It's not arrogance if it’s true.
“Game’s not over.” Coach Ward’s gruff voice echoed through the dugout. “Tucker, you’re up.”
I dropped down onto the bench with a thud, next to Matty who was busy taping up two of his fingers. He’d taken a nasty hit from the base runner earlier in the inning, one that ended in an out and a couple of sprained fingers, by the looks of it.
“Can I get some of that when you’re done?” I asked. Calluses were manageable—they were a hazard of the trade—but when it came to blisters, I was a verified crybaby.
He slapped the roll of black tape into my extended hand. A light shove to the shoulder had me turning to my left, just as Bennett dropped down beside me, catcher’s gear still in place.
“I felt that last one in my throat, dude.”
I made sure he could read my lips when I replied, “That’s what I like to hear.”
Bennett generally kept the processer for his cochlear implants turned on during games—it helped that as a catcher, he basically wore a helmet for the entirety of it—but he felt more comfortable when he could see our lips when we talked to him.
After my fingers were sufficiently taped, I removed my sweat-drenched hat and dragged a towel across my head, thankful that I’d let the guys talk me into shaving my head a few months ago. The fuzzy, blond stubble had taken some time getting used to, and three months from now, I was sure I’d be freezing. Until then, I’d do anything to keep my body temperature regulated.
I hadn’t moved to the Pacific Northwest for one hundred degree, humid temperatures. This was some East Coast kind of bullshit.
Matty groaned. “Fuck, I’m dying out here.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Bennett said, nailing him with a pointed glare.
“I’m going house hunting again this weekend, and I swear, I’m only looking at places with pools.”
“Pink.”
I jumped to my feet.
Brooks Bailey-Ward III had the kind of imposing presence—and name—that demanded immediate attention. Unlike most coaches, he didn’t yell, didn’t swear. He didn’t need to. His commanding tone was enough to make your balls tighten.
“Coach?” I asked when I reached his side.
“You got one more in you?”
“Whatever you want, coach.”
“Be honest with me,” he said without a hint of amusement. Steam clouded the corners of his signature, thick-framed glasses. “It’s hot as hell out here and I need you to start four days from now in Vegas.”
“I can do one more.”
He popped a few more sunflower seeds into his mouth and nodded.
I turned to take my seat, but he stopped me again. “Oh, and Brock Heller wants to do a profile on you. Don’t let it go to your head but expect to hear from him in the next day or so.”
My eyes widened.
In addition to writing the sports column for thePortlandia Press, Brock also hostedHigh Cheese, one of the most downloaded baseball podcasts. Soren had done an interview with him a few months back, but the old man also had an extra decade in the game. I wasn’t sure what Brock would want with me.
“Uh . . .”
His lips tipped up in a subtle grin. That may as well have been uproarious laughter for Coach Ward.
“Gotta say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I kind of like it.”
The crack of a bat had the rest of guys jumping out of their seats and leaning over the dugout fence, just in time to see the ball soaring over the right-field wall. Tuck pumped his fist upand down, matching the tempo of the crowd’s applause, as he rounded the bases.
Between the noise (that I typically lived for) and the questions racing through my head, I was suddenly in desperate need of a cuddle from Blue Beary—the small, stuffed bear that lived in my game day bag, a relic from Bella’s vintage toy collection phase. That or a certain copper-haired, fat-assed goddess.
