Ward smacked my shoulder, jolting me out of my head—a dangerous place indeed. “Get used to it, kid. You’re a Cy Young nominee. Everybody’s going to want a piece of you now.”
“Right.”
“We can talk more about it after the game.” He tilted his head toward the bench. “Grab some pine.”
I trotted back, slightly more dazed than before. And this time, it wasn’t because of the heat.
“Okay, who’s buying me dinner?”
Roman and Matty hurled towels at today’s M.V.P., Johnathan “Tuck” Tucker. I couldn’t blame them when he was flashing his junk and flexing like a Greek god—that wasmything.
He batted away their terrycloth attack and hopped off the bench. “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “First round is on me.”
Cheers erupted, echoing through the locker room. Tuck’s homerun in the sixth had launched an onslaught of runs for the next two innings. What had started as an even matchup with one of our biggest rivals had ended in a 12–2 massacre.
Nine more.
That was all we needed. Nine more wins.
We might have already clinched that playoff spot, but fuck, I wanted first.
The sperm-donor-who-shall-not-be-named had drilled a lot of toxic shit into me as a kid about “second place being the first loser” or “being the best means beating the best,” but this wasn’t about him.
Well, maybe it was a little bit.
No, this was about making my mark—onmyname andmyname only—and sharing the rewards with the people I loved. The people who sweat and sacrificed to get me here. I couldn’t give them much, but I could give them that.
“Don’t be salty, Pinky Pink,” Tuck teased, dropping down into the empty seat beside me. Thankfully, he’s managed to squeeze those tree trunk thighs of his into some boxer briefs first. Bare ass on cold metal benches was a recipe for disaster. “You played well, too.”
I smirked. “I know I did.”
“Just not as well as me.”
My smile grew. “Oh yeah? Is Brock Heller writing a profile on you, too?” I didn’t give him a chance to respond, not when I already knew the answer. “No? Didn’t think so.”
“No shit. Seriously?” Matty asked when Tuck was too stunned to speak.
“That’s what coach said.”
“That’s amazing, dude,” Matty said. “Seriously, that’s a big deal.”
“He’s a tough one,” Soren added. “Hard to read, but he really knows his stuff. He’s not like a lot of podcasters that just want a platform to share their shit takes. Brock genuinely loves the game.”
I nodded. If Soren said it, it must be true. He might have come across like grumpy badass—and in a lot of ways, he was—but the old man didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body.
“Well, fine . . .” Tuck sighed. “Then I guessyou’rebuying the first round.”
Laughter descended amongst the group. The razzing continued while we all finished our post-game rituals. Mine included making a mental list of things I needed to grab during tomorrow morning’s trip to the hardware store.
When I’d purchased the townhouse—plus the attached unit next door—I’d done so with the intention of rehabbing both units and combining them into one larger home. Although, I was tempted to leave the other unit for my sister in the eventuality that she did move out to Rose City.Aftergraduation, of course.
There was a lot to be done. Starting with a fresh stain on the kitchen cabinets. Dani and I had settled on a “rich cappuccino” brown for lowers, and a dark green for the uppers that, according to the description, “paired well with leather-bound books and brandy.” Whatever that meant.
It was hard to believe that just two years ago, I’d spent the bulk of my non-game days on my buddies’ couches playingThe Last of Usor picking up ball bunnies—or bears—at the local watering hole. Yet here I was, picking out paint with my live-in best friend, hitting up yard sales, and making weekly trips to Costco—mostly for the free samples and $1.50 hot dogs.
Roman smacked his fist against his locker. “Quiet down, fuckers!” he boomed. I might be known as the loudmouth of the group, but he had the loudest mouth by far.
As soon as he was satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, he nodded to Soren. “You’re up, captain.”
