Honestly, I appreciated a minute alone.
Three days of performing, three days of being watched, three days of best behavior, and I'm exhausted, frayed and worn and a little on edge. Something is going to happen, I can feel it, like a pressure cooker about to blow. Her parents have watched me like a hawk, like they're waiting for me to fuck up, to prove them right.
Just one more night.She's going to tell them to go tomorrow, the game the big thing on their list that they wanted to do. Once this is done, there's no reason for them to stay.
Thank fucking god.
I left early to get ready for the Rambler's game, which is where I find myself now. Molly, her parents, and Cass and Jessa are set up by the fence like I suggested. Molly looks as tired as I feel. I wish I could wipe her worry away, take it and carry it for her. But I can barely talk to her when her parents are around, never mind comfort her.
When I got here, I was hopeful that I could survive the game and the whispers and whatever else might come at me. But then the game started to slip away, errors and strikeouts piling up. We've been trailing the whole game. My frustration has built to the point of snapping, the crowd restless and disappointed. Drinking and getting loud. I can already hear some of the comments.
Ignore it.
Focus on the game.
Just get through it.
We lost so bad, it wasn't even close.
Some assholes in our crowd are actually booing as we shake hands with the other team. Heckling us as I pack equipment with the guys in the dugout.
On the other side, Wade Pruitt is draped on the bleachers surrounded by his boys, watching me. He takes a sip of whatever’s in his Solo cup.
My jaw tightens. I keep packing.
“God that was embarrassing.” Kyle’s voice carries from the bleachers, loud and loose. “I don’t know what happened to this team.”
“Used to be decent,” Wade says, his eyes still on me.
The knot of shitheads laughs, a mean, pointed sound.
“You know what the problem is?” Wade asks them.
“What?” Kyle’s playing along happily, eyeing me and smiling.
“Brooks is distracted.”
Kyle snickers. “That little librarian.” He says it like something dirty.
I want to reach down his throat and pull out his esophagus.
“Sweet,” Wade echoes. “Young. Young enough to be hisdaughter.”
“Ignore them,” Tate says from beside me, glaring at them along with Wilder and Remy.
I zip my bag and grab it. “Let’s go.”
We exit the dugout, but the only way to the parking lot is past them. I keep my eyes ahead.
Just get to the truck.
As we approach, Wade stands. I can smell the liquor on him from five feet away. He’s drunker than he looks, the polish worn off, his smile looser, meaner.
“There he is.” Wade falls into a lazy step beside us. “Rough one, Brooks. I mean,reallyrough.”
Keep walking.
“Never could hold onto it, not even in high school. A lead. A ball. A girl.”
