I shrug at Ricky Ricardo’s clone. Though, underneath his hat, this clone’s hair would give a hoarder anxiety. But I think this Ricky is Mexican. Maybe German. Same thing. “No.” He continues assessing me as if I’m in the army and I’m late for a war.
His eyes fall to my jeans. “What the hell happened to your pants? You can’t wear those for practice.”
“Why not? I wasn’t aware I was violating your dress code.”
“Ripped jeans aren’t safe, not when you slide into home like you do.”
“I think I can handle not doing it for practice.”
I watch him chew his gum, never having seen another human do it so cheerfully. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, man.” He shakes his head and pushes his sunglasses back up, looking out at the field, making me do the same. My attention goes to Hadley, watching her throw the ball back to Audrey. She then laughs, and I wish I could see her smile up close. Too bad Shasta didn’t take a longer maternity leave. Brandon no doubt throws extra money her way, but as much as she complains about Birdy, I know she didn’t want to stay home with her longer. On the other hand, Hadley returned sooner than expected because of the mortgage she now has for her new house.
“Problem?”
I look back at Ricky and shrug with a laugh. “Just waiting for you to crack the whip. Where do you want me?” I push up on the bill of my maroon Legal Eagles hat, which is like wearing a stiff fishing net on my head. Don’t put me with Shasta. Have some damn compassion.
“Put him with Rhonda.”
I look from Ricky to the guy walking up behind him, shorter than Ricky, but slightly taller than me. His blondish-brown hair is covered with the same cheap hat, and his eyes hide behind sunglasses. He doesn’t even present a smile. Not very welcoming.
Ricky grins, still judging me. “If you say so, Coach Wilder.”
I ask, “You can’t make your own decisions, Ricky? Aren’t you a coach too? How do you even do your job as a police officer if you can’t make quick decisions?”
“Just do as you’re told, Rodwell,” Wilder answers, side-nodding to the field. Through his sunglasses, his even darker eyes threaten to shatter the lenses with his death glare. He’s more than irritated with me already. Well, look at that. I’m glad I showed up after all.
“Why can’t I practice with Nico or Crick?” I again look at the field, seeing the two I just mentioned throwing a ball. When Nico makes a catch, he waves at me, yelling shit I can’t hear. He doesn’t work in our office, but we needed more players since hell reclaimed Morgan and on any given day, Gloria is a sack of shit rolling down a flight of stairs. She’s doing us all a favor by staying out of it, fucking her college coed instead.
Jesus.
Wilder says, “Because, as you can see, they’re practicing together. Patrice isn’t here because of an appointment, so Rhonda doesn’t have a partner. We were waiting on you.” He takes a step closer and swings out his left arm toward the field while holding onto the clipboard with the batting roster. The pages flip in the breeze, and I watch them, rather than have to look at his face in mine. “What makes you think you can call any shot when you’re half an hour late? I’m sorry. Did you have better things to do?”
“No. I was taking my time just so you could stand here and berate me like this. It gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over, coach.” I look back at him, holding my ground. I used to respect the guy at one time. I thought he was cool and wished I were more like him. Things change.
I see the veins in his temples swelling beneath his sunglasses. “Why do you always have such a smartass answer for everything?”
“Because it’s who I am.” I laugh, which makes him not and I laugh harder. “I don’t give a shit. You should know that by now.”
Ricky pops a bubble, and since he and Wilder are BFFs till the end like those Chucky dolls from Child’s Play, he naturally takes his side, saying, “Whatever, Rodwell. Go throw a few with Rhonda. She’s with Audrey and Hadley.”
Wilder reiterates, “Just Rhonda. I don’t want you out there chit-chatting with anyone else. Do you understand or do you need an interpreter?” Shit. I wish I knew French or German, just to be on the same level of asshole. Not sure if I spoke the Spanish I know if Sergeant Picasso here is able to translate it, ruining my effort.
I smirk, knowing I shouldn’t but whatever. “You mean, I can’t ride Hadley’s leg?”
Wilder doesn’t respond, but his mouth twitches and Ricky answers for him. “Stop provoking and get moving.”
“Provoking? I don’t even know what that means,” I tease. While pinching my glove beneath my arm, I shove my batting gloves in each of my back pockets, letting them spank my ass each time I walk—the only action I get. Fucking tragic.
Ricky stops chewing his gum and now minus a smile, grabs a softball. He tosses it up in the air, an attempt to watch me scramble for it on the ground, but I catch it barehanded with a grin. Licking his lips, somewhat annoyed by that, he orders, “Go.”
Mock saluting them both, I start walking, and as I do, I hear them quietly arguing behind me, which makes me laugh. Bozos.
Ignoring my marching orders, seeing Hadley holding the ball, shouting to Rhonda, I go up behind her. I ditch the softball and grab her waist, tickling her sides. Screeching, she curls into herself, dropping her ball. When I stop tickling, she stands and falls against me with her back pressing into my chest. Giggling more, she looks over her shoulder. “I knew it was you.”
“Who else?”
“Where’ve you been?” She stoops in front of me, and so many dirty scenarios pop into my head. Not being able to wear my cup with jeans, I use my glove to cover my dick just in case.
“Aww. You missed me?” I hope she did. Even if it’s just a little.
Holding the ball, Hadley goes to stand but then stops and looks at my legs, not the best thing for her to do right now. “What happened to your jeans?” Straightening, she nods to my knees. “Ripped? You once told me only burnouts and gear-heads do that. You didn’t become one of those, did you?” She laughs and then asks Rhonda, “Right? You’ve heard him say that before.”
“Yeah. I believe you said that,” Rhonda practically whispers. A hamster farts louder. What happened to her bolder attitude earlier? Maybe it wasn’t different, and it was the first time I really heard her speak, other than delivering mail or phone messages.
“It’s not a national event. It’s just clothes, Hadders.” It’s like I just confessed my addiction at a podium to a roomful of people.
Hadley’s eyes pop, and she puts her hand to my forehead, moving up my hat. “Are you delirious? Maybe you should go home.”
I clutch her wrist, pulling her hand away some and smiling. “No way.”
A woman’s voice yells, “I thought you were dumping us, Greg Rodwell!”
Still holding onto Hadley’s wrist, I look left to the grinning blonde with the braided ponytail. “Sorry to disappoint, Garrison!”
“You’d better be sorry!” Simone laughs, and I watch her throw the ball to her partner, who happens to be Amos. His blue do-rag is in place beneath his team hat, and he’s wearing a T-shirt with the damn sleeves torn off and sweatpants with actual patches on them. You want to know who does that shit? Amos Vaughn, a man of zero fashion sense and a thousand excuses. What a crime. Too bad Ricky isn’t the fashion police. For some unknown reason and more than likely, an idiotic one, Amos glowers at me with a headshake. What the fuck did I do this time?
Past Vaughn, I notice the nail in my tire of life. The look Shasta throws me may as well be a line drive to the face, not that it hurts, but getting slammed in the face would be more appealing. Dramatically flipping her hair, she turns to Betsy and throws the ball back to her, not even close to making it that far. Not surprising. She’s already fallen light-years short of the low expectations I had of her.
From over my shoulder, I hear, “Rodwell! Get with Rhonda! Now!”
I roll my eyes as Hadley’s hand falls and I let go of her. “Wil
der’s in a mood.”
Hadley’s half smile is still worth the price of admission. “Seems like it.” Her ponytail swings, lightly teasing my arm when she looks at Rhonda and then turns back to me. “You haven’t said much to Rhonda. Go talk to her.”
I glance at Rhonda from over Hadley’s head. Her hair is still in a pile, but now, it’s hidden underneath her hat, making it look as if she lost a fight with a weed whacker. Dropping my gaze back to Hadley’s, I ask, “What’s the big deal?”
“Just be nice to her.”
“Like I’ve ever been mean to her.”
“I know, but you don’t talk to her, either.”
“What’s the point? She has said three words to me ever.”
“Rodwell!”
I roll my eyes. “He seriously needs to fucking chill.” Picking up the ball from the ground, I reluctantly go to a spot away from Hadley but not too far. Rhonda looks my way but only gives me weird looks. This is stupid.
I wait for Rhonda to stand across from me so I can throw the ball, but she doesn’t move. I toss the ball in the air, catching it with my glove, waiting for her. When she remains a statue, I yell, “What’re you waiting for?”
She looks at Hadley and then back at me but doesn’t say a damn word still. Christ.
Sighing, I walk closer to Rhonda as her eyes become wider. What’s her problem? Rhonda nervously pushes her hair away from her eyes and then brushes it back over again. She then looks around, seemingly ready to bolt. Rhonda’s so strange. How in the hell was she married before if she can’t say two words? I have no idea what to say to her, so I just go with, “Something wrong?”
Rhonda quickly nods and again sweeps her blonde hair back and forth and then steps back from me, nearly falling on her ass. She laughs and all while doing this, she refuses to look directly at me. “Um, yeah. I’m fine.” Sure. And Amos isn’t certifiably insane. With the thought of his name, I glance his way, only to see him staring at me.
Frowning, I mouth to him, “What now?”
His eyes move from mine to over my shoulder. Shit.
Before I turn around, Ricky is next to me, asking, “Is there a problem over here, Rhonda?”
Having no problem looking at Officer Poncherello, apparently, she says, “No. Just getting started. Sorry.”
Ricky grins. “No worries. Just wanted to check.”
His chirpiness drops when he looks at me. “Get started. You have five minutes left.”
“On Earth? Thank God and Pat Sajak.”
Ricky’s entire face suddenly has more wrinkles than my neighbor’s ragged puss. He slowly says, “Okay...” He does a backward-nod thing, looking past me. He then smirks, and it’s not lost on me. Is there some kind of rule that says good-looking men have to be condescending shitheads too? He says, “A changeup, then.” Ricky turns to Rhonda. “You’re with Simone.” Taking the ball from my hand, he pops it lightly in the air to whoever is now behind me. I pivot and seeing my new partner, I roll my eyes at the trees beyond the chain-link fence. “Warm him up, Amos.”
Why do I deserve this shit?
“With pleasure,” Amos says as Ricky walks away. Leaving Amos hanging, I watch Ricky stop next to Wilder, who has his arms perched on the fence and his sunglasses pointed in my direction. His mouth moves as he responds to whatever Ricky just told him, which makes them both laugh. Why do I feel like I’m the redheaded stepchild here? Shasta had tried to fuck Wilder last season. Unlike me, he actually shot her down. I see everything’s fucktastic between them now, not having booted her off the team. I hope he doesn’t expect me to bring him roses or kiss his ass because that shit ain’t happening.
Amos shakes my arm, close to making me car sick. “Come on. Let’s get you a few warm-up pitches.”
“Fine,” I mumble, still glaring at the smug bastard yakking it up with Rico Suave about putting the screws to me.
Amos throws the ball overhanded, and I catch it, used to his high throws. Typically, he switches off with Simone as our catcher while I switch with Crick as a pitcher. As I ready myself to pitch underhanded back to Amos, I see Hadley talking to Rhonda instead of practicing. When Hadley catches me watching, she giggles and turns her back to me like she doesn’t want me to read her lips.
“Rod! Focus!” Amos orders and I sigh, determined to concentrate on the damn ball.
After only getting in three pitches, Wilder calls us in, and as Hadley walks past me, I hook her shoulders with my arm, dragging her with me as we walk. “So, Hadders, what were you laughing at back there?”
She swiftly swings her ponytail from side to side, answering, “Nothing at all.”
“Shit. That’s a lie.” I look to the side of her face until her green eyes meet mine.
“Never ever.”
“Uh-huh. You liked seeing me get in trouble with the field emperor.”
Hadley laughs, and I now notice she’s wearing the white Arctic Monkeys shirt I gave her. Damn. Her new tits fill it out nicely. “You’re always in trouble with him. Nothing new.”
An arm goes to my shoulders, yanking me away from Hadley. Stopping me before we leave the field, Amos whispers, “Focus. Remember? Stop making it worse.” He then pulls me with him. This must be what dancing with the devil feels like.
Then, my shirt snaps tight against my throat, and as it constricts, I beg for the quick death I needed earlier. Amos lets go of me at the same time as my shirt is released. A smaller arm then grabs me beneath my ribs. “You’re on the shit list, I see.” Simone laughs, giving me a pinch to the side. I shove her hand off me but laugh.
“Proud of it.”
“I’m impressed. Don’t let him push you around, swizzle stick.” A term of bogus endearment she dumped on me months ago when faking out Morgan the bitch into thinking Simone was my girlfriend. It worked, so I can’t hate on her that much. Plus, she’s a college student, so she has perky tits and a firm ass to admire. Fair tradeoff.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I answer. Simone puts her arm back where it was around me, and I’m mostly now dragging her with me, but she keeps up. Simone is an upgrade over Amos that’s for damn sure, and she smells way better.
When we reach the fence, she says, “Hit me up, and we’ll do coffee again.”
“Right.” I laugh, and with her arm wrapped around my waist, she uses the other to slap my stomach before heading to the benches, squeezing past Wilder. She then clutches Pancho Villa’s arm, who frowns at Simone and tells her to sit down. Simone and I both irritate the Blues Brothers.
“Okay, I have some changes I want to go over with you all,” Wilder announces, walking to the front of the two long benches. Choosing not to sit, I stand behind everyone taking their seats. However, also not taking his place is Amos, who stands to my right. Figures that crazy fuck feels the need to babysit me.
I cross my arms and take a step to my left. Just as I do, I bump into Nico, who offers his fist and asks, “What’s happening, Gregger?”
I tap his fist and then cross my arms again, watching where Hadley sits. “Same old shit. How’s the world of probation? You still knocking heads together?”
“You know it,” he says and then leans closer to me. “Where has Rhonda been?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Don’t care. Hadley sits next to Val and Ricky’s attention fast turns to her, his face lighting up more than downtown at Christmas. He steps forward and wiggles the bill of her hat and Hadley playfully swats at him. Is his charm ever off-duty? Damn people person. Next to him, Wilder slightly looks up from writing on the clipboard, somewhat blasé, and then returns to writing. He doesn’t interact much with anyone usually. Just a few players, but mostly Ricky and always me, needing to assert his dominance here or something. I know he’s overcompensating for a small dick but come on. Lighten up, asshole.
Simone passes in front of me, again poking me in the side. I frown at her, but that only makes her laugh. She goes to the empty spot toward the end of the bench, first putting her foot on it to tie her shoe. Her
black sweats hug her body as she lightly bounces her ass. She then switches legs, tying the other shoe, repeating the same bouncing. I have to admit I totally underestimated her body. She fills out in all the right places and then some. Simone puts Shasta’s body to shame in every way. Why haven’t I noticed that before? I don’t work with Simone, so I don’t see her as often, but damn. When she stands, she stretches her arms over her head, raising her tits and unexpectedly my dick with them. What the fuck?
I mean, she’s smoking hot. I can’t believe I admit to that even if just in my head. Simone Garrison is annoying but tolerable. Funny, even. But she has a whole airport terminal full of baggage. Not many bags, but one huge bag that I refuse to carry. So, I’d never date her, let alone fuck her. Besides, she’s totally not my type, and we have zilch in common.
Simone doesn’t realize I’m watching her, but it doesn’t matter. Everything she’s doing isn’t for my benefit anyway. Every few seconds, her gaze goes to only one place.
As I follow her stare, I notice Ricky standing next to Wilder, talking to Val, grinning his patent smile while waiting for everyone to quiet down. Good luck with that. Betsy never shuts the fuck up.
I look back to Simone, who seems enamored. Who knew she had a thing for Wilder’s sidekick? But then again, most of these broads here probably do, if not having one for Wilder, as misguided as they are.
“Right, Rodwell?”
“Huh?”
Amos whispers, “Wrong answer.”
“Checking to see if you’re paying attention. You should be.” Shit licker. Wilder then splashes a compulsory smile and says, “Okay. I made some changes to the batting order and some field positions for tomorrow. To win, we need to be more strategic. The biggest changes are Val and Hadley will alternate with each other at right field. Sylvie and Patrice will be at left. Brandon and Sylvie switch at shortstop. Nico and Audrey at first. Crick, you’re starting pitcher. Rhonda, you’re backup for Shasta at third. Rodwell, you’re at center with Betsy alternating. Everyone else is the same.”
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