Cheers rang out around the table. Glasses and bottles clinked together. As far as first games went, we couldn't have asked for a better start to the season. Personally, I was riding an all-time high. It had been four years since my disastrous debut in the majors, and yet, I was playing better than ever. I was healthier, happier. Hell, I might have been the second oldest player on theteam, but I was running circles around these guys. I was also more at ease, and that was perhaps the most surprising of all.
It was hard to believe that just a couple of months ago, I'd been wound tighter than my grandmother's pocket watch. This was my make-or-break season, my big comeback. That came with a lot of pressure and expectations—from me, more than anyone else.
But here I was, celebrating my first official win in the major league with a group of guys who—whether they meant to or not—had ingratiated themselves into my heart. I kind of loved these fuckers, and I didn't mind admitting that. Except to Pink. He didn't need my love; he loved himself plenty already.
"Real talk," Tuck said, drawing our attention. "Is it too early to start planning our victory vacay? Because I'm just going to say it: Caribbean cruise."
Wesley beat his fists on the table, bursting with excitement. "Aye!We can visit myabuelita."
Like me, Wesley had been raised by his mother and grandmother. He had already booked their flights and bought them tickets for this summer's Puerto Rican Pride Night at the ballpark.
"Disneyworld, bro," Roman argued. "Disneyworld." I tried to picture our six-foot-seven, two-hundred-and-eighty-pound first baseman in Mickey ears.
"Ormaybe, we should win the dang thing first?" Matty said before finishing his drink. Unlike most of us, Matty had actually seen a World Series. "Isn't it bad luck to start planning an end-of-season trip after the first game?"
"Let 'em have their fun." I pointed to the empty glass in his hand. "You want another one?"
He nodded. "Thanks, man."
While the rest of them argued over our hypothetical future trip to the Bahamas and Yosemite, I went to refill my and Matty's drinks.
Thorn Tavern was a dope spot, the perfect blend of a neighborhood sports bar and low-key British pub. Nothing fussy, not a kale leaf in sight. Usually, when the team got together outside of work, we did it at somebody's house or apartment, but tonight, we wanted to celebrate in Rose City. With Rose City. And as it turned out, our fans were the shit.
"Another round?" the tattooed bartender asked.
"Please. For me and the Southern ginger." While he poured us two fresh beers, I admired the ink swirling around his forearm. That shit was immaculate. I was going to have to ask where he got it done. "Thanks for making space for all of us, by the way."
"No problem. You guys killed it tonight."
"Thanks."
I rested a hip against the bar. Despite my ease and contentment, I couldn't help but feel like something—or someone—was missing. A thick-thighed, honey-haired beauty to be exact. I was going on day five of PC (aka "Post Clarke") and I wasn't loving it. We had seen each other in passing at practice, and again around Bed of Roses, though I'd avoided the communal showers like the plague.
No surprise, I'd fucked that up. She'd given me the perfect opener during our last night together and what had I done? Let it slip right through my fingers like a fumbling virgin. Maybe it was better this way.
Or, maybe you need to fight for her.
A glass crashed from the other end of the bar. I twisted to see Pink shoving two guys away from him. The first, a bulky guy in a Roasters jersey, cocked his fist back, ready to coldcock Pink. The second held his buddy's arm, tugging him away from our pitcher with murder in his eyes.
In the periphery, I saw a few of the guys jump out of their seats, but I was already on my feet. It only took a second or two to reach Pink and wrap my arms around him from behind like a bear hug.
"Walk away."
"Fuck that." He fought my hold, and I let him. It might mean an elbow to the gut or balls, but I was willing to risk it. "Get out of my way, Sinclair."
"Not a chance, asshole."
I stood my ground, tightening my hold on him, while the rest of the team formed a protective circle around us. This could only go one of two ways—with me buying the kid another round or the kid buying us all first-class tickets to the emergency room. I was ready for either.
He fought me for a minute, his original targets long gone. Finally, he settled. "You didn't hear the kind of shit they were saying," he said between angry huffs.
"It doesn't matter." I relinquished my hold, turning him to face me. "I've been here. I've been you. I know where this leads, and it's not fucking worth it."
His eyes were full of fury—and maybe hurt—something I'd never seen from him before, even in game mode. This wasn't the loveable, albeit slightly annoying, golden retriever we were all used to. No, this was a darker side of Jared Pink.
"Jared," I said, drawing his full attention. "Do yourself a favor and walk away."
He clenched his jaw. I couldn't blame him for wanting to fuck those guys up, even if they were fans. They had douchebag written all over them. But I could prevent him from blaming himself. For years to come.
