Page 29

TWENTY-NINE

PARKER

“ K ING, YOU SUCK. YOU SUUUCCK . KING, YOU SUCK.”

Fucking Mets fans.

We’d been out at pregame warm-ups for five minutes now, and they hadn’t let up once. I could hear them loud and clear, even over the deafening levels of music playing out of the speakers. Whoever was shouting meant business, and was about to get a baseball launched into his face if he wasn’t careful.

I might not have a power arm like some of the guys, but I could hit a target at fifty yards without breaking a sweat. It was irrelevant that I kind of agreed with him.

“KING, YOU SUCK.”

Ace walked over from where he’d been throwing the balls I’d been catching.

“Hey, bud, switch places with me.”

I shook my head. “No way, I’m not giving them the satisfaction.”

He glanced over my shoulder to where the chants were still going strong and looked back at me as confused as I felt. I wasn’t normally one who received the hate from rival fans, that honor usually went to Jupiter, or even Ace, but I guess someone woke up this morning and decided to make my shitty day even shittier.

“Let’s go in then, or move to the other side of the field where Lux and Tan are. They can switch places with us. Even if those dicks aren’t getting to you, they’re getting to me. Fucking douches. How have they not been shut down yet?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. But fuck ’em. Get back to position, we’re not going in. And we’re not moving.”

Ace turned and trudged back to where he’d been standing, but I could tell from the force of his throw how pissed he was. That made two of us, and at least being pissed at the guys behind was distracting me from who I was really pissed at.

Myself.

Everything about this entire day from start to finish had been a shit show and I only had myself to blame.

I should never have been so cocky this morning. I should have checked like I always did when I walked down the corridor, making sure no one else was around before I ducked into the supply closet. But I was riding on the high from my sleepover with Scout, it was like she’d burrowed deep into my chest and was radiating out like a beam of sunshine.

I was deep in thought about the last time I’d felt this happy, when the door had been yanked open and instead of the girl I was desperate to kiss, Coach had been standing there, nostrils flaring.

What the fuck are you doing? Out. Now. He’d snarled, taking in the two cups of coffee I was holding. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

What d’you mean? I’m just looking for cleaning spray. Ace spilled… I’d started, confident I could bullshit my way out of the situation, but then Scout decided that was the moment to walk around the corner, and the shit really hit the fan.

Do you have any concept of how badly Shepherd wants to win the World Series, King?

Yeah, I’d answered, before I realized the question had been rhetorical. Although the empty plinth in the entrance atrium said enough.

No, I don’t think you do. He stepped forward, he was close enough that his glasses could probably steam up from my breath. The trade deadline is in less than two months. Every week we have a discussion on who’s playing the best in the league and who we can swap out. Penn Shepherd will not let anyone stand in his way of winning the trophy this year. Not me, not you, and not your girlfriend standing behind the giant plant over there.

Coach—

Does it look like I’m done talking? You will get traded if he thinks you’re not up to the task, if it looks like your head’s not in the game. His eyes flicked to the closet door, still open, and down to the coffee cups. Do you think it looks like your head’s in the game?

I had said nothing. I’d been with the Lions my entire career. A punch in the nuts was an easier blow to take than the thought of being traded because of something I’d done off the field.

This is your final warning, Parker. You have until the end of the day to decide whether you want to stay as starting catcher, or if you want to watch the Lions win the World Series while you’re over in Colorado, or holding your umbrella in fucking Seattle. And I don’t know if you’re aware, but long-distance relationships don’t work.

I’d been so preoccupied with getting Scout’s attention that I never stopped to think about what would actually happen if we were caught. Coach was right, I had been distracted. I’d been too arrogant in our position teetering at the top of our league to care.

Coach’s words were still ringing in my ears when Scout ran over, and it took one look at her face for utter panic to kick in. Panic about being traded, about leaving the Lions, and more importantly her , and I lost it.

The Mets fans had nailed it, I did fucking suck.

And to top the entire situation off, from the way she stormed off, I think I might have lost Scout too.

“Parker, heads up…”

I swiveled in time for Ace’s bullet throw to miss me by an inch, bounce on the ground, and roll all the way to the boards under the crowd, still trying to drill into me how much I sucked.

“CAN’T EVEN CATCH A COLD, YOU LOSER.”

Running after the ball, I glanced around for security but couldn’t spot them anywhere. We needed to have stricter rules about who we let in early to watch the warm-ups, especially when beer was being served. Or where the rival fans sat. I didn’t fail to notice that none of the social team were out here, either, particularly the one member I wanted to see.

The guilt of shouting at Scout flared up again. As I bent to pick up the ball, my eye caught one of the guys in the group. I thought my blood had already reached boiling point today, but I’d been wrong.

From the way I was storming back to him, Ace could tell something was up, and he jogged toward me, his frown deepening with each step.

“Are we going in now?”

“Yeah, I need to find Pablo.”

“Pabs? Why?”

“Because that guy telling me how much I suck is Scout’s ex. And I want him removed.”

Ace was still glancing over his shoulder as he caught up with me, jogging toward the dugout. “Rangers Douche?”

“Yup,” I replied as another heckle was sent my way.

“CATCH YOU LATER, KING. SHAME YOU WON’T BE CATCHING ANYTHING.”

I was still holding the ball, and spun around, throwing it as hard as I could against the board, right below where he was leaning over.

I shouldn’t have done it, I should be mature enough and experienced enough to rise above it. But he was more than an opposing fan, and he’d made it personal.

There was no denying I enjoyed how quickly he flinched back at the sound of the ball making contact.

“Next time it’ll be your head,” I added with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, and ducked into the dugout. Snatching up the phone on the wall, I hit Speed Dial for reception. “Pabs, it’s Parker.”

“My favorite catcher.” He chuckled. “Why aren’t you warming up?”

“I am. I was. But there are some hecklers in the bleachers, can you have them escorted out? I can’t find security.”

He tutted loudly. “Parker, you know as well as I do we can’t kick out the fans we don’t like, no matter how much we might want to.”

“It’s Scout’s ex. The one who came to see her.”

I thought he’d hung up, the line was so quiet. But then, “Give me five minutes.”

“Thanks, Pabs, appreciate it.”

“No problem, now concentrate on winning.”

The line went dead before I could tell him I’d do my best, and I turned to Ace, who was trying to keep his pitching arm as loose and warm as possible.

“Is he doing it?”

“Yep.” I nodded, dropping down onto the bench with a heavy sigh.

He thumbed over to the tunnel. “And are we going in now?”

I nodded again, though stayed where I was. Instead, glanced out to the field where everyone was still warming up; Lux and Tanner were over in the outfield, tossing and catching, Jupiter was standing at the side talking to his third base coach and Marnie, Boomer Jones and a couple of the other guys were sprinting over in the corner.

On the other side of the field were the Mets players, all doing much of the same.

“Where’s Scout watching from today?”

“I dunno,” I replied, kicking at a discarded peanut shell on the floor, one left over by Saint Velasquez, no doubt.

“Dude, are you okay? Ignore those guys, they’re dicks.”

I rubbed at my chest; the heaviness which had been dragging through it all day now felt impossible to move. Like an elephant was sitting on my rib cage doing its best to slowly crush me. Crush my heart. Stop my breathing.

“It’s not the guys.” I curled my hand around the rim of my cap. “I think Scout and I might have broken up.”

“What?”

“I fucked up. Coach caught us and threatened me with getting traded, and I took it out on her. I shouted. I made her think her job wasn’t important to me. Or she wasn’t important to me. And that’s so far from the truth,” I added, my voice cracking as I failed to swallow down the lump in my throat. “And now I have two fuckups to fix. Scout and Coach. Three, if you count Scout’s job.”

“Oh, bud.” Ace joined me on the bench, threw his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me in for a hug. “You won’t have broken up. It’s just a stupid fight. Everyone has them, then you move past it and it makes you better.”

“I dunno, she seemed mad.” I dropped my head into my hands. “Rangers Douche was such a dick to her and I’ve proved I’m no better.”

“Parker, come on. You aren’t anything like him.” He rolled his eyes. “Coach really threatened to trade you?”

“He said nothing will get in the way of Shepherd winning the trophy this year.”

Ace let out a low whistle. “You’re not getting traded and I’m not playing without you. Coach is just mad because he thinks you’ve been sneaking around with Scout.”

“I have been.”

“Right, but…” He paused while I assumed he tried to figure out what his point was. “But you’ve not been together very long, officially, only a couple of weeks. Not as long as he thinks. And it’s not like you were being defiant on purpose, Scout had her job thing. Who d’you want to fix things with first? Coach or Scout.”

“Scout,” I replied without hesitation. “But I think I’ll run into Coach first.”

“Did you explain anything to him?”

I shook my head. “No, he stormed off too. Right after he was done threatening me with my position.”

“You don’t want to leave the club, do you?” Ace asked, his voice quieter.

“No. Of course I fucking don’t. I’ve been here my whole career. I just want to be here with Scout too.” I pushed my cap up and rubbed along my brow. “Fuck. I’ve messed this up so badly. I have to make it better, I have to apologize. Beg her to forgive me.”

“Hey,” he nudged into my ribs, “I’m the only one of us who gets to be this dramatic. You’ve fucked up nothing. It’s this stupid form that’s caused all the problems. Just go and sign it, tell Coach you’re not leaving, and go get Scout back.”

I turned to him, suddenly feeling way more hopeful than I had all day. “You think if I go to HR for the form, I can explain about Scout’s job too?”

“Definitely.” He grinned at me, slapping my back. “Everything is fixable. It won’t be as bad as you think it is. But we have a game to play first.”

Looking out to the field, everyone was making their way off except Lux and Tanner, heading over to us.

“Why are you two sitting in here?”

“We’re not, we’re heading in now.” I stood up, catching the ball Lux tossed to me and stepping out. The timing could not have been more perfect, either, for over where Rangers Douche and his friends were drinking beers, a group of security guards was making their way down the steps. “Wait one second, I want to see this.”

The four of us stopped to watch as the guards calmly rounded the guys up and escorted them away.

“Damn, I thought we might get a fight,” said Ace.

“No way, those guards easily weigh two fifty. I wouldn’t take them on.”

Lux pushed up his ball cap with a frown. “What’s just happened?”

“Rangers Douche was asked to leave.” Ace grinned.

Tanner turned to me, his brows knotted and looking as confused as Lux. “Scout’s ex? What was he doing here?”

“Trying to be a pain in my ass. And reminding me I need to be a better boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Nothing, let’s go. We have a game to win.”

“Damn right we do.”

M an, I really hoped Rangers Douche was watching the Lions cream the Mets from some shitty dive bar with the volume turned way down. We were currently top of the fourth, leading the Mets by seven runs to three, and a perverse type of pleasure was warming my veins better than the 90-degree heat that had me sweating my ass off in practice this afternoon.

This day was turning itself around.

We’d win the game, I’d find Scout, Coach, and HR, fix all my fuckups, and then we could get on with our lives.

The next Mets batter took his sweet time walking up to the plate. Enough that I could already tell from Ace’s stance what his next ball was going to be without me needing to give him a signal. We’d talked about it during the last break—fastball, curveball, or change-up—and this ball was going to be fast.

Behind me, the umpire was hopping about from one foot to another. I dropped into my squat, shifting my weight from side to side as the batter got into position, and rested my right knee.

Ace’s leg raised high, his arm pitched back. I dropped lower.

The ball shot through the air.

The batter swung. And missed. The ball spun.

I reached out to catch it. But instead of hitting center of my glove, it found a different target.

In less than a second, my life flashed before my eyes.

I’d never felt pain like this. Searing uncontrollable pain.

My entire body convulsed like it was trying to turn me inside out. Every cell, every nerve ending exploded as I tried my hardest to stay upright.

And then I hurled my guts up, rolled over, and passed out.

This fucking day.