Page 9

The inning ends with little commotion. An out at third, and a fly ball to center field.
I don’t look at the stands or the pitching coach probably wondering what the fuck that was about. Ez bumps his shoulder to mine. “I spit on his shoes.”
“Whose?”
“Baylor.”
Snorting, I stare at my mitt and then my hand. What happened out there? Why couldn’t I throw that curveball?
My dad told me once, after he tore his rotator cuff at the end of a three-game series on the road and was leading the league in strikeouts, that “The game usually gives you what you deserve, good or bad.”
For me, it goes back to Friday the thirteenth. I’d love to say I’m not superstitious, but maybe I am. Maybe it’s all because of the damn day of the week and the fact that we give up 7 runs and end the first game in the set with a loss of 6-7. Maybe it’s the two wild pitches I threw after that. Or that same time tomorrow, we’ll face off against them again. It’s not the last time I’ll see Baylor this year, and unfortunately for me, not the last of Brie.
“Bro, you add six and seven, it’s thirteen. How fucking bizarre is that?” Ez grumbles, confirming his triskaidekaphobia fear.
Noah, our shortstop, bumps me from behind after we shake hands with the Dirtbags. I purposely skip Baylor, and he knows why.
I drift my eyes to the stands after the game and noticeshe’swaiting for him.
“She fuck the entire team or just Wright?”
Squinting, I turn my head and stare at Noah as we walk off the field. Why the fuck would he ask that now, after the game we had?
“Shut the fuck up,” Ez tells him. “Don’t say that shit to him.”
Noah and me, we’re not friends, and though baseball players are certainly known for their egos, he doesn’t have one. I don’t know why I don’t like him, maybe because of comments like that. While it’s meant to be a jab at Baylor, I take it personally.
My attention finds her in the stands, her smile directed at the one she left me for. Soft, blue eyes, innocent, though her actions weren’t. She believed the rumors that I’d been fucking around on her. I hadn’t. Not once. But it didn’t matter. Damage was done and she did her part to destroy it. She seems unaffected by my presence, and I’m undone. Funny how that works. Time heals all wounds?
Bullshit. It exposes you.
For some reason, as I’m walking back to the dugout, I think about that woman from this morning. The one I bought coffee for. I bet she could make me forget about Brie. A thrill of excitement shoots down my spine.
In the locker room, the guys don’t say much about the loss, aside from Ez. He’s Italian, loud, and always has something to say.
Shirtless and holding ice to my shoulder again, I lean my head against my locker. I stare up at Ez, wishing he’d shut the fuck up. I hear enough of his bullshit sleeping on his couch every night. I don’t want to hear it after a loss like this.
He grins, winking at me. “Reins offered his cream to a MILF this morning.” He takes a chug from his Gatorade. “He struck out.”
I kick my foot out, trying to kick him with my cleats on. “You don’t know that she was a mom,” I point out, my thoughts shifting from that shitty game. And maybe that’s why Ez brought her up. He knows me and understands that anytime Brie enters my mind, it takes days to get over it.
“She drove a minivan. If you can call that driving.” With laughter on his lips, he elbows Noah, who’s next to him. “And with those hips, she wasdefinitelya mom.”
“Damn.” Noah smirks, twisting his hat around backward as he peels his jersey off. “Bummed I missed it.”
I’m not. And I can tell you exactly what’s going to take my mind off Brie. Imagining that MILF riding my cock while I’m in the shower later. I also contemplate going back to that Starbucks to see if she goes every day.
“She fuckin’ jumped the curb to get away from him,” Ez adds, screwing the cap back on his Gatorade.
I hope you choke.
I give Ez the look that says “shut the fuck up.” He doesn’t listen to me. I met him freshman year. We lived in the same dorm together our first year, and not once has he ever done what I asked him to. But he saves my ass behind the plate, so I stay friends with him. And his family back in Southern California is some kind of mafia or gang, I’m not sure. But from the stories he’s told me about his cousin Enzo, I want nothing to do with that family. Too bad I’m sleeping on his uncle Luca’s couch these days. Scariest time of my life.
“Reins?” Chiasson yells from his office, our pitching coach behind him with a look of disappointment.
Shit.
Groaning, I make my way into the office and stare at the wall with my dad’s picture. He went to ASU until he was drafted his sophomore year to Seattle. Sometimes I wish I would have taken the offer I got from three different teams before I even graduated.