by McKayla Box
“What do you think the majors will be like?” I ask.
“I’m not in the majors.”
“But you will be.”
“Maybe.”
“So you aren’t positive about that?”
“A lot can happen?” he says.
“Like?”
“Like things.”
“Name three.”
He pushes his hair away from his face, sweat dripping off his forehead. “Injuries. Other guys are better. Bad luck.”
“Do you worry about those things?”
“No.”
“Will you worry about them?”
“Only if they happen.”
“What is your favorite food?”
He looks at me, finally. “What?”
“What is your favorite food?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to get you to use a few more words to answer me.”
The corner of his mouth ticks upward. “Am I not answering your questions?”
“Not in any way that’s useful.”
He rolls over onto his stomach. “Not my problem.”
I watch him go through several sets of push ups and crunches. He does them effortlessly, like there’s no resistance at all. I do my best to keep my eyes off the way his biceps effortless handle his weight, the smoothness of his thighs in those what should be illegal tights.
He finally stands up and without a word, takes off again. I scramble to my feet and catch up to him.
The sun is up now and the air is cool, crisp. It’s mostly quiet, except for our shoes on the pavement and our breathing, the occasional birdsong from nearby trees. It should be the kind of run that clears my head and helps me think.
But I’m so pissed it doesn’t do either of those things.
When we get back to the house, he yanks off his shirt and uses it to mop the sweat off of his face and head.
“I need to shower,” he says. “You coming in for that, too?”
“In your dreams.”
“Nightmare is more like it.”
“What the fuck is your problem?” I ask. “Are you still pissed that I talked to your old coach?”
He shrugs.
“Jesus,” I say. “Are you this much of a baby with everything or is it just with me? How the hell do you expect to walk into a press conference after you’ve gotten crushed and answer tough questions?”
“I’ll worry about that when I have to,” he says.
“Well, I hope you’re in the minors longer than everything says you’ll be because it’s going to take you years to grow up,” I tell him.
He tosses the shirt on the ground and marches over to me. It’s his thing. He likes to get in my face and every time, I fight the urge to back up. I’m not giving an inch.
“You went behind my back,” he growls, his breath hot on my cheek. “How do you think that makes me feel?”
“I didn’t go behind your back,” I tell him. “We’ve already gone over this. And if all of this is such a big fucking deal, then why not just tell me about it so we can move on? I’m not your enemy here, Houston. Why are you trying to make me into one?”
He stares down at me, those icy blue eyes as hot as I’ve ever seen them.
“I’m not writing a hit piece,” I tell him. “You need to trust me. Just tell me about the suspension. Trust me to decide whether or not it matters.”
“Leave it the fuck alone,” he growls.
“Well, when you put it like that…how about no?”
“I’m warning you, Lila—”
“About what?” I ask. “What are you gonna do? Beat me up if I keep asking questions? Throw a baseball at me? If you want me to stop asking questions, then just give me the damn answers.”
He starts to say something, then stops. Then he shakes his head. “Do whatever you want to do. Practice is at two, then we’ll be at The Fair Pole tonight. Come or don’t come.” He glances back at me. “I could give a shit.”
Chapter 23
HOUSTON
I’m contemplating a beer.
That’s how out of sorts I am.
It’s a weird feeling. It’s not one I’m familiar with. But Lila Oakley seems to have figured out a way to get under my skin and stay there.
It’s Wednesday night and the team is at The Fair Pole. We’re sort of in that purgatory period, where we’re all just waiting to get to Saturday. There’s a nervous energy that buzzes around us. We’ve done the work and now we just want to play. Let’s open the floodgates and start the season. We’re tired of playing against one another. We’re ready to beat up on someone else now.
But now Beck and I are sitting at our table in the corner and Lila is sitting with some of the other guys and a beer sounds really fucking good.
“Stop worrying,” he says.
I look at him. “What?”
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “She’s just talking to the other guys. Probably asking them for funny stories about you. Hopefully she’ll ask me for one.”
“Fuck off.”
He laughs. “Chill out. It’s all good.”
It doesn’t feel all good.
“You talk to her today?” he asks.
“She came with me on my run this morning,” I tell him. “We didn’t talk much.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“We ran,” I inform him. “That was all.”
He laughs again. “Got it. She ask any more about...?”
“Just barely. I let her know I wasn’t talking.”
He nods. “Okay then.” He glances over to where she’s sitting with Cash and Wyatt. “Still looks good.”
She’s wearing a dark green sweater and black leggings with black knee-high boots. Her dark hair is brushed straight, spilling over her shoulders, and the overhead lights of the bar give it this sheen that makes me want to run my hands through it. She’s laughing with Cash and Wyatt, her eyes alight with amusement.
“I guess,” I say.
Beck laughs again. “Right.”
I start to tell him that she’s not really that hot when the door to the bar opens and Clay Dickson and a couple of his buddies walk in with several girls.
“What the fuck?” I say. “Again?”
Beck twists around in his seat. “Fuckers just can’t get enough.”
Dickson looks in our direction, gives us the finger, laughs, and leads his boys up to the bar.
“This is getting tired,” I say. “I don’t like them here. This is our place, not theirs.”
“Just trying to rattle us,” Beck says. He’s still looking. “That one girl looks familiar.”
“Which one?”
“Blond hair, blue sweater. Kind of hot.”
“I don’t recognize her,” I say.
On cue, she says something to her girlfriends, then heads in our direction, her blonde hair swinging against her shoulders.
Beck slides his chair out just enough so he’s in her path. “You and your friends lost?”
She stops and looks at him. “What?”
“You and your friends,” he says. “Are you lost? This isn’t a Clearwater bar.”
She frowns. “I go to Baymont. And no one owns this bar except the actual owner.”
“If you got to Baymont and you’re hanging with those assholes, you should rethink your life choices,” he says.
The girl smirks. “Thanks for the advice no one asked for.”
“That necklace,” Beck says. “What’s the A stand for?”
“None of your business,” she says. “But if it was around your neck we can all be assured it would stand for Asshole.”
She strides past us.
Beck watches her, and I can’t tell if he’s pissed she blew him off or all hot and bothered by that blonde hair and sexy smirk.
“Guess she told you,” I say.
“Guess so.”
We both laugh, but I’m still irritated, and he still looks a little put out.<
br />
“I’m sick of looking at them, Beck,” I tell him. “And I’m already in a bad mood. I wouldn’t mind having someone to take it out on.”
“Easy,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Focus. No distractions. And sure as fuck no injuries.”
“I don’t mean a fight,” I say. “I mean…a little fun.”
He raises the eyebrow again. “Oh yeah?”
I smile and nod. “Yeah. Just follow me when they come over.”
“How do you know they’re coming over here?”
I glance at them at the bar. “Because they’re totally fucking predictable.”
True to form, five minutes later, Dickson is looking in our direction. I know he wants us to come over and ask why they’re here. The fact that we’re not doing it is driving him a little insane.
Good.
He elbows one of his guys and nods in our direction. The other guy alerts the others they brought and now they’re all looking at us.
I smile at them.
Dickson leads them over. Just like clockwork.
“Told you,” I say to Beck.
“No injuries.”
“Don’t worry.” Dickson stands at the edge of the table, his buddies behind him. “Ladies.”
Dickson laughs. “Original. Surprised to see you two clowns out on a school night. Figured your mommies would make you stay home.”
Beck rolls his eyes.
“Nah, we got permission tonight,” I tell him. “And I guess your bars have finally started enforcing their no assholes rule.” I look at Beck. “We need to get that enforced here, too.”
Dickson’s smile dims just a bit. “We just thought we’d come over and wish you luck for Saturday. Not that it’ll help, but it felt like it was the right thing to do.”
“Sure,” I say, nodding. “Are you done now? Leaving so soon?” I point at the beer in his hand. “Figure you can’t handle more than half of one of those anyway. Assume your buddies are here to carry you to the car.”
He frowns. “Please. I can handle myself. I can handle anyone.” He grins at me. “You included.”
Beck snorts. “Bullshit. No one can drink more than Cade. Don’t even start that shit.”
“No third grader, maybe,” Dickson says. “But everyone else?” He looks me up and down. “You just scream lightweight to me.”
“You think?” I ask.
“I know.”
“Care to put your money where your big fucking mouth is?” I ask.
Dickson smirks at me. “Fucking right I will.”
I look at Beck. “He’s an idiot.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You’re an asshole,” one of the Clearwater guys says.
“And you’re a guy I don’t even know,” I say. “Alright. Fifty bucks. You need to go suck some dicks in the parking lot to get the cash or are you good?”
Dickson pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and lays two twenties and a ten on the table. “Fifty.”
“Impressive,” I say. I pull out my wallet and do the same. “How about if one of your girlfriends holds the money?”
Dickson takes the money off the table and hands it to the guy standing next to him, a guy I know I’ve struck out at least half a dozen times, but can’t remember his name.
“Alright,” Dickson says. “What’s the bet?”
The rest of the guys on the team have started to make their way over. Lila is standing with Wyatt, watching.
“I’ll make it easy on you,” I tell him. “Three beers and three shots.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“I told you,” I tell him. “I’m gonna make it easy on you. I can drink three beers before you can drink three shots.”
He squints at me. “You fucking dumb or something?”
“Nope.”
“You think you can drink three beers before I can bust three shots?”
“You can even choose what you want in the shots,” I tell him. “Vodka. Tequila. Fucking rose.”
A few of the guys laugh.
“Your call,” I say.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Dickson says.
“Maybe,” I say. “But are you in or are you out? I mean, I guess we could get some shots of apple juice if you’d feel better about that.”
More laughing.
“Fuck you,” Dickson says. “Fine. I’m in. Tequila for me.”
I smile at him. “Someone get the man a chair.”
One of his boys grabs a chair and slides it to him. Beck goes to the bar to get the drinks. One of Dickson’s boys goes with him. To make sure my beers aren’t water or something. Normally, I wouldn’t touch alcohol since we’re in season.
But I’m willing to do it just this once.
Beck returns with three pints of beer and three shot glasses of tequila. He lines them all up in a single row, spreading them out and alternating the glasses.
Dickson looks at all of the glasses, then laughs. “You have got to be shitting me, Cade. This is gonna be the easiest fifty bucks I’ve ever won.” He rubs his hands together.
Most everyone in the bar is now standing around us. I catch Lila’s eyes. She’s looking at me, confused, like she can’t figure out what’s going on.
I look away. “You know, you’re right. Maybe I need a head start.”
“No fucking way,” he says, shaking his head. “No head start. You didn’t call that.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “That’s fair. Alright. Rules again. I have to drink the three beers before you finish your three tiny baby shots. And we can’t touch each other’s glasses. No fucking around. I can’t throw your glass against the wall or something. Agreed?”
He rubs his hands together. “Fucking agreed. No touching. No fucking around. Just drinking.”
I nod, then look at Beck. “You wanna say go?”
Beck looks at Dickson. “You ready?”
Dickson laughs. “Bring it, bitch.”
Beck looks at me. “Ready?”
I nod.
“Ready, set…go!”
I grab the first pint and start drinking.
Dickson laughs a little bit, shakes his head, then picks up his shot. “I don’t think I need to be in a rush.”
I’ve counted on this, that he thinks it’s so easy to win, that he’ll take his time.
Perfect.
He sets his empty shot glass on the table and I finish the first beer, just as he picks up the second shot.
“Man, you are fucking dumb,” Dickson says. “Maybe I should’ve given you that head start.”
I wait until he’s got the shot glass to his lips.
“Probably so,” I say.
Then I take my empty beer glass, flip it upside down, and cover the third and final shot of tequila with it.
He finishes the shot, but the glass stays at his lips.
It’s totally silent in the bar now.
Dickson slowly sets the shot glass down. “The fuck are you doing?”
I shrug. “Just taking my time.”
Dickson’s confused now. Then he starts to reach for that third shot glass beneath the empty beer glass.
“Nope,” Beck says.
Dickson looks at him, then me.
“Did you forget?” I ask. “You can’t touch my glass.”
It takes a moment and then his entire expression drops as the bar erupts.
“I’ve got all fucking night,” I say, laughing.
The crowd gets louder. I catch Lila laughing and shaking her head. For a moment, I’m not even mad at her.
Dickson stands up. “That’s some bullshit.”
“Which part?” I ask. “The losing or the losing?”
“You’re a dick.”
“Thank you.”
Dickson shakes his head and motions for his boys to follow him to the bar.
Beck slides the money in my direction.
I push the remaining beers toward him. “I’m done drinking for the seas
on.”
Beck holds up one of the pints. “Until we win it all.”
I nod. “Until we win it all.” I glance at Clay Dickson. “And that motherfucker wins nothing.”
Chapter 24
LILA
I’m still shaking my head as I walk back to the table with the guys.
“That was fucking money,” Cash says. “I fucking knew he had something coming. I just never saw it until I saw it.”
I’ve been at the bar all night, but nowhere near Houston. He and Beck were hiding over in their little corner until he pulled the stunt on Clay Dickson. Which I have to admit was hilarious as hell.
“Has he done stuff like that before?” I ask, sitting down next to Cash.
“He’s not like the biggest prankster or anything,” Cash says. “But there’s always something that he does that lets you know he’s the smartest dude in the room. And puts people in their place.”
“Like what?”
Cash thinks for a minute, then grins. “Wyatt. Remember that freshman kid last year?”
Wyatt nods slowly. “Yep.”
“So this kid, Eric Tundry,” Cash explains. “Comes in with a lot of attitude. And, I mean, we all do, right? But you still sort of know your place. Well, Tundry didn’t. He thought he was the best guy on the team the day he walked on campus. We put up with it for awhile, but it got pretty old after a couple of weeks. So you know Shoe, right?”
“Shoemaker,” I say. “Your manager?”
“Yeah,” Cash. “So he runs a pretty tight locker room. He gets super pissed if you lose anything. Like, really mad. You’re costing the program money, you’re not paying attention to details, all this shit. So Tundry notices that things start going missing from his locker. A shoe. A sock. A bat. A hat. He can’t figure it out and he’s getting pissed and he’s asking guys, but he’s afraid to go ask Shoe about it because he knows he’ll get hammered for it. Finally, we get to a game day.” Cash starts laughing. “And he can’t find his uniform.”
Wyatt leans forward. “Equipment guys put our unis out on game day. They’re hanging up for us. We all have ours except for this kid. And he goes to the equipment guys and asks where his is. And they tell him we never saw it after the last game. We figured you forgot to turn it in or something.”