Page 37 of Hard to Lose

“Coach’s?”

“Nah, your old man’s.”

“He’s not my old man. Let’s get that straight,” I snap.

“That’s right. I forgot your old man—”

“Died. Yes. Poor little orphan boy should be so fucking lucky his momma found another man to help support them.”

“Shit, man. I wasn’t going to say anything like that.” He holds his hands up in front of him. “I was just asking if you think your step-pop is fucking with you?”

“Why would he? If I signed somewhere—even some Podunk single-A team, I’d be out of their hair. That’s what he wants. Me gone so he can control my mom even more.”

He blows out a heavy sigh that sounds like how I feel. “So what’s the shiner for tonight?”

“For being disrespectful.” I shake my head. “Supposedly I didn’t say thank you enough times for the food he provided. So I told him to fuck off.” No surprise, that didn’t end well.

“All while your stepbrother, Perfect Marcus, had his ass kissed over how great he was, I bet.”

I look over at him and roll my eyes. “Good guess.”

You are nothing, boy. Will never be anything.

Marcus’s the one going places in ball. Not you. No one would take a chance on a bonehead, snot-nosed punk like you.

Your useless ass is lucky you still have a roof over your head. If it weren’t for your momma’s begging, I’d have kicked your worthless ass out a long time ago.

His insults run laps through my head. The anger I felt then and still now, vibrates through me. His son is perfect . . . I’m just a reminder his wife used to be married to another man.

“If I were you, I’d show him he doesn’t own you or this house,” Boone continues.

“Whatever, man.” I say the words, but his comment burrows its way under my skin.

“You know what would be the ultimate fuck you to your step-pop? Taking that prized possession of his for a spin. Making sure your ass sits in those pristine seats of his and blowing the doors off that engine he babies like a pussy.”

Normally, I’d never give the suggestion a second thought. That 1965 Mustang is my stepdad’s baby.

Normally, I’d tell Boone to fuck off and that he’s crazy.

But there’s something about tonight. About the words Sal said and the vengeance behind his punch that I can’t let go of. That fucker wants me gone because I’m my father’s son and not his. Because I’m better than his kid and he can’t handle it.

I look at the closed garage door and know the keys for it are hanging on the rack inside the laundry room cupboard.

The more I think about what Boone said, the more I hear Sal’s insults. His cruelty. And the more I want to say fuck you again to him.

“Hey, where you going, man?” Boone asks as I shove up off the grass and stumble for a second before the world rights itself again.

“Getting the keys.” I scrunch up my nose. “I think it’s a nice night for a drive.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Chase

“Ms. Kincade?”

“Yes?” I stop midway through the hotel lobby and turn to look at the desk clerk. She can’t be more than twenty, standing there with her little pregnant belly, her college textbooks cracked open, and a small wallet-sized photo of her husband in uniform taped to the edge of her computer screen. From our conversation yesterday, I know he’s currently deployed in the Middle East somewhere.

“That guy you were asking about? The baseball player? The one who pitches?”