.”
“What?” Penn rips the towel off his head, his red eyes cutting to me before he stumbles off the bench to chase after Coach Baskin. “I said just give me another goddamn minute. I can finish this game.”
“You’re finished now.”
The crowd roars and I look out toward the field to see that I’ve missed Ryot getting on base, as well as Gerry. Fuck, I’m on deck.
Penn is out, so now I can focus on batting, but as I go to get my helmet, he yanks my shoulder back, twisting me around so I come face to face with him. I steady myself and shoulder up, not wanting to back down from his approach, but also not wanting to look like the instigator, since there’s no doubt in my mind that there are at least two cameras pointed in our direction.
“Fuck. You,” he says, the disdain for me dripping off his tongue.
“Is that all you have to say?” I ask.
“Don’t fuck with my game, Walker. You had no right—”
“I had every goddamn right,” I say through my clenched jaw. “I’m in charge of that field, and if someone isn’t performing, or looks as if they downed an entire bottle of whiskey last night, then I have every right to say something.”
“You’re letting the team down by having me taken out of the game.”
“No,” I reply, getting in his face so our noses are millimeters apart. “You let the team down because of your shitty choices. Get your act together, Cutler. Don’t be a waste of talent.”
“You have no fucking idea what I was doing last night.”
“I don’t have to guess. I can smell it on you,” I sneer back just as I hear a crack of the bat. The crowd erupts, only to die back down. “I’m up.” Not giving Cutler a second thought, I snag my helmet from its cubby, put my batting gloves on while keeping my bat tucked up in my armpit, and make my way to the batter’s box.
I look up at the scoreboard. Two outs, runners on first and second. We need these runs. Hell, I need a hit.
I’ve scored an RBI tonight, grounded out, and earned a walk. I’ve made solid contact with the ball, now I just need to put the ball in play.
One foot in the batter’s box, I stare at my bat, tap the side of it, and then step in, situating my feet just right as I swing the bat to my shoulder.
Reynolds gets into position, glances over at Ryot, and then whips his arm right at me, sending me dropping to the ground as the ball sails over my head and to the catcher. The crowd roars as a bead of sweat cascades down my spine.
Holy fuck, that was close.
My initial reaction is to get up and charge the mound. I have history with Reynolds, and I wouldn’t put it past him to try to plunk me to get to our rookie in the lineup.
But I stay put as Ryot and Gerry round the bases, putting them at second and third now.
“You good, Rockwell?” the umpire asks as I rise to my feet. Dirt sticks to my sweaty forearms and stains the white of my already dirty pants.
“Good.” I brush the batter’s box dirt back and forth a few times, step back out, and take a deep breath as I stare out at the field. Reynolds pulls on the brim of his hat and checks on Ryot again, avoiding eye contact. The motherfucker did that on purpose.
But the problem with not hitting me the first time is now he has to be cautious with his next pitch. He can’t afford to let a run in.
He sets his hands in front of him, lets out a deep breath, and then winds up, sending the ball to the outside of the plate. I hold back just enough to let the ball travel through the strike zone, punch my hands through the outside corner, and connect with the ball, sending it sailing to the opposite side of the field, down the right side and barely over the wall.
The crowd goes wild, and for the first time in weeks, I can feel the anger and frustration that’s been building up finally start to ease.
Home run.
Fuck yes.
Keeping my head tilted down, I round the bases, staying at a steady jog and giving my first and third base coaches fist-bumps as I pass them. At home, Ryot is waiting for me. He gives me a pat on the helmet and says, “That was some good hitting, man.”
It was.
It was some really good hitting.
High fives are distributed as I make my way through the dugout and straight to the cooler, which I jokingly pat, letting it know even though we’ve had some differences, I still appreciate its hard work.
It might be a little show for the camera and the fans, but hell, I’d do just about anything right now to add some credit to my personality while I have a positive light on me. And bringing my team to a three-run lead is one hell of a positive light.
“How’d that feel?” Ryot asks, coming up next to me.
I grin at him as I take a sip from my cup of water. “Fucking amazing.”
“It was a group effort. Our relief pitching held us to zero runs after the sixth, we strung together some hits, and ended up with the win. Fundamental baseball was played tonight with a tight defense and an explosive offense all at the right times. We plan on jumping on this winning momentum and sweeping the series from the Blue Sox.”
“We’ll have our brooms ready,” Kelly, our on-field correspondent, says. “Thank you for your time, Walker.”
“Of course.” I give her a quick tip of my hat and make my way through the dugout to the locker room, where my teammates are pumping up the music and acting like a bunch of idiots who just won a game. And for the first time in a while, I feel as though I can join them in the joy of a win because I actually feel as though I contributed.
I was able to get one more at-bat in the eighth and hit a single up the middle. I wasn’t hit in, but peeling hide off the ball today felt damn good.
I reach my locker and start taking off my jersey. From a couple lockers down, Cutler spouts, “Looks like the grump got his groove back.”
I don’t even bother to engage in conversation with him because I’m in a good mood, I don’t need it ruined by Cutler’s instigating. Nor do I need to start anything with him. I had my words with him in the dugout, and I want to leave it at that.
Ryot, on the other hand, has a different opinion.
“Worry about yourself, Cutler.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Penn shoots back.
“Drop it,” I mutter under my breath to Ryot, but he must not hear me because he continues.
“Instead of picking a fight with Walker, how about not getting drunk the night before a game.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” Penn fumes. “And I don’t have to answer to any of you pricks.” He tosses his towel to the ground and puts on a pair of boxer briefs.
“Give him a break,” Daniel, the douche of the bullpen, says. “He was up late last night with Brenn. She was demanding as fuck and wouldn’t let him go to sleep. Wanted that dick.”
Penn slides into his chair with a Cheshire cat-like smile on his face. “Can’t blame the girl for wanting what I have.”
I roll my eyes and sit in my chair, where I take off my cleats and listen to the annoying and pompous diatribe of Penn Cutler.
“Brenn has this thing with her neck—if you move your lips along the column in just the right way, she’s putty in your hands. She came over last night, I barely said a word, and she jumped me after walking through the door and instantly peeled off her clothes.”
“When do we get to meet this elusive Brenn?” Daniel asks. “Are things even serious?”
A bunch of gossiping hens. I roll my eyes and toss my cleats. Socks are next.
“They’re as serious as I want them to be. I send her flowers—lilies, they’re her favorite—and make sure to eat her out every time she comes over, because she likes nothing more than my mouth on her pussy.”
Jesus.
Thank God all the reporters are gone. I get up from my seat, sick of the conversation. If Penn had any sort of respect for the girl he’s been seeing, he wouldn’t be saying shit like that to everyone else. It’s as if he’s trying to gain merit from the guys. It’s not the first time he’s said something about Brenn. Their “relationship” has been going on for a few weeks now. Just from overhearing his conversations, I feel as if I know so much about the girl, almost too much.
Makes me wonder . . . is she even real?
Wouldn’t that be fucking perfect if she was made up and Penn was spouting off like a moron about a made-up girl?
Fuck, I actually wish that was the truth, because that would be hilarious.
I take my time in the shower, letting the game play over and over in my head as I scrub my body down. I envision each pitch, each swing, each hit. I hear the crowd, the cheers, the chants from my teammates. I hate to admit it, but Kate was right—I had to find some joy in the game, and I did. It might be a nanosecond of joy, but today was a brief reminder why I started playing baseball in the first place.
I towel off and wrap the terrycloth around my waist before I head out to an almost deserted locker room. Just a few players are milling about, gathering their things before taking off. Penn is thankfully gone, so I don’t have to deal with his bullshit.
Up all night with Brenn? Bullshit. He was drunk last night, probably indulging way too much like he always does. And even if he doesn’t want to tell the truth, I saw it all over Brad’s face. I know Brad has had conversations with Penn about his drinking—he’s told me himself—so when I saw how angry Brad was, I knew exactly what the issue was without having to get close enough to smell the idiot.
And the really shitty part of all of this is not only is he letting his team down by not taking care of himself, but even when hungover, or drunk for that matter, the man is still a legend on the mound. And I’m the last person who wants to admit it, but it’s true. It’s almost as if he’s taken a page from Mickey Mantle’s playbook and has learned how to perform when not at peak physical fitness.
It’ll catch up to him at some point, just like it did to Mickey.
I slip on my clothes, going for a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved Henley. I push the sleeves up, still heated from the shower. I leave my hat in my locker, opting for a quick swab of styling pomade through my hair. I couldn’t care less what I look like, but Coach always likes us to be somewhat presentable after a game in case we run into any press.
Hungry and ready for my bed, I head out of the locker room and am making my way toward the players’ exit when a throat clears behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find Kate Chapman standing against the wall, her purse draped over her shoulder and a beautiful smile gracing her delicately freckled face.
She quickly gives me a once-over and says, “It was the socks.”
I can’t help it, I let out a low chuckle while slowly shaking my head and turning toward her. Hands in my pockets, I say, “It wasn’t the socks.”
Her mouth drops open in disbelief as she approaches me. “It was so the socks.” She points her finger at me. “Don’t even deny it.”
“It was all my practice.”
“Yeah, practice with me. Just admit it, Rockwell, you had fun last night, the socks were a good luck charm, and you played your ass off tonight.”
I don’t believe in superstitions, which is unheard of when it comes to a baseball player, but I’ve never geared my play around being a habitual player, either. Instead, I do what feels right. So, believing in socks having a special power and helping me gather some hits tonight—nah, not real. But I will say this—having my socks up reminded me why I was behind that plate. It reminded me of being small again and taking joy in the little things.
Was it the socks? Maybe.
Was it the thought of the girl standing in front of me? Maybe a little more.
“It wasn’t the socks.”
Her head falls back as she groans. “You’re so stubborn.” She makes eye contact with me again. “Do you realize that?”
“Yeah.” I rock on my heels, trying not to stare at her too much.
Just picture me pitching to you.
When I said that would be too distracting, I meant it. With her softly curled hair and her gorgeous smile that doesn’t seem to ever falter—unless I’m a total dick and walk out on her—she’s caught my eye.
She’s starting to imprint herself on my brain.
She’s starting to make me feel shit I shouldn’t be feeling.
“Well, I’m—”
“What are you doing right now?” I ask out of the blue, surprising myself, and her.
“Uh, I was going to give you a hard time and then go home?” she says with a hint of question at the end.
I nod at her. “Hungry?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Starving.”
“Want to get some food?”
She chews on her bottom lip, thinking about her answer, and I know it’s not in a joking around way, but more so she’s afraid. Afraid of me, possibly. Afraid for her job, most likely.
So, I add, “You know, to discuss business.”
It’s against team policy to fraternize with the players. I know that, she knows that, but, for the life of me, after seeing that infectious joy on her face, I had to ask her. I had to try to spend more time with her.
“Well, if it’s business . . .” She smiles brightly and then nods behind her. “Follow me.”
Unsure what she’s up to, I do what she says, trying to keep my eyes off the perfect sway of her hips and the way her pants wrap around her ass perfectly, enticing me to make some bad decisions.
We make our way up to the suite level of the stadium, down a hallway to the last suite on the level. She takes out a keycard and opens the door. I follow her in to find an empty space that looks out over the stadium. I’ve been in a few suites, but I’ve never really taken the time to observe the view.
I go to the outdoor seating and take in the field below. The lights are dimmed, only a few at ground level lighting up pathways for those still working. It’s peaceful, the sounds of the city filtering past the historic walls.
“You get to play on that field,” Kate says, walking up beside me. “Is it hard to believe?”
“Most of the time, yeah.” My stomach grumbles and Kate hears it.
She laughs and says, “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked the chef to whip me up a pizza really quick. Does that work?”
“Yeah, I’m cool with that.” I take a seat and prop my legs up on the bar in front of me, soaking in the moment. “Where do you watch the games?”
“Everywhere,” she says, taking the seat next to me, her shoulder briefly bumping into mine. “Just depends on where they need me. Sometimes I miss the game completely.”
“Where’s your favorite place to watch it?”
“Even though these suites offer a great view with an all-you-can-eat buffet, I prefer to watch in the press box on the field. It’s rare when I get to sit there, but when I do, I soak it up as much as possibl
e. It almost feels as if I’m part of the game in a weird way.”
“I could see that.”
“What about you? If you weren’t in the dugout, where would you want to watch the game?”
I scratch the side of my jaw, thinking about it for a second. If I weren’t playing baseball, where would I want to watch a game? I know where I could easily afford, but to me, sitting up front isn’t the best seat.
“If I weren’t playing, I would want to sit right behind home plate—”
“Of course you would. Where’s the originality in that?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I face her, my broad shoulder bumping against her slight one. “If you’d have let me finish, I was going to say in the upper deck.”
“Oh.” She laughs nervously. “Well, that makes a difference. Why would you want to sit up there?”
“You can see everything,” I answer without having to think about it. “You’re not distracted by vendors because not as many go that high, you get a feel for the whole field, you can look into the dugouts, and you can yell obscenities at the umpire and not get thrown out.”
That last part makes her chuckle. “Have you ever been thrown out of a game for yelling obscenities?”
I hold up three fingers. “Three times. Two were me, one was Ryot, but the umpire thought it was me. I got tossed.”
“What, he can do that?”
“Yup.”
“I hope Ryot made up for it.”
“Brought me a cupcake the next day.” I hold back my smile, thinking about the card that was attached to it stating next time he’d use more prolific swearing so he doesn’t make me sound like a jackass.
“What flavor?”
“Chocolate cake, vanilla frosting. My favorite.”
“Not red velvet?” she asks, surprised.
I shake my head. “Not in cupcake form.”
“Huh. You know, I would’ve pegged you for a chocolate cake kind of guy.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, tempted to drape my arm over the back of her chair.
“The least-liked player in baseball type seems to float more toward chocolate, that’s all.”
