Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
“Sure,” Crosby says, then cocks his head. “Where you off to in a rush?”
Embarrassed, I rub the back of my neck. “I dropped my phone last night. Gotta get a new one.”
“Sucks, man.”
Yes, it does. For too many reasons.
I start to call a Lyft, but of course I can’t, so the concierge at the hotel calls a cab to take me to the nearest Apple store. I ask the driver to wait. The hassle of replacing my phone and transferring my data stings especially because this is down to my own stupidity.
New phone in hand, I return to the taxi, open my messages, and go straight to my contacts. The delay from last night hasn’t abated my anger or determination.
With fury simmering in every move, I delete Declan’s contact info from my phone so I’m not tempted to call him.
Ever again.
That afternoon, I shove his text to a corner of my mind. I was never supposed to be involved, anyway, with him or anyone else. I came to Arizona to play ball.
That evening, I play my heart out in the game against the Las Vegas Coyotes, knowing my job is on the line.
In the fifth inning, with runners on first and second, the Coyotes’ batter hits a whopper of a double. As the runner on second rounds third, our left fielder gloves the ball and hurls it to Crosby, our cutoff man at third.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I mutter, yanking off my mask, getting in position.
The Coyotes runner charges down the base path, barreling toward home as Crosby cocks his arm.
I’ve got my glove out, ready to field the throw.
As the runner flies toward the plate, I step into the base path, and the ball finds a welcome home in my glove. Sweeping my arm down, I tag the runner—right as he collides with me.
He hits with the force of a freight train.
Oof.
The impact knocks me right off my feet and I hurdle toward the dirt, landing on my back with a deafening thud.
My ass took the brunt of the fall, and pain shoots up my back and down my legs. The world goes blurry and dark, and Declan’s text replays in my head.
Miami is a bad idea.
Fuck him.
Declan is a bad idea.
Losing this game is a bad idea.
Letting a roster spot slip away on account of a hot lay is a bad idea.
I’m not giving Declan Steele the satisfaction of anything, least of all, this play.
Several painful, achy seconds later I pop up and brandish the gloved ball above my head, ignoring the hell out of my aching ass.
The ache will fade because I’m fine.
Catchers fall. Catchers get up.
I brush the dirt off my uniform.
The runner is out, the inning is over. We’re still ahead, and my manager trots over to me. “You okay, Blackwood?” Fisher asks, intent and serious.
“I’m great,” I say, and I mean it.
Because . . . I feel amazing out here on the field. Incredible, even. This close to invincible.
On the diamond, I’m safe from men like Declan.
Here, I have baseball, and tonight, I logged an RBI, and an epic play at the plate.
I am on fire.
“I’m ready for my next at-bat,” I tell the manager as the team trainer rushes out, along with the hitting coach, the pitcher, Crosby, Chance, and Sullivan.
“You okay, dude?” Sullivan asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Never been better.”
Coach keeps his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you checked out.”
“But I want to play.”
Fisher smiles and shakes his head. “I know. But this is more important.” He hands off the rest of the game to the hitting coach, then walks me inside the facility.
In the trainer’s room, the team doctor checks me out, but I tell him I’m fine. I’m totally fine. “It was just a routine play,” I say.
The doctor scowls. “He slammed into you. That’s not supposed to happen anymore.”
“The ball was in the base path, and the rules say you can field it. Sometimes the runner collides with the catcher,” I explain, still hyped on adrenaline.
Fisher nods. “I know it wasn’t a dirty play. But we can’t let anything happen to you. Got to look out for you, kid. You damn well better be fit for a long career with the San Francisco Cougars.” I can hear his relief as the team doc gives me a thumbs-up, and that relief warms my soul.
In spite of that text, in spite of Declan ‘Dickhead’ Steele, I smile. That relief, that “career with the San Francisco Cougars,” is the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.
It gives me a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, the starting job is still mine to win.
Good thing I went all-out on the field.
But that’s all I know. That’s all I’ve ever done. I play with everything I have.
The only times I didn’t were when Declan was in my room, in my head, in my body.