Page 40 of Please Don’t Go (The Midnight Strike #1)

DANIEL

“This is insane.” Adrian subtly and slowly scans the field and stadium, his voice low, almost in a whisper as we take our seats in the home plate grandstand.

Like me, he’s playing it cool, not showing how inside we’re eagerly buzzing.

We’re at Opening Day for Monterey Coastal University. Dad surprised us; he didn’t tell us anything this morning but to pack because we were going on a mini trip. Which is unusual because he never lets us skip school, but he said it’d be an exception because today is Friday.

“I know.” My gaze shifts down to the dugout. The players aren’t there yet, but it won’t be long before they’re piling out.

“One day we’re going to play here,” Adrian confidently and arrogantly states.

“I don’t know. You’re kind of shit.”

“Pinche pendejo. I was being nice.” He scowls before his expression morphs into an easygoing one. “When I get recruited and you don’t, don’t get butt hurt over it, okay? I promise to put in a good word.”

I burst out laughing, but I don’t counter it. Instead, I say, “One day, it’ll be you and me down there.”

He looks up at me, smiling wide, those dimples on display. “One day.”

“You good, brah?” Kai asks as he slips his belt through the loops of his pants.

My chest burns at the memory, but I shake it away and smile at him. “Yeah, why?”

“I was talking to you, but you zoned out.”

“You weren’t talking to me, but I also zoned out. I mean have you heard yourself talk?” Angel snorts. “It’s nonstop. Blah blah blah.”

“You really want to talk?” Kai shoots back. “No one cares about?—”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, bitches!” Gray springs into the locker room, voice elated and eyes vibrantly shining. “Who wants a kiss from?—”

“Pass!” almost everyone in the room shouts.

He stands in front of Noah, lifting and stretching his arms wide, but Noah pins him with a blank expression.

“Don’t touch me,” Noah warns before he finishes getting ready.

That doesn’t stop Gray from smiling and moving onto his next victim: me.

I’m not in the mood, but I need to find a way to be in it because it’s Opening Day. First game of the season and I need to be at my best mentally to play.

“Sparky, bring it in.” He grins. I spread my arms, letting him pull me in for a hug. “Love you, baby.” He plants a loud kiss on my cheek.

My chest painfully aches. I have to do everything in my power not to exhale the air in my lungs that feels like heavy acid.

He reminds me so much of Adrian. So lively, so full of energy, a smile so big and bright it blinds you of all the bad.

“Love you too, bro,” I chuckle, telling myself not to hold on to him because he’s not Adrian; hugging him isn’t going to change anything.

“I’m so fucking hyped, man.” He pulls away and moseys on over to his next victim, Kai.

“You okay?” Angel stands next to me as I finish buttoning my shirt.

“Yeah, it’s Opening Day,” I reply, my fingers grazing the safety pin attached to my chain.

He tracks the movement but doesn’t make a comment about it. Still, he scrutinizes me as if he can sense something is wrong.

“Actually,” I quietly say and discreetly sweep my gaze over the room, finding Bryson on the other end. Our eyes lock on each other briefly, but it’s long enough for him to glare at me before he looks away. “I kissed Josie.”

I don’t want to talk about this either, but it’s Josie or Adrian, and she’s easier to talk about than my brother.

Angel gawks at me in disbelief before he masks it away and bears a smug smile. He leans against the locker, folding his arms over his chest, eyes drifting over to where Bryson’s standing and then back to me.

“So much for just friends and roommates?” he faintly spurs, lifting a brow. “When was this? Are you guys…”

He doesn’t finish, but I know what he’s asking.

I shake my head, although I wish I was nodding it instead.

She and that kiss is all that I’ve been thinking about, dreaming about, wishing about.

God, it’s all I fucking want, but I know it’s not what she wants.

No, it’s obvious she’s over it, probably long forgotten like it never happened because that’s how she’s been acting for a week.

No different then when we hardly knew each other. She hasn’t even said anything about my note.

“Last Friday after the bonfire. I was a dick and…I’m not going into details. It doesn’t matter anyway.” I lift my hat, raking my fingers through my hair frustratedly, then place it back.

His brows pull together and he stares at me in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable. Then his arms slip, falling limply at his side, lips part in a muted O, and eyes slowly go round in what looks like realization.

“Holy shit. You like her.” It’s rhetorical but he wants an answer because he prods. “Danny, do you like her?”

My gaze swings back over to Bryson. “I doubt she likes me like that.”

“Okay and? That’s not what I asked. Do you like her?”

I rub the nape of my neck, dropping my gaze to the floor. My heart rockets, taking off, and fireworks explode. She doesn’t need to be in front of me anymore. I don’t need to see her smile for them to appear. Just the mere thought of her makes me feel…me.

I exhale a breath, my stomach intensely fluttering. “Yeah…I do.”

Angel smiles, clicking his tongue. “You’re so fucking cute. You’re going to make me throw up.”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up and don’t say anything. Nothing is going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“It was one and done.”

My walk-out song, “Pursuit of Happiness” by Kid Cudi blasts through the speaker. It was the last song Adrian listened to.

For the longest time, I couldn’t hear it without breaking out into tears and at times panic attacks.

I still don’t listen to it fully, only when I’m at bat.

I only brought myself to listen to it because a therapist told me it was good exposure therapy and I feel like I’m with Adrian, even if it’s for a few seconds.

Puffing out a breath, I step up to the plate. The bases are loaded, and this is the reason why I’m the fourth in the lineup. I’m the cleanup hitter, the cleanup spot. I bring the home runs. Just last year I led the NCAA in batting. I’m a damn—exceptionally brilliant, as a few have said—good hitter.

My accolades and achievements are all thanks to my father, the man who I know is somewhere up in the stands, who will probably utter a measly, “síguele echando ganas” or “podrías mejorar” after the game. That is, if he decides to stay afterwards.

I hope he doesn’t. It’s always awkward. Mom and Pen try to fill the silence with supportive words of affirmation, but in the end, it never helps. Whenever we’re standing in front of each other, it feels like I’m in front of a distant relative, a stranger even.

It’s been that way from the moment…

I blink away the memory that attempts to play in my head and take a practice swing.

My hands tighten around the bat and I side-eye Noah who stands next to first base, knees slightly bent as he shuffles back and forth, ready to steal a base if he’ll need to.

He’s third in our lineup and is exceptional at stealing.

My gloves crinkle as I grip the bat, squeezing it as I take my stance.

My left foot is planted on the ground, but my right, I use the tip of my cleat to dig into the dirt as I lift my heel and bring my knee inward.

My stance is something that always has the sports analysts, sports reporters, and everyone and their grandpa talking about.

I hear a mingled laugh and scoff come from the catcher. I agree, it’s an odd stance but it helps me and he knows that too; that’s why I have kids copying and tagging me in their videos.

“Don’t be jealous, Petey,” I mumble and make sure not to move my lips.

He scoffs again but doesn’t make a comment.

Wyatt, freshman and pitcher from Cal Poly, is feeling the pressure.

He doesn’t show it, but the chants from the crowd are boisterously loud.

We’re playing home and baseball season has commenced.

It’s expected, but Wyatt isn’t playing like he saw it coming; he’s nervous as hell.

It’s why the first three in the lineup have walked, and why I know I’ll be bringing my team home.

He exhales, pitching a fastball, but it’s too far out, nowhere near the box.

The umpire calls, “Ball.”

He pitches another, still using a fastball, but couples it with a slider. The ball moves in a way to trick you, pulling downward as it spins quickly my way. They’re tricky but all you have to do is…swing…just…right.

The contact is loud, the crack of the ball against my bat resonating throughout the stadium. Despite how loud the fans are, the slam still beautifully echoes in my ear. I don’t watch it fly out of the field, but I do glance up at the sky briefly before the knot forms in the middle of my throat.

Noah, Kai, and Gray wait for me at home plate.

We remove our helmets and bump them against each other.

My teammates are all out of the dugout, gathered around, creating a tunnel.

They slap my shoulder, butt, and back as I jog down it, and they shout enthusiastically at me as I make my way into the dugout.

The knot only grows, my eyes mist, and my chest squeezes painfully. I barely manage to pull myself together and hand my helmet to one of the student athletic trainers.

I stand next to Angel on the padded railing, watching Jamie, our third baseman, walk up to the bat. He goes on about something, but it’s hard to pay attention to him.

First games are always the hardest for me and I know it’s only a matter of time before the feeling wanes.

In the meantime, I scan the stadium, trying to distract my mind from my dark, destructive thoughts.

I don’t search for my parents—I know they’re here, but Pen isn’t.

She’s in North Carolina at an away game with the basketball team.

I know Josie’s not here either. I asked if she was going to come, but she said she was meeting up with a potential new client. I know it’s her job, but I wish she was here instead.