Page 65 of Verdict

For a second, I thought I heard footsteps outside my door.

“Coh. Are you even listening to me?” Callie’s voice cut through the memory.

I blinked and shook my head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What did I just say?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Can you repeat it?” I flashed an apologetic smile.

She huffed dramatically, throwing a pillow in my face, and then started over.

But I wasn’t really hearing her.

What would have happened if she’d come to my room?

The guys wanted a low-key night before our final game of the Wild Card Series against Atlanta. Tomorrow would decide who advanced to the ALDS. No one wanted to be out late or doing anything stupid. We decided on dinner and an early night.

I was mid-conversation with Drake when Shane pushed through the door of the private room. I glanced up, my smile immediately dying when I saw Hudson trailing behind him.

Shane hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I brought Fuller.” As if that was totally acceptable.

It wasn’t, for the record.

He was a good player, and the team liked him. That should’ve been enough. But every time he opened his mouth, every time someone laughed at something he said, I felt it. This gnawing irritation. Like a rock in my shoe I couldn’t shake loose.

Drake tipped his chin toward Hudson. “Hey, man. Glad you could join us.”

I shot Drake a look.

He shrugged, brows pinched in confusion.

Traitor.

Hudson slid into the seat between Shane and Beckham, like he was now a part of the group. The server appeared, taking drink orders before returning with beers all around.

“Fuller, you ready for tomorrow?” Beckham asked, lifting his glass.

Hudson took a pull before answering. “Yeah. I feel good. Definitely feel some pressure though. You guys are coming off a World Series win. I don’t want to let anybody down.”

Shane laughed. “Bro, we didn’t even think we had a shot this year until you showed up.”

It took monumental restraint not to roll my eyes into my goddamn skull.

Maddox chimed in, “Yeah, happy to have you on the team, Fuller.” He raised his beer in a toast.

Everyone followed suit.

They all looked at me.

Waiting.

I blew out a slow breath and lifted my glass.

What the hell is wrong with these guys?

Hudson wasn’t Walker. Not even close. We still had work to do. This dude wasn’t some golden ticket back to the World Series.

The conversation drifted into easy banter. I sank into my seat, forcing myself to focus on the table. On the guys. On literally anything else.