Chapter 3
“Aubrey’s going to have your ass, Wes. Have you decided if you want burial or cremation?” I ask across the clubhouse.
Shoulders tensing, Wes turns away from his cubby and stares at me.
I laugh at the fear that flashes in his eyes as he adjusts his backward cap and tries to shrug it off.
It’s too late to hide his reaction now. The guy may be one of the best defensive catchers in the entire league, but Aubrey still scares the shit out of him when she’s mad.
She tends to have that effect on everyone who crosses her path.
“What did he do this time?” our best hitter, Kellan Pike, asks, joining in from his spot on the nearest couch.
The guy beside him, who’s too busy scrolling on his phone to add anything to the discussion, is Asher Vaughn, the broody centre fielder who was just picked up this past off-season.
I’m actually surprised he’s even here already.
For the last few practices, he’s shown up whenever he’s wanted to, earning a handful of brisk comments from the coaching staff.
I stretch my arm behind my back and grin. “Anyone remember Henry Bates?”
It’s Beck, our best closer, who answers, wincing as he shakes his head at Wes. “Yeah, you deserve it.”
“He begged me to set him up with someone!” Wes argues.
Kellan snorts a laugh, bending his hulking frame forward to lean over his knees. “And your first thought was Aubrey?”
“I figured she could handle him. At least now he can stop bothering me about it.”
“Just tell him to fuck off,” Asher grumbles, standing and glaring at us like our chatter has deeply offended him. “You’re a grown man.”
“Testy today, Ash?” Beck drawls, staring him head-on with unyielding green eyes.
Of the two guys, I’d have put my money on Asher. Beck is built like a tank, but Asher is big in the “I’m not afraid to gut you open and roll around in your insides” kind of way. I’m the last person who wants that guy swinging at me. I’d be swallowing my teeth before I formed a fist.
Asher jabs Beck with a brutal glare. “No. I just don’t come to work to fucking gossip.”
“The clubhouse is big enough for all of us,” Kellan says, falling into the responsible, parenting role that we usually reserve for Jett.
Jett Ellington is a single dad to a darling eight-year-old girl named Sara and is another one of my closest friends.
His absence thus far is probably for the best, though.
He’d have already had Ash stumbling out of the clubhouse with a disapproving growl, and considering we haven’t even made it onto the field yet, I don’t see how that’s going to help matters.
We’re only three weeks into the season so far, but the bond we have as teammates clearly isn’t one that Asher has experienced before.
He hasn’t exactly opened up and shared that with us, but it’s obvious to see.
The guy is closed off in a way that stems from always being a lone wolf.
We don’t have many of those on the Havoc.
Without answering any of us, Asher straightens his shoulders and stalks away. I frown but keep my mouth shut. Wes’ confused stare finds mine, and I shrug, letting it go. It’s not the time for this battle.
Working out a pinch in my shoulder, I swing my arm a bit and say, “Back to the matter at hand. Wes deserves everything that Aubrey is going to do to him.”
“It was her or my cousin’s sister’s roommate,” he mutters.
Beck barks a laugh. “And you chose Aubrey?”
“She’s single, he’s single! It seemed logical at the time!”
“You clearly don’t know the definition of logic,” Kellan says.
“Well, while Wes is preparing his will, does anyone want a perfectly good, well-used catcher’s glove? I’ll be generous and start the bidding at four thousand dollars,” I say, grabbing my gear from my cubby.
Beck does the same beside me. “And risk touching the inside of it? Not a chance in hell.”
“Okay, first of all, that’s rude. And second, it gets cleaned,” Wes says, already ready to go.
The noise in here has picked up a bit these last few minutes as more players file in to grab their things, ready to get to work.
I pride myself on knowing every single player and coach but do wish I had more time to get to know them all better.
Still, I think he says a lot about our team dynamic that we don’t all have to be best friends to play so damn well together.
I set my sunglasses on the brim of my hat and start for the exit, flipping to face them as I go. “By who?”
“The same people who would clean yours if there was anything left of it to clean,” he returns with a huff.
Lifting my slightly battered glove in front of me, I look between it and the guys now heading in the same direction. “She works just fine, thank you. Plus, I’ve got better things to spend my money on.”
“Like what? Porn subscriptions?” Kellan deadpans.
Wes laughs too loudly, earning himself a glare from me. “What? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Finn. Everyone watches porn.”
“Talk for yourself. I prefer actual women,” Beck says, reaching a hand out to turn me forward before I can smack into a wall.
I make a noise in the back of my throat. “Yeah, I think the entire population of Vancouver knows that.”
“I should have let you hit your face on the wall,” he grunts in reply.
Jett’s voice joins the mix a beat later, announcing his arrival. “Hurry up! Christ, you lot are worse than Sara when she’s getting ready for school. Less chatting and more moving.”
He’s waiting for us in the tunnel, a looming force that should make the rest of us settle down and dig in. Key word being should. Instead, I flash a wide smile and slap his arm, pushing him to walk beside us.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” I say.
The energy in the tunnel grows a bit tense, and I know without looking back that Asher’s following close behind us. Jett spares a quick look over his shoulder and frowns before facing forward again. I shake my head before he can ask his question.
“Don’t worry about it. He’s just a bit prickly today. We’ll work it out during practice.”
He nods. “Maybe we need to get him out with the guys sometimes.”
“If you can get him to agree to it, sure.”
“You’re the team’s fucking puppy. You ask him.”
I choke on a laugh. “And you’re our pseudo-dad. I’m pretty sure this falls under your jurisdiction.”
“Fine,” he mutters sharply. “I’ll try to figure it out.”
Hands clap our backs before Kellan shoves his head between ours, the sun beating into our fronts. “Just make sure there’s somewhere for Wes to hide in case Aubrey comes, too.”
“Why?” Jett asks, frowning.
Kellan hums. “Oh, where do I begin?”
“Who said we were inviting women?” Wes asks, joining us. He lowers his voice and adds, “By the way, I’m pretty sure Asher’s been listening to you this whole time.”
“Aubrey’s at everything, regardless of whether we invite other women,” Beck says, his tone hiding nothing about how dumb he thinks the initial question was.
We step onto the field, and I take one long look around, feeling that familiar click inside of me. Suddenly, nothing else matters but baseball. I tighten my fingers in my glove and pull free of the group, my focus snapping to the pitching coach.
Then, I get to work.
The ball pops into Wes’ glove as I smirk, waiting for him to toss it back.
I lift my hand across my chest and catch the throw before shifting back onto the mound.
Inhaling, I listen to the robotic voice in my ear telling me what pitch Wes wants and stand ready to throw.
I keep the ball in my fingers and guarded by my glove.
Wes tips his chin, and I line up my body before lifting my knee and lunging forward.
The ball rolls from my hand and into the air, soaring straight for the top centre mark before dropping in a sharp downward curve.
Wes reaches down to grab it and grins through his mask, standing. “That’s the fucking one, Finn. It’s nasty.”
I glance at the coach and find him nodding in agreement. The ball stays in Wes’ glove for another few seconds before he sends it back to me. When it’s back in my possession, I stretch out my left fingers in my glove and point it at Coach.
“You think it’s better than the curveball?”
The older man with a full head of greying hair tilts his head slightly, considering my question. “It’s slower, but it has a lot more movement. I say we use it as much as we can for at least a couple of weeks and see. It should be your go-to for the Denver game. We’ll adjust from there.”
“Alright. I want to test it on Kellan,” I say, eyeing up the batter.
Coach smiles crookedly and nods. “Pike! Over here.”
Last season’s best offensive player award winner points his green-and-silver bat at me and cuts a brow up his forehead. “Are you looking to be embarrassed, Avery?”
“Are you?” I counter.
“We’ll see.”
“Settle in, Kellan,” Wes warns, sending the chosen pitch through the speaker tucked into my hat.
I adjust my fingers around the baseball and rest it against my glove, holding both in front of my chest. “Any last words?”
Kellan plants his feet wide at home plate and grins, his eyes buzzing with excitement.
I watch Kellan’s gloved fingers wrap around his bat, the first two tapping slightly.
He lets it bob over his shoulder and narrows his eyes at me, daring me to try and get a pitch past him.
It’s exactly the kind of pressure I need to succeed.
Behind him, Wes drops into position and chuckles so softly I hardly hear him.
I take a deep, calming inhale, then lift my leg and pull my hand free of my glove.
Loading it back, I take another second before lunging forward.
The ball flies from my fingers at a terrifying speed, heading for the upper right corner.
Kellan goes still as I stay perched on my front leg and watch the ball soar.
The movement of his bat cuts through the air like a bullet but doesn’t make contact with the ball. Before he’s realized what’s happened, the ball’s cut through the zone and dropped into Wes’ glove.
“Strike!” our catcher shouts, dramatic as all hell.
Kellan stares at me for a beat as he regains his balance and shakes his head. “Again!”
I burst into laughter, stretching my arm behind me and rolling my shoulder. Even Coach lets out a few low chuckles, which does nothing to chill my ego.
“It’s your funeral,” I tell Kellan.
He’s too far into his head now for jokes.
The fire that I get to witness from the dugout every time he steps up to bat during a do-or-die moment flares in front of me now.
That only makes me more desperate to strike him out.
It wouldn’t be the first time, but that doesn’t mean it still won’t feel damn good.
Wes gives his head a shake before throwing me the ball back. I catch it easily and settle in again, prepared to go as many times as it will take to strike out the best hitter in the league.
Only then do I allow myself the chance to step back.