Muffled yelling springs from the dugout, but since we’re sitting directly behind it, we can’t quite hear or see what’s going on, but once Brentwood takes the field and Carson is not standing at second, we understand completely.
“Damn, Disik is heartless. Took out Stone and replaced him with Babcock. That’s just savage.”
I wince, watching the sophomore, who took Carson out at practice, field some grounders from Romeo at first base.
Rumor on campus is Babcock was out to get Carson from the beginning, and he took the one chance he had to take out the All-American second baseman and send him to the DL. And the infamous dirty slide, which has been heard around Chicago, was not an accident, but intentional.
Babcock was jealous of Carson’s talent and stats, wanted the limelight, wanted everything Carson had. Some conspiracy theorists even go as far to say that Babcock reviewed tapes for hours on the way Carson would sweep across second base when turning so he knew exactly where to strike.
At least, that’s the word on the street.
You know how people love to gossip about tragedy.
I don’t believe a word of it.
I’ve seen Kirk around campus; he’s a klutz and doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body. If you want to know the truth, I think he was an idiot freshman trying to prove his place on the team and got overzealous, taking out the wrong person.
That’s me just giving the guy the benefit of the doubt.
“I don’t blame Disik. Look how Stone’s been playing, he deserves to be benched.”
I pick up my cup from my drink holder and suck down a large gulp of Sprite before saying, “Carson’s been playing a great second base. There hasn’t been any issues there; it’s his bat that’s suffering.”
“And a player without a bat is a nobody,” Shane says, as popcorn flies out of his mouth while he speaks.
It’s true. You can be the best infielder or outfielder in the world, but if you’re not swinging the bat, you’re worthless. The only player on the team who can get away with a .200 batting average is a pitcher, not a former All-American second baseman.
“You should give him batting advice,” Jerry says, nudging my shoulder.
“Yeah, okay,” I scoff. “Let me just step into the dugout and offer my help. I’m sure they’ll welcome me with open arms.” I roll my eyes. “They have the best college baseball coaching staff in the country, so the last thing they need is a kinesiology major butting her head into the dugout, offering suggestions.”
“From the looks of it, Carson Stone should take any help he can get.” Jerry brushes off his hands. “Come on, we have to get to the field.”
I check my watch. Crap, we’re going to be late if we don’t start moving.
Standing together, we vacate our seats and head out to the parking lot where Shane’s blue Corolla is parked in a money spot. The Brentwood baseball stadium is enormous, has a rooftop for rainy days, and costs far too much money to even think about. If I ever wonder where my tuition is going, I only have to look at the seats I was just sitting in.
“Google Maps says we’re going to get there a minute early, so we better book it,” Jerry says. “Do your best work, Shane.”
Two hands on the steering wheel and a determined look in his eyes, Shane revs the engine to his sensible sedan and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll get us to the church on time.”
* * *
Five minutes late doesn’t look good to parents who are trusting three college students to coach their eight-year-olds.
Shane blamed it on the red lights, but Jerry and I know the truth; he drives like an old man who’s lost his glasses. Head perched forward, chin nearly kissing the steering wheel, and hands constantly on ten and two, he drove the streets like the wheels were trying to trudge through quicksand.
It will be the last time we let Shane be in charge of driving.
“Hustle up,” Jerry calls out as the kids run from foul pole to foul pole and then back to home plate.
Turning to my co-coaches, I say, “So I’m working with the boys on the tee. Shane, you’re doing soft toss into the net; Jerry, you’re pitching from behind the screen.”
Jerry stretches his arm over his head. “Yup, I’m ready to strike some suckers out.” A former pitcher in high school, Jerry has a hard time toning it down sometimes when pitching to the kids. He calls it his turbo arm, but I call it his death arm.
Reinstating the rules, I place my hand on his shoulder and say, “Remember, they are eight, so turbo arm needs to stay on lockdown. We don’t need parents coming at us with a lawsuit because you can’t control yourself.”
“I dare them to sue me. I’ll flash them my student loan debt and say good luck.”
Sighing, I reply, “Please take it easy on them. We need to instill confidence in these kids, not break them down into emotional messes.”
“Breaking them down is how you build them back up.” Jerry winks at me.
“I’m serious.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know. Don’t worry, I won’t mow them down with my pitches, but I’m also not going to lob them in. These kids need to learn how to hit.”
Shane pats Jerry on the back. “That’s why we recruited Milly. If she can’t get these kids to hit, no one can.”
We break into our different sections, and I wait over by the tee with a bucket of balls and my practice bat so I can demonstrate techniques while teaching the kids at the same time. Finishing up their laps, I take in the bright blue sky and the cool breeze that picks up the freshly cut grass scent around us. Baseball season, my favorite season of all.
Growing up with three older brothers and a dad obsessed with baseball, I had no choice in the matter of what sport I liked to watch. They started me at a young age, taking me to every Chicago Bobcat game my parents could afford, decking me out in Bobcat gear, and sticking me in front of the TV whenever the game was on, listening to them analyze every swing, every pitch, and every catch.
I became addicted.
I spent my weekends driving from ballpark to ballpark with my parents, watching my brothers play, offering them my advice and encouragement. I soon became my brothers’ good luck charm and they started to fight over whose game I attended during the season. My parents got so sick of the bickering they finally wrote out a schedule of what games I attended based on importance.
I have what seems like hundreds of scorebooks stacked in my parents’ attic from watching my brothers play. Scrapbooks full of newspaper clippings, of pictures of them on the field, of their stats that I would print out and share with them. I was their own personal historian and coach when it came to their baseball careers. They all went to college on full-ride scholarships for baseball, but only one attended Brentwood, my oldest brother, Cory. He plays for the Baltimore Storm now, six years deep in a contract, playing first base, and absolutely killing it this season so far.
Rian and Sean, my other brothers, own a Division One training facility outside Chicago where they train athletes looking to move on to Division One programs. They focus on agility and power, working in heavy weightlifting and quick cardiovascular spurts to drive up the heart rate. Last year, they were named the best gym in the area and are now expanding to a second location. I couldn’t be prouder, and I also like to think I had a little piece in their success. Being hardcore baseball fans has benefitted all of us in some way over the years.
“Coach Milly, do I have to wear my batting gloves?” Dennis, the runt of the team, asks as he stumbles over to me, pants too big, and helmet covering his eyes.
I catch him right before he faceplants into the grass and squat to his level so I can help him with his helmet and pants.
“You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to, Dennis.”
He holds up a hand where one of the gloves is on backward. The fingers are barely filled by his small hands, and the fingertips of the glove look like deflated balloons.
Oh Dennis.
“Were these your brother’s glov
es?” He nods. “Well, they seem a little big, and they might get in the way rather than help you.”
“I thought so.” He takes the glove off and then smiles a toothless grin at me. “I can put them in my back pocket like the big leaguers. Like an asessory.”
“Do you mean accessory?”
“Yeah, like my mom has necklaces. I have batting gloves.” He turns around in a short circle for a moment, trying to reach his back pocket and when he does, he shoves the gloves inside, making his little butt very large on one side. “There. How do I look, Coach?”
I smile kindly at him. “Like a ballplayer.”
Keep reading The Dugout HERE
Read the EXTENDED EPILOGUE of See Me After Class HERE
More Books by Meghan Quinn
-All Books Available in Kindle Unlimited-
Standalone Sports Romances
(Baseball Romances)
The Locker Room
The Dugout
The Lineup
The Trade
The Change Up
The Setup
Standalone, Laugh Out Loud, Romantic Comedies
See Me After Class
The Modern Gentleman
The Wedding Game
Millionaire Romances
The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister
(A friends to lovers contemporary romance)
Diary of a Bad Boy
(Sassy and sweet romance with an Irish rebel)
Boss Man Bridegroom
(A romantic comedy intertwined with an office romance)
Port Snow Series
(Small Town Romances)
That Second Chance
That Forever Girl
That Secret Crush
That Swoony Feeling
The Duets
(Complete Box Set compiling The Blue Line Duet and The Perfect Duet in one place)
The Duets
The Romance Novelist Chronicles
(Hilarious, laugh out loud romantic comedies)
**The Virgin Romance Novelist, The Randy Romance Novelist, and The Parenting Romance Novelist are all combined into one book The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles**
The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
The Virgin Romance Novelist
Co-Written with Sara Ney
(A sexy, smart, heart swooning office romance with the boss)
Love Sincerely Yours
The Perfect Duet
(A heartfelt romance that will leave you breathless)
The Left Side of Perfect
The Right Side of Forever
The Blue Line Duet
(An epic romance with many twists and turns)
The Upside of Falling
The Downside of Love
The Dating by Numbers Series
(Adventurous dating series full of laugh out loud moments and very heated scenes)
Three Blind Dates
Two Wedding Crashers
Back in the Game
One Baby Daddy
The Binghamton Series
(Full of heart, humor, and heat and some HOT CONSTRUCTION WORKERS)
Co-Wrecker
My Best Friend’s Ex
Tangled Twosome
The Other Brother
Standalone Novels
(Full of heart, humor, and heat and some real laugh out loud moments)
The Mother Road
Newly Exposed
Dear Life
The Stroked Series
(HOT sports romance with plenty of humor)
STROKED
STROKED LONG
STROKED HARD
The Jett Girl Series
(Sassy, erotic romance with a gorgeous, protective alpha male)
Bourbon Sins
Bourbon Deceit
Bourbon Kingdom
Bourbon Truths
The Love and Sports Series
(New Adult, Football sports romance with plenty of twists)
Fair Catch
Double Coverage
Three and Out
The Hot-Lanta Series
(My first series ever. Baseball sports romance with lots of drama!)
Caught Looking
Playing the Field
Warning Track
Hit and Run
See Me After Class Page 38