Page 74 of Convincing the Catcher

“What other kind of bacon is there?” Haven deadpans.

I know she’s bluffing because I’ve seen her try turkey bacon before, but she hated it.

“Turkey bacon is the only bacon I have ever eaten,” Gigi says shyly. “My dad says the other stuff clogs arteries.”

“It’s worth it though,” Haven mutters. “But also, your dad isn’t here today, is he? So, if you want to shovel pancakes and bacon, live your life, girl.”

“Yes, queen.” I grin, lightly smacking Gigi’s arm. “It’s okay to be disciplined and all, but it’s also okay to live sometimes. I mean, I checked my levels before we left the house just so that I could carb load because I think it’ll help my emotional state.” I shrug. “But like Haven said, your dad’s not here right now. Live a little.”

Suddenly, Gigi’s face pales slightly, and she swallows roughly.

“The thing is … he will be here,” she mumbles. “Because he’s the main donor for the locker rooms. At least, his company is.”

My feet stop moving, and Haven’s mouth hangs wide open.

“Your dad owns the shoe company BOOMA?” I say, almost squeaking.

She sighs, and right away, it’s obvious she didn’t want us to know.

“Yeah …” she mutters, looking down. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I mean, that’s—” Haven starts to say something, but I widen my eyes at her before cutting her off.

“We won’t,” I say sharply. “But also … how did you keep that a secret?”

“Coach knows,” she whispers as the three of us start walking toward the building again. “But she promised not to tell. And today, my dad swore to me he’d stay cool and not blow it.” Gigi reaches the door first and turns toward us. “Please, please, please, don’t tell. I don’t want everyone thinking I’m here because of my dad.”

“No one would think that,” I say instantly. “You work harder than anyone I know, Gigi. And you’re an incredible pitcher.”

“For real,” Haven says, smiling. “We won’t say anything, but just so you know, no matter who your dad is, you deserve to be here. NEU is lucky to have you pitching.”

Her eyes float between both of ours before finally, she flashes us a small smile.

“Thank you,” she says softly before pulling the door open.

Haven may give me one more can you believe it look, but I know neither of us will tell anyone because that’s not who we are.

The second the door is open and we walk into a room filled with softball and baseball players, my stomach drops. Because after avoiding Cane for a week, I’m suddenly not going to be able to avoid him now.

The first person I’m going to go see though is my coach. I owe her an apology. Actually, I owe my entire team one.

CANE

“Two more seasons, right?” Clyde Hues, the older man who comes from old money that he likes to spend on our program, asks me, taking a sip from his orange juice. “Tell me we’ve got your arm for two more seasons.”

“That’s the plan for now,” I say, half telling the truth.

The truth is, even though I’ve considered entering the MLB draft now that I’m a junior and I’m eligible, I don’t know if I actually want to play pro ball or not. Part of me would love to go to the next level just to be able to play a little longer, but some part inside me wants something else. I’ve talked to my coach about it a few times, but no one else really knows where my head is at.

Not to mention that the little dugout situation earlier this year smeared my name a bit.

He pats his large hand on my shoulder. “Best stay out of trouble, Mr. Hale. I think you’re one hell of a player, and that arm can take you far. But, damn it, kid, don’t go off and get yourself into trouble again. It makes the university look bad.” He raises his eyebrows. “I dump a lot of money into this school and, more particularly, this program. I don’t want our star player to be making an idiot of himself. So, lie low, would ya?”

“Yes, sir,” I utter, nodding respectfully.

I knew it was coming because out of the three donors I’ve chatted with, it’s already come up twice now. No one likes a troublemaker, and even though Harland may have fixed my image on social media, these old fucks still think I’m a little shit with a chip on my shoulder, I’m sure.

Clyde goes on to talk about some of the weaker players on our team, and I tune him out because I don’t want to talk crap about my teammates. And while he talks about shit he really doesn’t understand and a game he hardly grasps, my eyes float back to the corner of the room. The one where Harland stands, talking to her coach in what looks like a deep conversation.