by Grace, Hazel
“Don’t listen to everything you hear,” he suggests. “And hit the damn ball, it’s not always going to come the way you want it to.”
I’ll hit whenever I want to, and I’m not going to listen to you every time you say “jump.”
“So, the hickey on Tara’s neck came from another guy with the same name?” I hear him chuckle behind me, making me roll my eyes again.
It’s not funny, it’s annoying.
It’s all the girls on the team gossip about. How beautiful Colson is, how he wears his baseball pants just tight enough so you can see the outline of his package.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s attractive but his attitude sucks. He’s broody, terse, and rude, not someone I’d want to associate with period. He’s someone I want to avoid at all costs.
Even if it involves me shoving myself into lockers when he’s in sight or changing my routes to get to class, I’ll gladly do it.
“A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
Sure, because when I think of the word “gentleman,” his picture comes to mind.
Gavin throws another ball, thankfully, so I don’t have to respond to how much of a crock that statement is. It comes down home plate perfectly, and I crack it over shortstop. I smile, watching the ball bounce off the grass in the outfield.
“Bring your right elbow up more,” Colson advises, sounding unimpressed. “It’ll give you more power behind the swing.”
I spot my elbow up, adjusting to the new stance, which apparently still isn’t to his liking because I feel his fingertips on my elbow, lowering my arm a tad.
“Straight across then up just a little.” His skin grazes mine, and my body immediately shutters outwardly. “What’s the matter?” I roll my shoulders to brush his hand away.
I hate how his voice just got confident and cocky within milliseconds, pleased at the reaction he got out of me.
“You’re creeping me out with the touching,” I gripe, blowing a piece of my hair out of my face.
He tsks. “Cute.”
“So I’ve been told,” I mutter.
From my grandmother and when Mama buys me pink shirts that I have repeatedly told her I don’t like.
He lets out a scoff. “Yeah?”
I cock my head side to side so I can purposely hit him with my ponytail. “Can you move so I can hit the ball?”
Colson’s voice appears near my ear. “Only if you say please.” His tone is gravely and husky, and I clamp my teeth together to keep my body focused on practicing rather than reacting to another sudden outburst of chills.
I inhale a breath.
Remember who is behind you.
Colson Hayes is the anti-Hallmark card of trouble with broken hearts outlining his face. He’s ruptured more vital organs than heart attacks and forceful blows combined.
“Go ahead and throw it,” I call out Gavin, ignoring Colson in my space and the way my body heats at his proximity.
I’m not playing into his little games nor is he going to use his Oklahoma whore charm to get me to either.
I’m easy to talk to, not easy to screw.
“Colson, move, man,” Gavin shouts over the field, repeatedly throwing the ball in his glove.
“Go ahead and move me,” Colson whispers, still dangerously close —for him, anyway—because I’m about to crack him upside the head with my bat. “Use your innocent sex appeal to sway me into doing what you ask.”
“I don’t manipulate people like you do,” I force from my mouth.
And I don’t have any.
“It’s not manipulation,” he retorts. “It’s power.” I can feel the cottony exhale of his breath on the back of my neck, and my hands feel clammy around the aluminum bat.
“Still can’t get you to move.” His hand grazes my hip, and I feel that essential organ of mine start to sprint in my chest. I need that thing, and Colson won’t be getting his hands on it nor will he have any effect on it either.
“I bet you can. Try.”
“Do you want to play in the next game?” I ask, readjusting my fingers along the padding of my bat and digging my cleats into the dirt.
“Yeah,” he recites. “Why?”
“Because you’re about to suffer from a concussion if your butt doesn’t move away from mine.” His deep chuckle grates over my skin, and I don’t dare move. He’s close, so much so that I feel every part of his body brushing along mine.
The tense air suddenly lifts, he’s moved away, and I feel safe in my little bubble of comfort again. The one that is Colson-free and liberated from his crappy attitude problem.
“Go ahead, Gav,” Colson calls out from behind me. “Keep your elbow up.” And just like that, his sucky tone is back to being directed at me.
Gavin pitches the ball, and I swing, making it sail out into left field, which is the farthest I’ve hit in a long time. I beam with excitement, knowing Coach is going to be thrilled at my improvement. I want to be a solid asset to the team. The girls are close, and I’m new, so being a part of the small-knit family is what I want more than anything since I’m so far from home.
“There you go,” Colson exhorts. “Step more into the swing and you’ll get that ball to go further. We just need to work more on placing the ball on the field.”
“How do you do that?”
“Just the timing and how hard you swing. I think for you, it’d be just fine if you could get it over the shortstop’s head every time.”
I nod, studying the distance from home plate to the shortstop line. “I can do that.” He appears next to me, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I bet you could,” he mutters softly, dangerously. “That’ll get you that power you need to become something around here.” He steps away, but I can still feel his dark, tempting presence hovering in the air.
Slowly, I turn around, his attention locked on me. His face is emotionless, serious, like he knows the workings of the world and how to get people to bend to his will. To get what they want.
I swallow at his intense stare, dragging the words from my brain to leave my lips. They need to be said, I need them to be known. We’re not the same kind of people. Colson uses fear to allude what he wants.
I just...stay out of it.
“You mistake me for someone who gives a crap about power,” I mutter, keeping my eyes narrowed on him. “But I do give a crap about space. Don’t come that close to me again...or I’m going to show you what I learned in self-defense class.”
The one I took when I was eleven and don’t remember a thing about.
He smiles at that, a genuine one that I’ve never seen grace his face before. It looks good on him. I’m growing tired of his repetitive scowl that always seems to locate me.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he acknowledges. Then his eyes squint a little, hardening his features. “Until I don’t want to anymore.”
Present day
“Hey, Colson.” I cringe inwardly, gripping my clipboard tighter and lifting my head heavenward. Her voice could crack glass or break an eardrum with the squeaky, high-pitched timbre she extorts.
I drag in a breath of air, I’m familiar with the kind of female that lives in small towns like this Freemont. Every country girl’s dream is to tame the bad boy, the one who hops around from woman to woman looking to fill some empty void in their pathetic lives, get married and have kids.
Me, I don’t have a void.
I currently have a straight pain in my ass who doesn’t understand the words “don’t call me” or “we’re only gonna fuck and nothing more.” Instead, that said pain in my balls, tricks me into coming to her parents’ house, because in some fucked-up way it’s a subliminal message that we’re going to date, get engaged, and live happily ever after. Who furthermore happens to be related to the only human being in this galaxy that I don’t want to have any contact with.
Fuck, I hate this town.
“Such a nice day, right?” Skylar beams, stepping in line with me.
Her perfume is su
ffocating me. Warning me that if I don’t run, she’s going to stay for this whole practice I’m trying to run.
Or if I remind her to go fuck off, she’s going to cause an epic scene in front of my players.
So, I ingest my pride, my pettiness, my inner asshole and exhale a slow breath. “How’s it going, Skylar?”
I don’t peer over to look at her, it’d just be more of an invitation for her to talk more. It sure as hell didn’t stop the continual text messages over the last three days that I’ve neglected to answer from her.
“Really good,” she boasts. “How about you?” I wave my hand to the field in front of us, where my players are doing their stretches.
“Just getting ready for practice.” Instead of looking out, she’s gawking at me from my periphery.
And we’ll just add that to the list of why I’m not fucking her anymore.
“Do you like being Coach?”
“Assistant Coach,” I correct with a trace of bitterness in my mouth. “And it’s fine.” I yell at two of my guys to stop fucking around, without using the word “fucking,” or I’ll pull them out of a playoff game.
They roll their eyes at me, same shit I used to do. Karma at it’s finest. Now I know why Coach wanted to strangle me half the time.
“What are playoffs, again?” I focus on my lineup to stop my eyes from rolling around in their sockets.
My God, could she be any more different from her sister?
And what was laughable was that I could never get Sawyer to fully commit to me, but her fucking sister, won’t leave me the fuck alone.
Maybe this was an orientation to hell?
“It’s how we get to the championship,” I deadpan, glancing over at her to find her staring at me with hearts in her lake-blue eyes and a Cheshire cat smile on her face.
“I never was into sports,” she replies, stating the obvious. “Sawyer is the tomboy of the family. I take after Mama, we’d rather watch and pretend we know what’s going on.”
“No shit,” I mutter, not giving two fucks about her life, what she does, or what her sister is.
I already know, had a front row seat for that shit show.
“I ran into Coach Anderson,” Skylar spouts. “He wanted to speak with you in his office. I told him since I was already coming out here to see you, that’d I’d let you know.”
Heavy exhales, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you want to violently throttle someone? Helps you with your chi or some stupid shit.
“I’m not available at the moment.”
“When will you be? He has a doctor’s appointment at 4:30.”
Did I speak another fucking language?
I grip my clipboard tighter. “I’ll be there in a few.” She raises up on her tiptoes, clasping her hands behind her back.
“I’ll wait.”
Motherfucker.
Turning on my heel, I head toward the school with her following me like a lost puppy, obnoxious, needy and doesn’t fucking listen to simple instructions.
When we get inside, I make my way through the familiar hallways of faded cream-colored paint and stale air. The same halls that I used to run with my buddies, starting chaos and pissing the teachers off. We were always able to get other kids to take the fall for us for the dumb shit we pulled because I had a reputation and they didn’t have a name worth mentioning.
Looking back at it now, it was stupid. It was all temporary, my dreams and plans, on a bleached canvas like nothing ever existed on it in the first place. Classmates have moved on with their lives, making money and having families, while I was stuck back here, working with another generation of little shits who wanted to fulfill the same dream I had—getting out of this town.
And I did leave, just not with the person I was supposed to go with.
Knocking on Coach Anderson’s office door, I wait for him to call me in and notice Skylar next to me, leaned up against the wall.
“You can go now,” I tell her with knitted brows. She smiles, again, flashing her white teeth.
“I’ll just wait out here.” Before I can snap at her to take the hell off, Coach Anderson opens the door and rushes me in.
“Come in, come in.” He motions for me as he steps aside to let me through. “Take a seat.” He offers me one of the peeling leather chairs in front of his desk before closing the door.
Shit, I swear these were the same ones I sat in when he bitched at me for an hour when I fucked Kyle up my junior year for running his mouth.
“I have some news for you,” he announces with a chipper tone.
I jerk my thumb toward the door. “No offense, Coach, but I’ve got drills going on right now, so if you could make it quick.” He snaps his pudgy thumbs and scuttles behind his cheap desk stacked with papers.
“Right, I’ll just get right down to it.” He takes a seat and folds his hands over his plump stomach. “I’m retiring this year.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “Wow, that’s great, Coach. Congratulations.”
“I’ve worked at this school for over thirty-five years,” he reports with a satisfied grin, proud. “And I’m ready for a lawn chair and a bucket of beer in my backyard.”
“I’m happy for you,” I tell him honestly. He deserves it. Damn, with the level of shenanigans that just my class alone put him through, he deserves a huge severance pay as well.
“Thanks, son,” he says. “Which leads me to why you’re here.” He leans forward in his chair. “I want you to take my position as head coach.”
“Me?”
He nods. “You.”
I shake my head. “Nah, Coach, I’m not sure if I’m even staying here. I just came to—” He holds up a hand to silence me.
“Listen, I know your childhood was shit, especially after your pops died. I’m not going to get into your mother, but I know a little.” He gives me a sympathetic look that makes me feel slightly uncomfortable.
I’ve never wanted anyone to feel sorry for me. Not at any time did I want special privileges or for me to be the start of a conversation that included my shitty mother and her numerous boyfriends shortly after Dad died. She flaunted them around like expensive purses, young, new, and expensive. And as in expensive, I mean she bought them brand-new cars with the money Dad left that was supposed to go toward my college fund.
Don’t get me started on the funded hobbies that went up their noses or up their arms.
“This, son, is an opportunity,” Coach continues. “To build a career with something you’re good at.” He waves his hand in the air. “And if you wanna play, play.”
I furrow my brows. “Play what?” He slides a piece of paper across his desk.
“You think everyone you went to school with left this town?” He points at the piece of paper. “That there is a flyer from half your baseball team, they're looking for a pitcher for their league.”
I glance down at the sheet.
Wanted
Pitcher and shortstop.
Must have experience.
Must be above drinking age.
Shit talkers welcome.
Contact Ben or Ethan at numbers below.
“Ben Turnish?” I ask with a raised brow.
“Yep, Bonkers.” I smirk at the nickname. Ben wasn’t a nut job at heart, he was actually one of the calmest dudes I’ve ever met.
Except for the one time when the opposing pitcher purposely hit him with a curveball. I’ve never seen him move so fast to get to a pitcher. Hence how he got his nickname over that one incident.
“He and the boys are still pretty good, they have a few oldtimers on the team, but you know how this town is.”
I peer up at him. “Still football and baseball, huh?”
His eyes light up. “Nothing’s changed around here, son.”
“No, I guess it hasn’t.” I fold the flyer and tuck it into the front pocket of my sweatpants. “I’ll think about it.”
“For which one?”
I shrug. “Both, I guess. I planned on
only staying here until my mother’s affairs have been tied up.”
“Fair enough.” He holds out his hand. “Give me an answer in a week, I want to have my replacement in before I tell the school I’m out.”
I stand and shake his hand. “I will, Coach. Thanks for thinking of me.” He tells me to get the hell out of his office because he has to start packing.
And for once, I feel...hopeful.
Baseball was my life, plain and simple. I just wasn’t fully faithful to it. I got too invested, too blind to see the signs. I thought she’d be by my side, cheering me on in the dugout with my team’s baseball jersey on, kissing me when I scored a run. Tucked under my arm with my gear on my other shoulder walking back to my car so that I could fuck her when we got home.
I wanted, breathed, and lived for Sawyer Boyd.
But she didn’t want me. And I sure as fuck didn’t know why. For as much as I could read women, I must’ve misread her user’s manual.
And ever since that night, it massacred every and any hope for us. There was no going back, I’d never be able to get over it.
I guess I still haven’t.
The sight of her makes me want to light up a joint, and I gave that shit up years ago. But after what I saw and heard, the memories still came and went from time to time, making me feel like I’m eighteen years old again with self-esteem issues.
God, fuck this, I’m not staying here.
“Did it go well?” I jerk back, forgetting that Skylar said she was going to wait for me. She starts twirling her curly hair again, falling over the straps of her sunflower dress.
“What the hell are you still doing here?” I bark, marching past her and back toward the fields.
“I told you I was going to wait,” she professes, her sandals clacking against the tiled floors to keep up with me.
“Go home, Skylar, I’m not doing this shit with you right now.”
“But Colson, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask me later.”
Wait, no, then the texting would never cease.
I halt midstep, her chest bumping into my back as I turn to face her. “What?” She inclines her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her pierced ears.
