Page 2 of Playing Dirty

My attention flicks back to Madden, finding him already squatting behind the plate again for Wyattto take his at-bat. But between the first few pitches, I catch the asshole looking over at me. Or, at least, that’s the way it feels. Like razor blades slicing over my skin.

With my attention locked on Coach, I wait for the sign to steal secondbefore taking my lead off. Blackmore’s pitcher checks me on the wind up, and the second he makes a forward motion, I take off in a dead sprint.

The pain radiating through my leg doesn’t exist as my feet fly over the dirt, bolting in the direction of second base. The only thing on my mind is reaching the bag before the ball, knowing damn well that everything rides on me getting into scoring position.

Their shortstop is there, waiting for Madden to send the ball down, and I’m hit with another burst of fire as I drop into a slide. My foot collides with the bag a moment before a glove slaps down on my cleat, but it’s close.

Too close.

“Safe!” the umpire calls while motioning the sign.

“Fucking bullshit,” mutters Blackmore’s shortstop, who’s already tossing the ball back to the pitcher’s mound.

A rush of relief floods my system, mixing with the adrenaline when the ump calls time and brushes off the bag, and I let out a little whoop while dusting myself off.

Suck it, Hastings.

Beating out an All-American catcher on a throwdown is a high unlike anything else. But for it to be a Falcon? My stepbrother, no less? It’s priceless.

And it takes every bit of my self control not to flip Madden the bird from where I stand safely on second base.

This is good. Perfect, even. I have the speed and stamina to get home as long as Wyatt can get a line drive to the outfield. Hell, even a sacrifice fly should do the trick if it’s deep enough.

The crack of leather on metal sends my pulse into overdrive, and I watch as the ball is sent sailing toward deep right field. I slowly creep back toward second base just in case it’s caught, knowing it’s a toss-up if there’s enough power under it to clear the wall. Every ounce of my being prays itdoes, but my prayers go unanswered when their right fielder collides with the wall, knocking off his hat, but the ball remains safely in his glove.

Go time.

Tapping my foot on second to tag up, I turn and take off like lightning toward third. My gaze instantly finds Coach, whose arm is now spinning in a circle faster than a windmill in a storm: the universal sign to send me home.

I’m no longer human when my foot hits third base. I’ve been transformed into something else entirely—bordering on super-human. The Flash has nothing on me as I barrel down the third-base line toward my destination. Toward keeping my team in this game.

The only thing standing in my way?

Madden Hastings.

He’s a few steps in front of home plate, his mask off and tossed to the side. His attention is fixed toward right field, and I make a quick glance to see the ball en route to Madden via their cut-off man.

It’s gonna be a race to the plate—down to milliseconds—and I put every ounce of energy, hatred, and adrenaline into every stride. But as the ball is enveloped by his catcher’s mitt, I realize he’s got me beat by at least a foot. So I do the only thing I can: I dive head-first into a slide.

Unfortunately, he seems to have the same idea, throwing his body—gloved hand extended in front of him—toward me, and from then on, it’s nothing but a blur; the two of us slamming into each other. And it’s a collision unlike any I’ve experienced before—the definition of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object—that makes me understand why football and hockey players wear pads.

Becausefuckdoes it hurt to collide with someone else at a dead sprint.

The wind is knocked out of me, some part of Madden’s gear having nailed me right in my side. Somehow, in the midst of us crashing together,my helmet flies off my head and we wind up tumbling a few feet away from home plate, only to stop with Madden’s body pinning me to the ground.

But the pain radiating through every inch of my body has nothing on the sight of Madden holding up his mitt and opening it, showing the ball still safely tucked inside.

“Out!” the ump shouts.

Pandemonium ensues around the stadium the moment the word is declared, a chorus of cheers and boos erupting loud enough to cause an earthquake. Part of me thinks it did, but it only takes a few seconds to realize it’s actually just me shaking in rage.

And then, to make matters worse, there’s this asshole still sprawled on top of me.

He pulls back enough to look down at me, two hazel eyes boring into mine as we both try to regain some of the air we’ve just knocked out of each other’s lungs. Heat and fury churn in my stomach while our gazes lock, and I’m about to snap at him to get off me when another set of cheers rings out from down the third-base line.

“Looks like Leighton is heading back to campus with two losses this year.”

My brows draw down slightly, still so pissed about losing the City Rival game that I forgot it wasn’t the only game at play. But the second I glance toward third base and find Leighton’s championship pennant hanging from the front of Blackmore’s dugout, I’m slammed upside the head with a reminder.