I’d do well to remember that. Otherwise, the world will do it for me.
EIGHT
JED
“Feeling good?Excited to finally get back out there?”
I glance up at Henderson, our Triple-A second baseman, as he leans on the wall next to my cubby, his sunglasses tan stark against his typically pale skin. The locker room thrums with chatter and the thud and scrape of guys packing up for the night. The scent of sweat and soap mingles in the air, a slight humidity coating the room from the hot water drifting out from the showers.
I give him a nod. “It’s been way too long.”
We’re only a little over a week from the start of the season. I pull on my clean shirt. I’m ready to head back to my apartment, down some sustenance, and pass the fuck out.
“Who’s coming out tonight?” someone calls from behind me. A chorus of ‘I’m in’ follows.
It’s always a little weird moving over to minor league camp. It’s a different atmosphere. Rowdier. Reminiscent of college ball. We’ve got the guys fresh off last year’s draft allthe way to the Triple-A vets walking around like they own the place. It’s comical to see the personality shift in some of them. They get that king-of-the-bus complex now they’re not surrounded by big leaguers. Goes to their heads.
Henderson nods to whoever is organizing the outing tonight, then turns back to me. “I can only imagine. God, I feel for you, man. But I’m so fucking glad you’re back. Looking forward to playing by your side again. Maybe a little of that Jed Stone Junior spotlight’ll rub off on me, yeah?” He grins at me and lifts his forearm.
I bump it. Henderson’s a great player with tight defense, but he’s weak at bat, and it’s definitely holding him back. Especially since the Jetties’ current second baseman is only five years in and has been killing it. Unfortunately for Henderson, I don’t see that spot opening up any time soon.
“You coming with us?” he asks.
Jackson Olander takes that moment to slide over in his wheely chair, Devereux hot on his heels. “Come on, Pebs. You haven’t gone out with the team since the beach.”
Olander, is our Triple-A center fielder. He’s even larger than me. He’s got some sort of foamy shit between his hands and fluffs it through his damp, curly dark hair. He bounces his heavy-set eyebrows that make him look perpetually broody. “It’s spring break, man. You know what that means.”
“Horny college girls,” Devereux crows.
I somehow hold back my grimace. Devereux is crude. He’s also a career Triple-A player who ismarried. Yet he’s going out looking to hook up. He’s classic handsome, with fair skin and light brown hair, and walks around like he’s God’s gift to this earth.
He has zero respect for women. For anyone, really. He’sbeen that way ever since I first got called up to Triple-A three years ago. He took Olander under his wing and has been teaching him the ways of the assholes ever since.
“So, Pebs? What will it be?” Olander pushes, those silver-blue eyes hopeful.
I hesitate, and a grin splits Devereux’s face. “Ah, so that’s how we convince Pebs to hang out with us. There just has to be the promise of some pussy.”
If I’m being honest, it’s not high on my list right now. But I can’t deny I’ve been…distracted lately. My attention wanders over the locker room until it lands on a head of golden curls. Maybe it’ll be good. Find a blond-haired, blue-eyed man and get that fantasy out of my system. Michaels tips his head back and laughs at something Nebs said, then reaches forward and squeezes Winters’s shoulder. Those three are really tight.
Before I get a chance to respond, Olander and Dev are already rolling over to the threesome. “You three coming?”
Winters shakes his head, and his cheeks flush. “I already have plans.”
“Oh,really.” Olander leans forward, and his curiosity practically fills the locker room. “Who is she?”
Michaels slides an arm around Winters’s shoulders. “What do you mean,who is she?Maybe he just wants to hang out with his awesome roomie. I’m out too. I’m beat.”
Olander lets out a dramatic sigh. “You two are almost as bad as Araujo and Thompson. I swear those two are inseparable.” He glances around. “Speaking of. Where are they?”
“Still in the showers I think,” Nebs says.
“Ah, probably jerking each other off.” Olander snickers.
I stiffen. My walls go up—instinct, honed from years in the locker room.
Devereux pitches his voice high. “Oh, Thompsonnnn, right there, don’t stop!Those two are so fucking gay.” He punctuates it with a laugh, but the derision is loud and clear.
Laughter echoes through the locker room, and someone cat calls. I grind my teeth. Here we go. Olander is always running his mouth. And his toxic other half, Devereux, always brings the homophobia home. Dev never shies away from dropping slurs.
