“But,” Coach continues as if he didn’t hear me, “the team has to make some difficult decisions about our playoff roster, son.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as ifhe’snot the one making those decisions.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, ignoring how someone behind me snorts. “The front office supports you tanking the team’s chances in the postseason to prove a point?”
Next to me, Brayden’s face has gone thunderous, not the wild-eyed way he’d argue with me—arguing that I now know was flirting—but something sharp and pointed. Around us, various team members are murmuring again. I can barely hear them over the rush of blood in my ears. This isn’t rage. It feelsdifferent, less like my body doesn’t belong to me and more like I’m preparing to stand my ground. We promised Savannah we’d provide for her, so that’s what I’m going to make sure we can do.
Coach also doesn’t move. “The front office supports whatever decisions I need to make to ensure team cohesion.” But there’s something in his expression—some flicker, some twitch—that makes me think he hasn’t even thought that far.
“Bullshit.”
“Adler—”
“Yeah, so the names on our jerseys were pretty clear last night.”
“I’m not calling you bythreenames,” Coach says. He doesn’t say the worddepravity,but I can hear it in his tone. How many other players in the room agree?
Someone clears their throat in the ensuing silence. Crawford, seated between McDonald and LeBlanc. “If Adler and Forsyth aren’t available, I’d be happy to play the outfield, sir,” he says.
It clicks. Crawford’s been stewing on this all season, waiting for his chance, not to fuck me over to just to fuck me over, but to get back his role starting in centerfield. “So it was you,” I spit, walking toward him.
Brayden’s hand clamps on my shoulder. “What did he do?”
“Ever wonder how the team found out about us?” I ask. “He was trying to get his old centerfield job back without, you know, actually putting in the time. Turns out some people will do anything but work hard.”
Brayden’s hand is still on my shoulder, restraining me from going over and showing Crawford exactly what I think of him. Slowly, he removes his hand, finger by finger.
I step toward Crawford, who flinches and actually attempts to hide. “Too cowardly to own screwing over your own teammate?”
“At least I’m not screwing my own teammate,” Crawford says with a sneer. He glances around if he expects the clubhouse to rally to his defense, then finally looks at Coach.
“Right,” Coach says, “Adler, Forsyth, whatever names you’re calling yourselves. You’re off the postseason roster. Now?—”
“Hold on.” McDonald rises slowly from his chair. “Don’t know about you gentlemen, but I play baseball because I want towin. Forsyth and Adler give us the best chance to do that. I don’t pretend to know the details of whatever the fuck they’re doing at home—” He holds out a hand. “Nor do I want to know, really. But we’re a better team when they’re playing well, and if this is what makes them happy enough to play well, then who fucking cares about the rest of it?”
“Now, Isaiah—” Coach begins.
“Maybe I was being unclear,” McDonald says, “but if you bench them, take me off the roster too.”
“Yeah,” LeBlanc says, “I don’t really care if they’re gay for their wife or whatever. They couldn’t be gayer than Adler’s tiny-ass shorts, anyway. So bench me too.”
A few more guys pipe up—the entire infield, our left fielder who was mostly content to let me catch all the difficult fly balls. A handful of pitchers. Not everyone. But enough.Enough.
Coach’s polo shirt develops a wrinkle. His entire body seems to deflate. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t a mutiny. “Gentlemen, this is supposed to be family-friendly entertainment?—"
“And we’re a family,” Brayden says. “Maybe not one you recognize, but that doesn’t stop us from being one. You told me to find a good woman. I did. Thebestone. You said that it would give me a sense of normalcy. I don’t really give a shit aboutnormalanymore. Now if we’re done here, can we play some fucking baseball?”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Savannah
I walkinto the family room for the game wearing a generic Peaches sweatshirt. I don’t remember if it’s Asher’s or Brayden’s. Brayden’s probably, from the way the inside is soft as if it’s been washed a bunch. Given the way the entire room stares at me, the bright pinkAon the front might as well be a scarlet one.
A few of the women corral their children closer. More of them aren’t looking at me—they’re staring straight at Lexi.
“Hey, girl,” she calls, then gets up to greet me, air kissing me on both cheeks for good measure.
“Everyone looks worried I’m gonna take their man,” I whisper.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Two’s enough for you…” Lexi gives me a wicked look. “Right?”
