We can’t let up. This lead is ours to blow, and if there’s one thing the Fireballs are historically exceptionally good at, it’s blowing.
It’s such a long climb to the top. I don’t know what I’ll do if we fuck it up. IfIfuck it up. And I’m still terrified about what’s waiting on the other side if wedomake it all the way, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting that stop me from wanting it all.
This is what I’ve dreamed of my entire life.
I’m not letting up now.
If only I could get my game back.
“Lucky socks are failing me. I’m trying something new,” I tell Diego.
He wrinkles his nose. “You still smell like lucky socks.”
“You smell like rookie noogies.” I reach for him, but he darts away like he doesn’t spend hours a day squatting behind the plate. Hope the kid’s knees last long and prosper.
The bench shakes beside me as Max sits down. He’s digging into a bag of popcorn. “Dick broke?” he asks.
“Didn’t look close enough in the shower to see for yourself that I’m better than fine?”
“I don’t like to squint in the shower. Also, if that’s where you’re showing off…”
I reach for the popcorn.
He pulls it away before I can grab any. “This is winner popcorn. I won yesterday. You struck out twice and popped out once.”
“I scored.”
“Dude, you got walked, and then you got walked in. They gave that to you.”
“You were my idol when I was in the Minors.” Diego’s down the way, sitting in front of his locker, but he’s clearly listening in, and he’s staring at me the same way he stared at Waverly’s photoshoot inPeoplelast week.
Waverly.
Waverly.
We’ve been texting every day for over a month now. Sometimes she leaves me a voicemail. Sometimes I leave her a voicemail.
We’re both hella busy. It’s annoying as fuck, and every day, I’m realizing more and more how right Zinnia was all those years ago.
We would’ve held each other back.
Or worse, we would’ve started resenting each other for our schedules, and then what was a three-day thing that we seem to have overcome now would’ve turned into a lifetime of hating each other.
And I don’t like to hate people.
“Sorry you had misdirected hero worship, Diego.” Max shakes his head. “Always happens. The rookies worship ol’ Coop here, and then they get to know him.”
“It’s okay, Happy Max. I like knowing my idols have layers.”
“Makes us more awesome,” I interject.
Diego doesn’t agree.
Instead, he makes a deer-in-the-headlights face and turns to grab something out of his locker.
Francisco snorts. “Taken down by the rookie. Nice, D. Nice. But, Coop, seriously—is your dick broken? You haven’t been out with us after a game practically the whole season. We’re missing our wingman.”
“He got old,” Luca offers.
