Page 51 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

D ylan stepped into the batter’s box, his shoes kicking clay onto the plate as he got into position. He tested his grip on the bat.

“You ready, Little Prince?”

He rolled his jaw at the taunting edge of the pitcher’s tone. “Ready.”

“You want me to go easy on ya in the first round?” Diego tossed the ball up and down in his hand, chewing gum.

Dylan tapped the bat’s tip to the plate thrice, then swung it over his shoulder. “Give me all you got.”

The twenty-one-year-old gave a quick tilt of his head as if to say, “alright then.” Diego glanced past Dylan at a group of players behind the net and winked at them.

Dylan wondered how high the bets were that he’d strike out.

He’d been a two-way player since he was a kid, but he’d had to commit to one position when he entered the minor league. He’d missed batting. His father wouldn’t be pleased that Dylan was doing anything other than pitching at this boot camp, but it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

The players at the boot camp were mainly rookies and free agents in the league, working to improve their game, along with a few others like him who were returning from injuries.

But unlike Dylan, they didn’t have their reputation on the line.

He knew they were all waiting to see how far the mighty had fallen.

Dylan had never felt lower than he had after the accident. This would be a walk in the park in comparison.

“Let’s go,” one of the guys yelled from the bleachers.

Dylan shifted his stance, loaded up the bat, and took a deep breath, slowly letting it out through his nose to settle into it.

Diego spat in the dirt, then casually observed him, loosely rolling the baseball in his hand.

The sun beamed down from a cloudless sky, the air thick with the smell of freshly cut grass and pine trees that enveloped the park.

The pitcher waited several seconds before suddenly pulling his arm back and hurling a fastball at him.

Dylan’s reaction time was good, but his swing was off. He missed it entirely.

He ate the curse that rose in his throat, not wanting to show his frustration. At least now, he knew Diego’s form. And his tell.

“You sure you don’t want me to go easy on you? At least for a warm-up,” Diego offered.

“Only if you need one,” Dylan said.

Diego laughed, briefly looking over his shoulder at the players on the field. “Nah. I’ve been waiting all week for this.”

“Then, put your money where your mouth is, rookie.”

That got the reaction Dylan expected. Determination flared in Diego’s eyes, his smile settling into a hard line on his face. Dylan flexed his fingers around the bat, stretching before repositioning his grip.

He watched Diego closely, saw the moment he mentally wound up—the feathering of a muscle in his neck.

Diego pitched another fastball, this time with even more aggression than the first, but Dylan was ready. The wood cracked against the ball, sending it soaring centerfield. He dropped the bat and took off running as the opposing team scrambled for the ball.

But it was gone—over the fence.

Dylan ran through the bases as applause rang out from the small group of players on the bleachers and his teammates on the field. Even some of the guys playing on the opposing side slapped his hand as he passed them on the way to home plate.

“Welcome back, Little Prince,” one of them said as he sprinted past his base.

At least for a few minutes, Dylan felt like he was floating on air.

Man, he’d missed this.

The hot water on his skin and the steam filling his lungs helped him wind down after the game.

Dylan braced his arm on the tiled wall, concentrating the stream from the shower head on his left shoulder.

It soothed the aching muscles beneath his scar.

He would’ve stayed there for an hour if he weren’t in one of the small, grimy locker room showers.

Dylan spun the valve, cutting off the water and throwing a towel around his waist before stepping out into the locker room. He looked forward to a hot meal and an evening relaxing on a heating pad. Alone.

The other guys lingered in the locker room, shooting the shit and rehashing the game while a small television mounted in the corner played the muted local news.

Dylan had always been the quiet, pensive type after a match.

He liked to replay it in his head, process every play that had gone right, analyze the ones that hadn’t.

Some of his teammates taunted him about being a recluse.

“ He’s a tight ass ’til he gets a drink in him ,” they’d say.

Well, that was their problem now.

Dylan grabbed another towel to dry his hair as he strode to his locker. He punched in the code and swung open the squeaky metal door. Hanging the second towel around his neck, he poured some beard oil on his fingers and scrubbed it through his facial hair.

“Whoa, you see that?” asked one of the guys.

“Oh, shit.”

Dylan looked back to see what the commotion was about and followed their attention to the television. The headline on the screen read “CARMICHAEL ENTERPRISES STOCK PLUMMETS.”

The blood drained from Dylan’s face.

“What’s the big deal?” one of the younger players asked, his voice and other noise in the locker room receding to the background as Dylan stared at the screen, trying to read the slow-moving captions as they appeared. The anchors were talking about rumors of upcoming layoffs and budget cuts.

“They own the Tidebreakers, dumbass,” another answered. “Guess the rumors about them having to sell are true after all.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Diego remarked. That snapped Dylan’s attention away from the television. He found Diego already looking at him, putting his arms through the holes of a white t-shirt and pulling it over his head.

“And why’s that?” Dylan asked, humoring him. He screwed the cap back on the oil, shoving it back in the locker.

“Because the team needs some fresh blood. Carmichael’s a dinosaur. He’s more interested in taking care of himself and his rich friends than actually doing what’s right by the team.”

Dylan exhaled a short, quiet laugh. He’d been cutting Diego slack out of sympathy for what happened, taking the teasing and snide comments in stride the last few days, but shit-talking his former boss wasn’t going to earn him any favors.

But Dylan understood, Diego was angry and resentful, and he needed to get it off his chest.

“Why don’t you say what you really want to say, Diego?” Dylan squared his body to the young player, facing him head-on.

Diego studied him for a moment, his tongue pressing into his cheek.

“Alright.” He nodded. “I think if you had a different last name, they wouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of giving you another chance because there are plenty of players out here who can take your place and do an even better job at it.

And if your father weren’t up Carmichael’s ass, he’d be out, too.

The team’s suffering, and all they care about is protecting their legacies. Everyone else is just a pawn.”

Though it was nothing Dylan hadn’t heard before from sports pundits, it burned to listen to it from someone who had once been his teammate, and even a friend.

The locker room went quiet, the tension thicker than the dense, humid air as the other guys caught on to the conversation and exchanged glances with each other.

Dylan set his hands on his hips, briefly lowering his gaze to the concrete floor. “Well, thank you for being honest. I don’t blame you for being pissed off. What happened to you wasn’t fair.”

Diego laughed derisively. “Wasn’t fair? I got fucking screwed.

I didn’t even want to get on that boat. I just followed you and Craig because you were my teammates.

I thought I could trust you. Then, you black out and the other fucker crashes the damn thing.

I was the only one who tried to stop him, and what did I get for it?

Punched in the face and cut from the team I quit college for. All because my name isn’t Strickland.”

The other guys shifted uncomfortably, some rubbing their chins as others raised their eyebrows. None of them were Tidebreakers—not yet anyway—but Diego clearly didn’t feel any loyalty to the team that, in his eyes, had abandoned him.

The worst part was that he was right.

But how could Dylan let him know he agreed that Eddie made a mistake without throwing his boss and a man who was practically family under the bus? His hands were tied.

“There are a lot of politics in baseball that aren’t fair,” Dylan said, clenching his jaw.

“Good people get screwed all the time. We all made a mistake that night, and we’re all paying for it.

I’m sorry you’re off the team. But you’re an excellent player, Diego.

Someone will grab you, and it’ll be the Tidebreakers’ loss. ”

Diego’s glare was sharp and unyielding. “You’re damn right it will be.”

There was nothing Dylan could say to fix Diego’s situation, but he couldn’t avoid addressing the elephant in the room.

The thing he carried with him to every field and every locker room, the invisible barrier that would always separate him from his teammates and cast a shadow over every move he made.

“I know my background is unique,” Dylan said.

“I’ve had privileges most people don’t, and it’s made me question my worthiness more than anyone else.

But I promise you, no one loves this team more than Eddie or my dad.

Or me. Yeah, it’s our legacies. That makes us really fucking committed to protecting it, even when things aren’t going our way.

There’s no walking away from it when it gets tough or jumping to another one. This is it for us.”