Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 15

“What got you into baseball, kid?” Skip asks as if we haven’t been sitting in silence for the last ten miles.

In all fairness, the silence with him is surprisingly comfortable. I don’t feel ignored or avoided; Skip is simply a man of few words. Even the way he calls me kid is endearing. I’ve been around long enough to realize he calls everyone under a certain age kid almost as often as he barks their last name, regardless of how long they’ve been on the team.

“My moms.” I’m already homesick, and thinking about them right after my snapping match with Reyes is almost too much to handle. I don’t guard myself like I usually do. Words spill out quick and unfiltered. “They were high school sweethearts. Met because of softball actually. Rival high school teams, but they ended up on the same travel team. They lost track of each other when they went off to different colleges. Mom got married right after graduation to her college boyfriend. When that wasn’t going well, she started coaching a local travel team to try to find herself again. By the time one of her players was getting scouted, she was going through her divorce. That’s when she ran into Mama during a recruiting trip.”

I glance at Skip to see if I’ve shared too much. Stories about my moms don’t go over well in every locker room, and I’m usually careful not to put myself in a position to be disappointed by people’s reactions. His cap casts shadows in his eyes, but his smile is bright in the dim light. His sunburned skin crinkles around deep-set eyes, and he nods his head for me to continue.

“They put a ball and glove in my hands before I could even remember, but somehow, Mom never made me feel like I was chasing the dreams she missed out on when she got married and tried to settle down. I guess playing felt like the most natural thing in the world because it’s what brought them together. Twice, because they were too young and stubborn to listen to fate the first time, Mama says.”

“They must both be so proud. Why haven’t you invited them out to a game, yet?” Skip”s voice is rough from years of yelling on and off the field. He takes his cap off and runs his fingers through the little bit of gray hair he has left.

I don’t want to admit that it’s because I didn’t know how long they’d keep the girl around before they exhausted their publicity stunt. I really don’t want to tell him that it’s because, except for the games with Reyes as my catcher, I have choked every single time I stepped on the pitchers’ mound.

“We’ll be back in Texas, end of the month.” I shrug. The thought of not making it to that game with this team hurts more than disappointment alone. “They wouldn’t miss us for anything.”

“Well, kid, offer stands. We’d treat them like royalty, no matter what stadium we’re playing. You’re one of us, and that makes them part of the family, too. Especially if they’re ballplayers themselves.”

He puts his cap back on and settles into his seat as if we’ve finished the conversation, which, I suppose, we have. Abrupt as it is, I’m not hurt by his silence.

I sneak a glance over my shoulder. Reyes is twisted in his seat–armrest raised, back against the window, one leg draped across the empty seat and sticking out into the aisle. It stokes my anger all over again, seeing him take up all that extra space as if he’s glad I’m not in it. But then I notice the thumb digging into the muscle just above his kneecap, the rolled-up towel tucked beneath the joint, and the tightness in his jaw.

His sparse brows are drawn together, creating a furrow over his broad nose, and his eyes are shut but look anything but peaceful. The rise and fall of his chest is steady beneath his hoodie, and I try not to think about the muscles beneath. My mind darts back to our morning workouts against my will. I think about the way sweat glistens on his shoulders during each pushup. The way his upper back ripples with the clang of metal and rubber each time he moves the loaded barbell. The way his stomach flexes beneath that perfect layer of fat when he raises the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face. It’s embarrassing, how long I stare, thinking of being back between those mirrored walls with him.

It sure beats staring at the dick print in those gray joggers.

I tell myself it’s just a shadow and force my attention back to my own seat. Skip’s asleep–a blessing and a curse. No small talk, no matter how limited, to distract me, but at least my coach didn’t catch me ogling his star player.

Dante jabs me in the side with his fingers. I scowl at him, praying he didn’t notice what Skip missed.

“Gum?” He holds the pack of that shitty shredded bubblegum between us. My face must betray the way I feel about the stuff because he laughs that low chuckle and tucks it back into his bag. “Used to be a time everyone on this bus was awake and celebrating on the ride back. Now look. Bunch of old guys passed out the second we get moving.”

“Oh yeah? So why are you awake, D?”

“Dammmmn, rookie, that’s cold. I’m barely even older than your disrespectful ass.”

“Ha!”

Reyes twitches at my outburst, and I wish I weren’t paying enough attention to notice.

“Don’t ha me–” Dante and his overwhelming charisma drag me right back into our conversation.

“We’ll see about that when you have to rush off the second the bus parks to get home to your wife and kids.”

“And here I was about to offer to buy if you wanted to grab dinner when we got back,” he says.

“You mean you were going to goad Reyes into buying dinner? If you want him to take you out so bad, you can just ask.” I try to tease and hope it doesn’t sound like I’m projecting.

Dante’s laugh flows through the space. It’s full and deep, and makes it nearly impossible to feel hurt, guilty, or homesick. He leans into the aisle, and the rest of the ride flies by in a flurry of headlights and top forty stations hot with intermittent static.

The team stirs back to life as we pull into the parking lot. Whether it’s to get home, to head out to celebrate, or just to race to the nearest bathroom, everyone is in a hurry to get off the bus. I snag my personal items from beneath the seat and hop off the bus quick on Skip’s heels, refusing to wait for Reyes in hopes of some sort of apology.

“Here, rookie,” that all-too-familiar voice grumbles a half-second before my bag nudges my outer thigh while I”m still digging through the bags in the compartment under the bus.

“Thanks.” There’s nothing grateful in my tone as I snatch my bag and pull away. It’s immature, and I can’t afford to alienate the man. He isn’t my only ally on this team anymore, but he’s still the one player that I need to trust more than anyone else.

I can trust him when he’s behind the plate and still be pissed about his hot and cold behavior off the field.

“Ramirez, wait–”

I walk as fast as I can without looking completely immature to anyone who might be watching our little power struggle playing out. Dante pivots and waits for me to catch up, pulling me into his conversation with our right-fielder the second I reach their side.

Reyes has enough sense not to shout after me, and I have the good sense not to glance back over my shoulder.

For once, I’m glad that I don’t share the main locker room with the rest of the team. I lock myself in my space and flop into my chair. The leather cushions me perfectly, and I dare to dream of staying on this team long-term. Until the end of the season, and maybe even longer if we can hold onto our momentum and bat our way back into a post-season spot.

Team chatter, muffled through the heavy door, is perfect white noise, and I lose track of the time I spend sprawled in the chair daydreaming and decompressing. When I realize the laughter and banter have died out, leaving me with nothing but the music playing from the headphones hanging around my neck, I hop up with enough force that the wheels spin and leather connects with the wood of my locker. I leave an uncharacteristic mess, taking nothing but my dirty laundry and my necessities with me into the main locker room.

“Ramirez.”

I turn slowly even though I know exactly where the owner of that voice is sitting. Reyes is the only one left; even the coaches’ offices have blinds shut and lights out. The teammate I simultaneously want to talk to more than any other and completely avoid watches me from locker number twelve. His seat is leaned back as far as the hinges will let it, and his legs are extended loosely. Knees wide. Gray joggers pulled taut over his beefy thighs. One hand behind his head and the other splayed on his belly.

His casual pose does nothing to soften the intensity in his gaze.

“We’re fine,” I say, even though we both know we’re not. “We’re just teammates, right? Skip and Dante were better company anyway. At least they aren’t hot and cold.”

“Look. I’m sorry for what I said, really. You had a great game–”

I snort. “Of course. That’s all any of us are to you, isn’t it? A great game, or else we’re replaceable.”

“That isn’t what I meant. For all the things I’ve fucked up in my life, I do not treat any of you like you’re nothing but a lucky number.” He glares at me, but I’m not cowed by my childhood hero. Not anymore. “I’m not good at making new friends–”

“Understatement.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to be your friend,” he continues as if I didn’t just roll my eyes and interrupt him. “Or some, we’re just teammates, bullshit. I’m just not good at letting people–” His attempt to mend things between us trails off as he glances at his phone. “Shit.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I don’t wait for him to finish with whatever text is more important than me. I told myself I was done falling for his tender moments, and here I am getting fooled again.

“Ramirez, wait.”

I hear his chair creak. His slides slap the floor. His phone lands hard on his bag. I don’t wait.

“Rookie–”

Reyes catches up to me just as I close my hand around the handle. He leans against the door. I’m boxed in, just like that elevator ride all over again, except this time we’re teammates, we’re completely alone, and I am in no mood for any of his bullshit. His hand is splayed on the wood, and his muscles flex where his sleeve rides up to bare his corded forearm. I don’t feel threatened, but I refuse to feel my body’s response to having his so close to mine. He smells clean, and warm, and tropical. Like passionfruit, sunshine, and a worn, old shirt right out of the dryer.

“Get out of my way, captain.”

He doesn’t move. His breath hits the back of my neck, but there’s nothing seductive about the way air hisses between his teeth.

I spin around, only to find that he isn’t even looking at me. Up close like this, the dark circles beneath his eyes are prominent. Especially because his eyes are squinted shut. His brow is furrowed like it was on the bus, and his teeth are clenched, but what passed for normal post-game wear and tear in those chartered seats is clear agony under the bright lights of the locker room.

“Reyes?” Without thinking, I reach out to touch his shoulder.

“Just give me a minute,” he says through gritted teeth. He takes a shaky breath and releases his white-knuckled grip on the door. Two steps backward put him just out of my reach. My arm falls awkwardly back to my side while he composes himself and forces his eyes open. “I’m sorry for being a dick on the bus, and I’m sorry for checking my phone when I should have been in the middle of an apology. It’s all me, okay?” He grimaces and shifts his weight to one foot. “I don’t want you to feel like you aren’t wanted here or like you aren’t a real part of the team just because I have shit going on, and I’m starting to realize I don’t actually know how to handle it.”

“We’re fine. Are you okay?”

“Nothing an ice bath and a visit from Alex won’t fix.” His beautiful laugh cuts short as he tries not to grimace.

“You don’t look fine. Is Alejandro even here–”

“I know better than to cut home early after you all play extra innings,” the physical trainer says, as if we’ve mentioned his name enough times to summon him from the dark hallway. He nudges the door open, wheeling in a converted trash can filled with ice. “Help me get this into the bath, Sierra.”

“I’ve got it–”

“No, Mateo, you really do not,” Alejandro says. Under different circumstances, I would have laughed. Instead, I help him lift the bin with a straight face and Reyes in my peripheral vision. “Can you fill the water while I get his stubborn ass on my table?”

I nod, not quite sure what else to say. Reyes keeps glancing my way while Alejandro sets up the portable table, and it doesn’t take a mind reader to tell he isn’t comfortable with me being here.

“No sense being shy now,” are the last words I hear as I let myself out of the room without saying goodbye.

My first baseball hero and long-standing crush stripped down to a clinging pair of red boxer briefs is the last thing I see as the doors slam shut behind me.