Page 1 of Playing Dirty (Leighton U #4)

Theo

May — Junior Year

It’s the top of the ninth, and we’re down by one with one out when I step up to the plate for my at-bat.

The energy in the stadium is electric as I take my sign from my third-base coach, and it intensifies the adrenaline already burning through me like wildfire. It’s palpable, the way each person here is hanging on my every move. My teammates. The fans.

Our enemies.

Because everyone knows this is the pinnacle of our season; the biggest game of the year, despite it having nothing to do with the playoffs or championships happening in a few short weeks.

The City Rivals game is so much more than that.

It’s a legacy, a tradition.

A rivalry running far and deep, fueling generations of athletes passing through the hallowed halls of Leighton University.

Because, while everyone knows of the hatred between the Capulets and the Montagues, the Hatfields and the McCoys, the Yankees and the Red Sox…

nothing compares to the animosity between the Leighton Timberwolves and the Blackmore Falcons.

And there is no greater evidence of it than between our baseball programs.

But there’s another rivalry here today; a hatred still fresh and raw in my mind.

The one I have with Madden Hastings. Who, as of last week, is my stepbrother.

“Try not to choke like you did in the fourth, Greyson.”

I ignore the taunt coming from behind the plate, where that very same bane of my existence resides, and focus on the task at hand.

Just get on base.

Fortunately, I’m up in the count early, sitting pretty with two balls and one strike. But my luck runs out when their pitcher winds up and lets a fastball loose, only for it to peg me in the outer thigh, just above my knee.

I let out a soft string of expletives, dropping to a squat as a burning pain radiates from the spot where the nearly ninety-mile-an-hour pitch nailed me. The muscle aches as I try to move and stretch it out, my teeth sinking into my lower lip as I breathe through the pain.

“You gonna sit here and cry about it or you gonna walk it off on your way to first like everyone else?” comes another taunt from behind the plate.

Every ounce of blood in my veins is lit on fire the second I turn to look at the source.

Madden’s hazel eyes glitter with amusement as he shoots me a saccharine smile, showcasing those perfect, white teeth.

From that look alone, I’m tempted to think he called for an inside pitch on purpose. It wouldn’t surprise me, coming from a Falcon. They’ve always been dirty players and cheats—their football team getting busted for steroids earlier this year being the perfect example of it.

There isn’t a good athlete at their school.

Talented? Absolutely. Madden Hastings is the definition of a top-tier collegiate athlete—having the skill to back up all the shit-talking he does behind the plate.

But as for who they are at their core? There’s only bad and worse.

And as for the one I’m currently glaring at?

Well, he’s on a level all his own.

I fight the urge to flip him off or feed into the taunts, and instead, toss my bat back toward my dugout and jog to first. The muscle in my thigh still aches as I stretch it on the bag, and I know I’ll be sporting one helluva bruise for a few weeks, but I harness the pain.

Channel it, just like I have all the anger and frustration built up inside me since Christmas.

Because the past few months have been complicated as hell—my family deconstructed and reshaped quicker than I can blink—and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.

So I put it into this game. This moment.

I use all of it as fuel to fight for something I actually have a chance at winning. Handing over a loss to Blackmore on their home turf is everything I need right now, and if I can cross home plate, we’re one step closer to making it happen.

My attention flicks back to Madden, finding him already squatting behind the plate again for Wyatt to 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 second before 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 it does, 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.

Because fuck does 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.

Fuck.

Not only have we succumbed to defeat on the field, but we’ve lost the Penny Play on top of it. And while our rivalry-fueled version of capture the flag might only be for bragging rights, it feels like an even deeper cut right now .

When my attention returns to Madden, his gaze is still on me. And while his shoulders rise and fall with his heavy breaths, there’s the briefest second where his gaze flashes from my eyes, down to my mouth, before lifting back up again.

“Why don’t you go celebrate with your band of degenerates, then?” I snarl, pushing against his chest so he gets off me.

A soft tsking sound comes from him as he pushes up onto his knees. “Clearly, you weren’t taught how to accept defeat with grace.”

After standing completely, he extends an ink-covered arm toward me, offering a hand to haul me to my feet. I shift my gaze to it, feeling my lip curl back in a sneer at the gesture of truce.

“And, clearly, you’re only playing nice because the newlyweds are watching.”

He stares at me for a single, assessing beat before dropping his hand back to his side. Then he shrugs, and a sardonic laugh leaves him as he turns to head back to his team.

“Suit yourself,” he calls over his shoulder. “And better luck next year, bro. ”