Page 38

CHAPTER 38

LOGAN

“A re you okay?”

I snap my mouth shut and stare at Cade Starr, the author of the question.

We’re on the mound right before game one in the series against the Denver Riders, fronted by one asswipe called Ben Williams. I enjoyed defeating him in the opening games of the season so he would understand that the sole reason he even grew an inch as a baseball pitcher was because of me.

But now I have a more personal interest in squashing his ego, knowing all the damage he inflicted on Rose. And while she and I are… nothing, anymore, I don’t want her to see Williams’s victorious face on her screen.

I roll my shoulders and speak behind my glove. “Why do you ask?”

Starr also covers half his face with his glove, but I can see him cock an eyebrow. “You’re so on edge I practically get paper cuts from just being too close.”

I groan. “Starr, that brain of yours is made for pitching balls, not for putting together fancy sentences.”

“I’ll have you know it’s also made to keep Hope safe and happy. Wait—” His eyes widen. “That’s it, isn’t it? You had a fight with Rose.”

“I did not.” It wasn’t a fight. We made out and she still sent me packing after that. Not the same. “Besides, we’re not really dating.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Sighing, I sweep my free arm around. “You really want to talk about this in front of fifty thousand people?”

The jerk takes an exaggerated look as if only noticing just now that we’re in the middle of a pro ball stadium in downtown Orlando.

The Wild and the Riders are being dubbed as rivals by media, ever since the opening game of the season where we faced our former starting pitcher with our ex relief pitcher in his place. And that was even before we stole their star slugger, Miguel Machado, the league’s MVP. Now that we’re deep in the season and boast a wild—pun intended—record, we’re actually selling more tickets than ever.

And this place is packed to the brim.

“Well if not now, when? After we lose the game because you’re obviously off?”

I bark a harsh laugh. “When the hell did you become an expert about me?”

“Since I have to see your ugly mug up close every damn day, you prick.”

“First of all, my mug is not ugly,” I grouch, which only makes his eyes crinkle with a smile. “Second, if I was really as off as you say, Beau would’ve benched me.”

“He can’t see what I see.” Starr shrugs.

“What do you think you see?” I ask in a mocking way.

“A guy who is screwing things up with a girl who is perfect for him.”

That lands like a bucket of cold water and it feels like an entire age goes by without me being able to process a breath into my lungs.

Finally I shake my head. “How the hell is this supposed to walk me off the edge before the game?”

“Oh, so you admit it? Because that’s the first step, trust me.”

“I’m done entertaining this topic.” I clear my throat but it’s not enough to relieve the sandpaper like feeling. I’m so damn glad that the one who is mic’ed up tonight is Machado and not either of us. “The Riders have shaken up their roster pretty deep since we last faced them. You need to be careful with inside pitches when?—”

“Logan,” he says in a much too serious way, which momentarily derails my train of thought. We don’t really do the whole first name basis thing even after the BBQ at his place. “I want you to know that I trust you even on your bad days, but I’m just worried about the dark circles under your eyes today. That’s all.”

Boos are starting to sound all around because we’re taking long in starting the game. They don’t even filter into my brain.

“If you do then—” I punctuate every following word by jabbing his chest with my finger. “Stop trying to get in my head.”

“Aye, captain.”

“Careful with the inside pitches, use your control.”

“What else?”

“Stop looking at me with pity.”

His eyes crinkle again. “I only accept briberies for pizza.”

“Field properly. If you make an error I will personally dismember you.”

“Much encouraging, very leadership,” he says in mockery.

Sarcastically, I add, “And don’t break a nail.”

“Oof, don’t jinx me, man.” Starr shudders.

“Focus,” I command.

“No, you focus.”

“Ugh.” I give up and turn around to head back home.

The umpire has some words for me for delaying the start but it’s not like we’re out of regulations, so I ignore him.

That sets a pretty shitty tone for the start of the game. The umpire makes a bad call that makes us walk the Riders’s leadoff, and I’d have left it alone if it wasn’t because the guy steals a base and we tag him, but instead of calling the out it’s deemed as safe.

“Really?” I take off my mask and stare down at the umpire. He doesn’t like it because he’s a full head shorter.

His face reddens. “Don’t give me lip, Kim. You don’t want this going even worse for you.”

Lip? He calls that lip?

Well, shit. Clearly this guy can’t make a right call to save his life.

I grit my teeth and put my mask back on, crouching to resume play. But the second guy also gets on base, which helps the leadoff steal third. I’m not gonna let them score shit, though. I don’t give a rat’s furry behind that their third batter has a round point-three batting average and one of the highest RBIs in the Riders lineup. The best way I can get us out of this unnecessary pinch is to get this guy out quickly, and the only way I can do that is by letting him hit.

So I signal Starr for an outside curve that the batter can get easily bat toward the centerfield, where Machado will pick it off like it’s child’s play.

It works perfect. The ball makes a clanging sound as it hits the bat and it’s ejected in a fancy trajectory that makes the crowd roar, but as predicted Machado catches it easily and throws to second. That’s an out for the first base runner. Fernandez in second base gets with the program and launches the ball toward me like a cannon.

The beauty of my baseball brain is that I can see everything in slow motion. I see the exact point where the ball takes on an undesired inflection and I know I can’t catch it with one foot on the home plate. Without removing my eyes from the ball, I can see the leadoff batter barreling toward me from third base. I have maybe a microsecond to catch the ball and stretch a limb—any limb—to tag the plate.

The ball hits my glove. I’m off to the left, in the way of the runner. I don’t have enough time to turn and run. So I leap—like a damn gymnast. I fly in the air like I’m about to do a cartwheel.

And then a freight train T-bones me.

The flight isn’t controlled anymore. Pain explodes on my ribs, but I haven’t lost sight of the plate. I will land on that damn house shaped thing even if I break myself.

“Oof!” Air swishes out of my lungs as I crash on the packed dirt, with two hundred pounds extra on top of me. There’s roaring in my ears and for a second I’m weirded out that this Riders asshole is screaming in my ear.

But then the noise starts making sense. The roaring isn’t coming from the runner but from the crowd. It’s wilder than anything I’ve ever heard in my career so far.

“Out!” the umpire calls.

“What?” The rage finally propels the runner to get off me.

And I can’t move.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Now there’s a different kind of roaring. I blink hard, sweat trickling into my eyes and distorting the most bizarre view a catcher can see through the grill of his mask.

And that is of my pitcher, my infielders, and my outfielders running at the same time. Toward me.

And of even more players pouring into the diamond. From both sides.

The umpires start blowing their whistles, but that’s as effective as trying to bat with a pencil when something like a hundred men are losing their shit on the field.

“Kim! Kim!” I recognize the voice. It’s the head of our med team. Feet appear around my field of vision and people start crouching around me.

“Logan,” Hope’s voice cuts through the others. “Talk to us. What do you feel?”

“Winded,” I say in a wheeze. “Ribs hurt.”

“Can you move?”

“I haven’t tried,” I admit.

“Try now.”

I grit my teeth against the pain. Now the worst spot isn’t my ribs where the Rider’s jerk drove himself into, but my right shoulder. I landed with my right arm extended over me, the ball inside my bare hand tagging the home plate. I almost smile with perverse satisfaction. Turns out I did kinda break myself but still succeeded.

Groaning, I push against my glove to lift myself up. Yeah, it hurts like freaking shit but I can move. My legs bend under me and I manage to sit up. I get a bit lightheaded from just that, but I don’t say a peep. There’s no way I’m getting subbed out in the first damn inning.

“Look into the light, Kim,” the physician says and I comply for all of one second, until a different voice cuts in.

“What a show you’re putting, Kim.” I move the doctor’s hand away so I can turn and look up at Williams. Somehow he has escaped the rioting mass of testosterone to come here, and he’s looking down like he’s on a high horse and this is his chance to step on me. “I assume you want a really good reward from Rose after this, huh? But?—”

I warn, “Watch it?—”

“What can I say?” He gives out a mocking laugh. “She’s not the best I’ve ever had.”

I try to launch myself at him but several hands stop me. One of the Wild players close enough to hear breaks out of the mosh pit—Machado.

“Williams,” he says with menace, pushing at his former teammate. “Shut the hell up before Kim pulps you.”

“Is that so?” Williams slides a slimy smirk that I can’t possibly believe ever interested Rose. “I just wanted to give Kim a heads up that my leftovers aren’t that great, but I guess he’s okay with settling.”

Nothing can stop me now .

They try. Someone even rips my elbow pad off.

But the pain is gone and I’m all muscle—muscle and rage.

The roar comes from my chest—from my soul. I’m just aware of two things: one, that I drop everything in my hands and two, that I slam my right fist in Williams’s nose, and it makes a sound like a ball hitting a bat right in the percussion point. Before the motion takes him too far, I ram my other fist in his gut.

“Kim!”

“Logan, stop!”

I’m about to throw myself at him when hands grab me. More hands. Too many for me to move. I try but there are chains around my stomach—not chains, arms. Tanned. With a little scar that I recognize. It’s Rivera. Someone’s screaming something in my ear. I shake my head, trying to make sense of it but the words don’t filter through. My feet leave the ground for a second. There are bodies around me. Sweat drips down my face. I can’t see very well. It’s getting hard to breathe. I’m only aware of being dragged away. The pain is coming back and I can’t fight Rivera off.

“Move it! Move it!” The words penetrate because whoever it is keeps repeating them over and over.

And so I move it. I manage to get my feet going. I can’t breathe. The lights disappear from over me and darkness swallows me in. The tunnel—we’re going to the clubhouse.

I keep going. I let them keep taking me. I gasp for air but I can’t—I can’t breathe. My hands try to grab at everything and anything all at once, but the air escapes me. Colors swim in my vision—voices in my ears. And between all that it finally clicks.

I’m having a panic attack.