Page 49

CHAPTER 48

HAD IT COMING

WILDER

I am such a dick.

When Cricket asked where Trent went, I sank into the dirt. Despite my relief that he’s gone, I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to keep them apart. But Patty and Paul keep springing it on me, and every time it happens, I trust them less and less. Why won’t they just tell me when he wants to come?

Because they think you’ll flip out. You know, like you just flipped out?

I don’t know what to do anymore, if I ever did. This time was easily the worst, and it’s my fault. I can’t let it go, the way Trent throws me into red alert every time I see his face. Maybe part of it is jealousy—when he reminded me of everything I missed that he didn’t, it was a kick in the stomach. I hate that he was there and I wasn’t, but that’s not his fault. It’s not mine either.

We’ve got to figure this out though. It can’t happen again, for Cricket’s sake most of all.

I just wish I knew how.

I adjust the gear bag and shift the rest, loaded up like a sherpa to move us to the last field of the day. It will also be the toughest game—we’re playing a travel team, which is where kids play who are big, good, and serious about the sport.

When we get to the field, I’m setting down the chairs when I hear Cass suck in a breath.

Frowning, I glance at her. “What’s wrong?”

Her cheeks are flushed, her hands clumsy as she struggles with a camping chair. “Cricket’s bully is on the other team.”

A flash of anger rips through me, but I keep my cool, taking the chair from Cass to set it up for her. “Which one is she?” I don’t look up, just take the next chair from Cass and open it, putting it next to the first one.

“The blonde with the hacked off hair.”

Cricket hasn’t seen her yet—she’s busy laughing in the dugout with her teammates. When I go to set up the third chair, I turn the other direction so I can catch a glimpse, spotting her easily. Mostly because she’s standing in the mouth of her team’s dugout glaring at Cricket.

I swear under my breath.

“Yeah,” Cass says.

“Who are her parents?”

“I don’t know who her dad is, but her mom’s the one with the ponytail.”

“There’s more than one with a ponytail.”

“Hers is so tight, I think it’s like capital-T The Ponytail .”

I spot her in the front row, the blonde with the severe ponytail sitting next to a guy who looks like he stepped out of a J. Crew catalog, and though I don’t look for long, she glances at me before leaning in to say something to the man I assume is her husband.

He glares. I glare back.

“Well, this should be fun,” I deadpan.

Cass looks straight up distressed. “Maybe I should take Cricket home. Maybe we should go. I don’t want her to have to be anywhere around her.”

“Why don’t we ask her? See what she wants to do.”

She nods, and I head for the dugout.

“Cricket,” I call, hooking my finger at her when she looks up.

Smiling, she bounds around the dugout fence, then the field fence and to me, still blissfully unaware. When I sit on the bottom bleacher so I’m closer to her height, she frowns.

“Am I in trouble?”

I chuckle. “No. I wanted to ask you something.” For a second, I can’t say it. The words evaporate. Finally, “The girl you’re having trouble with at school is on the other team.”

She blanches, her head swiveling around to look. I know the second she sees the girl—her whole body goes still.

“You don’t have to play if you don’t want to,” I start. “Cass will take you home right now. We have plenty of girls, and you won three games today already and got two hits. You crushed it. So if you want to go?—”

“I don’t want to go.”

My brows quirk in confusion. “You don’t?”

Her face is pure determination, though her cheeks are smudged with color. “No. I don’t want to let my team down.”

My chest aches. “I know, bug. Are you sure?”

She nods once, her lips set. “You said to keep doing the right thing and everybody would see it and believe me. So if I play her and don’t be mean, everybody will see that I’m not mean. I’m not scared of her. I can do it.”

“I know you can.” I pull her into a hug and squeeze like I’m squeezing my own heart. “I’m proud of you. No matter what, I’m proud of you. And if you want to go, just tell me. Maybe we could make a code word.”

When I let her go, she steps back, thinking. “What about…pancakes?”

“Got it. You ready?”

Another nod.

“Then let’s go.”

And then I follow her back into the dugout for the longest hour and fifteen minutes of my life.

One issue is the distraction of Cricket herself. I find myself constantly watching her for signs that she’s upset, but she seems to work hard not to look at the other dugout, despite the mean, disruptive chants they scream at the top of their lungs.

Honestly, the girl’s dad is worse. I don’t know his name, but I decide it’s Chad when he sets up camp behind home plate to overcoach his kid. When she moves to her position at third, there he is at the fence, yelling orders at her over her coaches, who seem to fucking hate him. Four times, he gets into arguments with the ump.

Thanks to a grand slam from my baby girl, we take the lead in the last inning. She cracks a line drive past third base that none of them can get a hold of, and when she crosses home, all twelve girls scream at the absolute top of their range. They’re jumping and laughing, the cutest hysterical children I’ve ever seen.

This makes the bully’s dad big mad. All of a sudden, he’s at the fence behind home plate, red faced and barking at the ump. When the game clock runs out and we’re still on top by a run, he flips his shit.

He charges through the gate and onto the field, beelining for the ump. I’m too far away to make out what he’s saying, but I hear grand slam, foul, and cheating , but it’s not until I hear Davenport that I full on frown. The kids are starting to notice, their celebrations dying down and eyes on the adult having a tantrum over a 7U game. His wife snaps at him, but he ignores her. Cricket’s bully is crying furious tears from the dugout, burning holes in Cricket from across the field.

I glance at Cass and jerk my chin in Cricket’s direction, and she nods, hurrying onto the field with a cheerful smile to herd the kids away and get Cricket to her grandparents so they can get her out of here. Remy, Tate, and Grey are watching closely near the dugout. With a deep breath, I stride in their direction in the hopes I can defuse whatever’s going on.

Should have stayed out of it.

When the guy looks at me, he’s out of his mind pissed. His gaze snaps back to the ump. “That ball was foul—Avery didn’t even go for it because it was so obvious .”

“Listen, mister—” the tired old ump starts with a sigh.

Ragedad takes a step, jamming his finger in the ump’s face. “No, you listen—I’ll have your fucking job for this.”

A spark of rage flames in my chest, and like an idiot, I get between them. “Now, hold on a minute, man?—”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” he scoffs.

My brows drop, my eyes narrowing and voice low. “Dude, come on. Let’s just take a minute, okay? The kids are seven. It’s not that deep.”

“My point,” he says between his teeth, “is that we don’t lose, especially not to some shitty rec team. What’d you do, pay off the ump?”

I make a face. “Seriously? Why would I do that?”

“Maybe you want to embarrass us, since your kid embarrassed you by assaulting Avery.”

“Whoa, man. First of all, I’m a hundred percent sure my kid had nothing to do with yours whacking her hair off in the bathroom. Secondly, I’m not in the business of embarrassing little girls.” I wave my hands. “No. This is crazy. Come on—let’s let the ump go home, and if you and I need to talk this out, let’s do it somewhere a little more private.”

When I reach out to clasp his shoulder, he swats at my hand. “This is bullshit,” he spits, looking between me and the ump. “You must have let them win because Davenport played for the Dodgers. I swear, everybody in this town acts like he’s God when the truth is that he’s just some washed up has-been with a bullying, bastard kid?—”

Oh my God, I am so fucking pissed. “That’s enough,” I command, reaching for his shoulder again, but he doesn’t bat me away.

This time, he swings.

His fist cuts through the air, and my body reacts so fast, it’s operating outside of my control. I lean out of the way, and when I rise, my fist arches in a hook, connecting with his jaw as he rebounds from his failed punch.

Ohhhh No. Oh, fuck. Did not mean to do that.

Goddamn did it feel good, though.

The bones in my right hand scream, knuckles skinned, I notice when I reach out to catch him by the front of his stupid fleece vest. He’s reeling, staggering backward making a noise between a wail and a moan. He falls flat on his ass, half sitting, fully shocked. The other coaches rush to him, but he’s already shouting all kinds of shit at me, wiping blood from his busted lip. When they get him on his feet, he shakes them off and spits out a gob of blood. He sneers, his teeth pink and bloody.

“I’m fucking pressing charges, you piece of shit.”

I don’t say anything, but I put my hands down and pin him with a look I have a feeling is scathing because he can’t hold my gaze. I’d smile if I wasn’t worried about the repercussions of what I did. Doesn’t matter if he swung first or if I didn’t mean to hit him or if he deserved it.

This asshole doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to let shit go.

I wonder how far he’ll go to punish me?