Page 15

FIFTEEN

PARKER

“ S TRIKE.”

My ear rang from the volume of the umpire yelling. I swear he was getting louder with every call he made.

Or he was trying to be heard over the din of Lions fans cheering at the call, especially the ones behind the strike zone.

It was like they’d collectively decided to play umpire, several thousand of them sitting there, eyes trained on the ball flying straight into my glove and shouting the strike before he could.

Change over.

I stood, stretching out my thighs and glutes, while Ace jogged over from the mound and we walked to the dugout together.

I tapped my fist to his. “Nice work.”

“We’re on fire today.”

We were heading into bottom of the third against the Marlins, at Lions Stadium, and up by two runs to nothing.

Even though there was still over half the game left to play, there was an extra special buzz in the air that felt a lot like winning. It was all to do with us playing at home.

At Lions Stadium.

I’d been in every major league stadium in North America several times over, but I’d never felt anything like the electricity that ran through the fans when we stepped onto Lions field.

It made winning that extra bit sweeter, and I knew that’s where we were headed today. I could feel it deep in my bones.

Ace and I were syncing beautifully, more of the Marlins than not had been sent off without making first base. Today, the field was nothing more than a paint-by-numbers exercise, the Marlins’ defense was predictable to the point of boring. It was like they hadn’t even tried to make this difficult for us.

Yeah, we were definitely heading for a win.

Ducking my head, I stepped down into the dugout and took a seat next to the pitcher’s chair—Ace’s chair—as the rest of the guys made their way off the field.

Our current team had been playing together for a few seasons now, give or take a couple of transfers and the new rookies, but we’d spent hundreds of hours in the dugout that I could close my eyes and tell you exactly what was about to happen.

Saint Velasquez, our Puerto Rican right field, would be first in line for snacks, ripping open a packet of the sunflower seeds he loved so much while yelling out calls for the guy up at bat, no matter how many times Coach told him to stop.

Jupiter Reeves would grab a bottle of the blue Gatorade, take one sip, snatch up his bat and helmet, then make his way to the bullpen because he was always first at bat.

The rest of the guys would file in; some would find their coaches, some would grab snacks and drinks, and some would sit in silence for a minute, thinking about the next inning.

“Heads up,” yelled Tanner, and I turned just in time to find a protein bar hurtling toward me, snatching it right before it hit me in the face.

I should have kept my cage on.

“A little more notice next time.” I frowned at him as he dropped onto the bench next to me.

“Sorry.” He took a swig of the apple juice he was holding and passed it to me, leaning around to peer at Ace. “Hey, Lucky Aces, your pitching is on fire today.”

Ace finished the bottle of water he was guzzling down like he’d been in the desert for a month, and tossed it into the trash. Given he wouldn’t be at bat, he didn’t need to worry about water sloshing around his belly as he ran bases. Not like the rest of us.

A wide grin split his face as he looked back at Tanner. “It fucking is. Isn’t it?”

“Is Payton here?”

“Yeah, she’s up with the girls.” He thumbed in the general direction of the stands behind us, though really, he was aiming for the owners’ box.

Payton Lopez, Ace’s girlfriend, happened to be best friends with Penn Shepherd’s wife, and therefore whenever Payton came to games, she mostly watched up there.

She said it was because she didn’t like being surrounded by hundreds of girls all wearing Ace Watson shirts and screaming about how hot he was. But she’d also admitted it was because she didn’t like standing in line for drinks.

“Where’s Weston?” Tanner asked.

I nodded to the end of the dugout where Lux was talking to his coach, head bent down in concentration at whatever he was being told. Tanner didn’t seem to care, however, and if the umpire hadn’t burst my ear drum with his call, Tanner’s voice nearly did.

“Weston!”

“Tan, what the fuck?” I grunted, attempting to stop the ringing in my ear as Lux, along with everyone else in the dugout, including all the coaches, turned their attention to Tanner waving emphatically.

Tanner was just about to start shouting again when Lux made his way over, likely at the urging of Coach to get Tanner to stop making so much noise.

“You best not be calling because you wanted snacks,” snapped Lux as he got closer and positioned himself against the boards.

“I wasn’t, though it wouldn’t have hurt you to pick up some protein bars on your way over here.”

Lux rolled his eyes. “What is it then?”

“I was just wondering where Radley’s sitting.”

Ace barked out a laugh. “Seriously. Tan, come on.”

“What?” he replied, his tone verging on huffy. “You know where Payton is. Parker knows where Scout is. I just want to know where Millie is. They weren’t here for warm-ups.”

Lux dropped his head with a shake, though it was only to hide a grin.

“I don’t, actually,” I offered up.

Tanner turned to me. “What?”

“I don’t know where Scout is. I haven’t seen her since this morning after Rangers douche stormed away.”

Tanner’s eyes bulged in response. “Shit. That’s who that guy was? I should have knocked him out when he barged me. What was he doing here?”

I shrugged. “To talk to Scout, I guess. Not that he got a chance.”

What an absolute tool that guy had been. Still was. Always would be, most likely. I’d been thinking about it all day and couldn’t figure out how Scout—sweet, lovely Scout—had wasted so long with him. Or what she’d seen in him in the first place.

He wasn’t even good looking. Close up, I could only describe his face as punchable.

Ace pulled a protein bar from his pocket and unwrapped it. “Yeah, I’d say you were rocking that protective vibe this morning. Did Scout finally see you as boyfriend material and agree to a date?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

He reached over and patted my knee. “She will, don’t worry. Did you get her number yet?”

“Nope.”

“Well, that needs to be the next plan in Operation Strike Zone.”

“Only if we stop calling it that.”

Tanner turned to me. “What’s wrong with Operation Strike Zone?”

“What’s right with it? It sounds so dumb.”

“It’s cool. Like we’re in the CIA or something.”

“But we’re not in the CIA. We play baseball.”

Tanner shrugged like he didn’t see the difference and stood up. “Well, I think it’s cool. And you know my motto…”

He reached over my head to the shelves of helmets and grabbed his. Without saying another word, he turned around, jogged to the end of the dugout, removed his bat from the bin, and vaulted the boards on the way to the bullpen.

Lux had long since lost interest in the conversation and was now looking out to the field where the Marlins were getting into position on the field. I turned to Ace, wearing an expression of amusement identical to his.

“What is his motto?”

“Beats me,” he replied, nodding to the field. “Reeves is up.”

Nudging Lux with the tip of my shoe and gesturing him to move out of the way from the boards he was still leaning over—the guy made a better door than a window—I watched the field. The Marlins were all in place, preparing themselves for the force of Jupiter’s hit. He hadn’t made a home run yet, but the last two innings he’d got around to third base before the ball stopped him.

Jupiter up at bat was always a sight to see. I remembered being a kid and obsessively watching Dodgers games just to catch a glimpse of the great Jupiter Reeves.

Watching him was like watching art come to life.

The calculated positioning of his body, the roll of his neck, the subtle way he shifted his weight from right to left. It was the same every single time, and no matter how much people tried to copy it, they never came away with the same result.

“Fuuuck,” hissed Ace while Lux let out a low whistle, though it was virtually impossible to hear over the roar of the crowd. “That’s gotta be three hundred and fifty feet.”

And just like that we were up another run.

As he took off, Jupiter tossed his bat high into the air, and it landed back on the ground with a thud. It had been known to snap in half before, but from what I could see this time it stayed intact.

His run around the bases was slow and deliberate as he soaked in the deafening cheers from fans. And not just Lions fans, everyone. Jupiter Reeves might be a Lion, but there wasn’t a single person watching who couldn’t appreciate what they’d just witnessed, because he’d long ago cemented himself as one of the greatest players of all time.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, stepping into the dugout wearing a massive grin, and marched down to the end of the row, high-fiving everyone he passed.

He might be the GOAT, but he was also a massive dick when he wanted to be.

“Fucking Reeves,” muttered Ace, because that’s all there was to say, and just like we all did, he flip-flopped between hero-worshipping the guy and wanting to punch him.

“Tan’s at bat,” announced Lux, sitting in the spot Tanner had vacated.

“SMASH IT, SIMPSON,” yelled Ace.

The three of us sat in silence as Tanner readied himself for the ball. Even though he acted a clown 99 percent of the time, the second Tanner stepped onto the field, his entire demeanor changed to one of serious concentration. You could see it from the way he spun his bat in the palm of his hand and got into position; there was an intensity in his expression you never saw him wearing at any other time.

“That’ll get him to second,” said Lux as Tanner grounded the ball to the outfield, the Marlins shortstop narrowly missing it rolling past his leg.

“He might get to third if he sprints,” I replied, eyes narrowed on Tanner powering onto second base, where he stopped.

“Next time.” Ace chuckled.

It was as Boomer Jones stepped up to the plate that I felt the presence of someone sliding along the benches next to me.

“How’s it going with the social chick?” asked Jupiter, taking a long swig of the Gatorade he’d picked up when we first came off the field.

I side-eyed him. “Fine.”

“Got her number yet?”

I shook my head, answering the question for the second time in ten minutes. “Nope.”

“Hmm—” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded, crumpled piece of paper, which he held between his fingers. “It’s your lucky day then, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?” I asked, one eye still on Boomer, who’d managed to get to first base, while Tanner moved to third.

“A cell number,” he replied, snatching his hand away when I tried to take it.

Dick.

“Reeves, I’m not in the mood, and I don’t want a random cell number.”

“It’s not random. It’s Scout’s.”

Turning my entire body toward him, I tried to pin him with one of the menacing scowls he used on us most of the time. But it wasn’t anywhere near as effective. Maybe you needed to be nearing forty in order to accomplish that, or however old he was. Retirement was calling, that was for sure.

“You’re telling me on that piece of paper in your hand is Scout Davison’s cell phone number?”

“Yup.”

I took a deep breath, willing my racing heart to calm so I could at the very least give the impression of being cool. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’re a good catcher, you’re good for this club, and you’re going to go far in baseball.”

My brows dropped so quickly a bolt of pain shot me right between the eyes. I rubbed against my forehead. “Seriously, what are you doing, Reeves?”

“Marnie told me about the VO2 max test and how you nearly killed yourself to impress this girl. We kind of need you on the team, so I’m helping you out.”

“By giving me her number?”

“Exactly.” He held the paper out to me again, this time allowing me to take it.

I still wasn’t 100 percent certain that I’d open it to find a cell number, but sure enough scrawled inside were ten digits, with Scout’s name above them. And this crumpled-up piece of paper became the most precious thing I owned.

“Thanks, man, I really appreciate it,” I said as he stood up to leave. “I apologize for calling you a massive dick.”

“You didn’t call me a massive dick.”

My gaze flicked to his, though it didn’t quite meet his eye, instead offering a wry smile. “Oh, didn’t I?”

He walked off with a head shake, mumbling something I didn’t catch.

I glanced back down at the number— Scout’s number —before folding it up and slipping it carefully into my pocket for safekeeping.

For the rest of the game, we were untouchable. I was untouchable. Ace and I took the Marlins out fastball after fastball. I hit two home runs. The final score was Lions: 8, Marlins: 2.

Once the final play was done, I sprinted off the field before anyone could catch me, heading straight to the locker room. Ignoring coach, ignoring reporters waiting for a quote, ignoring everything. They could all wait until I’d completed this one task.

Yanking my locker open so hard I nearly pulled it from its hinges, I grabbed my phone.

Parker: Hey, Davison, how about we try for coffee again in the morning? No douches invited. Same time, same place?