Chapter 19 #2
Everyone in our conference knows I have a weakness of inside fastballs.
It’s a surefire way to get me to swing, even if they’re some of the harder pitches to hit.
A lot of pitchers and catchers rely on them to get a batter down in the count early on.
Hell, I’ve been known to call for them often when I’m the one behind the plate.
But when I’ve got a bat in my hands? Those pitches are my bread and fucking butter.
I’m up in the count with two balls and one strike when I pull my front foot from the batter’s box and look down at Coach. He finally gives me the go-ahead to swing if it’s something I like.
Perfect.
My eye stays locked on the ball in Jacobs’s hand with precision focus the moment I step back into the box. I watch as he nods to his catcher, taking his sign before hiding the ball in his glove.
I wait for the pitch, the best kind of adrenaline coursing in my veins.
The anticipation. The high. It surges through me and makes me feel more alive than I do anywhere else.
When the ball leaves Jacobs’s hand, I can already tell it’s exactly what I’m hoping for. An inside fastball, just waiting for me to smack it out to the outfield.
But something’s wrong.
I realize too late that the ball hurling toward me is a little too inside for me to do anything with it at all besides hope to get out of the way.
There’s not enough time, though, and the ball collides with my ribs.
The wind is knocked out of me instantly, and I drop my bat to the ground and curl into myself on instinct.
My knees hit the dirt, my entire side vibrating with bone-searing pain as I gasp for air that won’t fill my lungs.
It feels like all the oxygen in the atmosphere has suddenly been completely used up.
Coach is at my side moments later, urging me to breathe deeply with a gentle palm on my back. I heave for air a couple times before I manage to finally catch my breath, coughing and sputtering once I finally have a steady flow of oxygen again.
Clapping sounds from around the stadium as I rise back to my full height. Really fucking slowly, because I feel like a kid with asthma trying to run a marathon. The umpire signals for me to take my base, and I make my way down the baseline to first.
In hindsight, trying to get out of the way was probably the worse thing I could’ve done. Taking a ball to the shoulder or forearm is a cakewalk in comparison to the ribs. It sure as hell wouldn’t have been enough to take me to the ground.
“All good?” my first base coach asks when I make it there. “Need a runner?”
Fuck, no, I don’t need a runner. My side might be hurting like a bitch, making it difficult to take a deep breath, but there’s no way in hell I’m stepping off the field right now. Not when my team needs me.
I’m one of the faster guys on the team, and I need to score in order to have any chance of starting a rally.
Getting from here to home plate within the next two outs is the only thing I give a crap about.
Not my goddamn ribs, even if they did just take a ninety mile per hour fastball to them five minutes ago.
But none of that matters, as it turns out. Getting a runner, my speed around the bases, all of it ends up being irrelevant when two batters and outs later, I’m still left standing on first.
The entire team is dejected as we shake hands with Washington and head to the locker room for an ass-chewing from Coach. Which, of course, only makes the vibe in the air twenty times worse afterward.
By the time I hit the showers, I’m in immense pain. It lances up my side every time I try to lift my arm or twist my body in a mixture of searing and stabbing, and drying off my skin afterward might as well be the equivalent of sliding a dagger between my ribs.
Back in the changing area, I towel off my hair as best I can before slipping into clean boxer briefs.
I move slowly to grab my dress pants next, but as soon as my arm extends, a rough hand lands on my shoulder.
I don’t have time to react before I’m spun around and pushed back against the wooden cubby.
My eyes slam shut as pain ricochets through my side and chest, and when they slide open again, I find my attacker is none other than Avery.
Wonderful.
“Get the fuck off, Avery,” I growl. The arm on my good side lifts to give him a shove, but he’s just as big as me, if not bigger. One arm against his entire body weight doesn’t do jack shit to move him more than an inch, especially when I can barely put any strength behind it.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” he snarls, pressing into me harder. His forearm digs into my chest and it feels like my ribs are splintering under the pressure. Even worse when his other palm slams against the already-forming bruise on my side from where I was hit by that pitch.
The pain—damn near debilitating—comes rushing back instantly, and I hiss through clenched teeth as it makes my vision go blurred.
To the point where I think I might pass out if it doesn’t stop.
I can’t even speak, let alone shout at him to get off me again, or better yet, to leave me alone.
The way he’s pressing against my injury makes even breathing seem impossible.
“This loss is on you, Waters.” The bite in his tone is icy and ruthless as he pushes against me harder. “If you hadn’t fucked with my mind by calling all those bullshit pitches, half of those runs could’ve been prevented.”
Yes, because one person on a field with eight other guys has the lone responsibility for winning or losing.
If I had enough air in my lungs to tell Avery that, I would. Or point out the clear flaws in his math skills. The problem is, I literally can’t form words, let alone summon the brain power to speak them.
Something he takes advantage of, letting venom drip from his words.
“At least you have your little fuckboy to go home to.” The pressure on my ribs increases. “I’m sure he’ll make everything all better with a nice, sloppy blowjob.”
I grit my teeth and push back against him, but to no avail. In fact, all it does is make his sneer turn into something of a smile, clearly entertained by getting a reaction out of me.
“Aw, is he a sensitive subject? You two get in a fight about which one gets to top when you get home?” He lets out a menacing laugh. “I bet you’re the one who gets fucked. All that squatting behind the plate would help you ride your boyfriend’s cock better.”
Embarrassment and fury surge through me at his insinuation, heating my cheeks.
My stomach is seizing from the pain and his wicked onslaught of insults, but I tamp down the vomit threatening to make an appearance.
I’m not letting this homophobic asshole see me lose my lunch while he’s got me pinned like this.
“Would you cut it with the stupid boyfriend shit?” I snap, finally finding my words before making another futile attempt to shove him off me. “I’m sick of you running your mouth when it comes to Pen.”
“And I’m sick of your queer ass walking around here like you’re God’s gift to baseball.”
Either he’s delusional or he’s lost his damn mind, because that sounds more like something he does. Not me.
Something everyone on this team realizes.
And look at that, a quick glance around the locker room reveals quite a few of them gathered around to watch the showdown between us. What’s more infuriating is that none of them are making any attempts to stop this.
“Reynolds!” Coach barks loudly from behind where Kaleb’s standing. He shoves his way through the team quickly and lands what must be a bruising grip on Avery’s shoulder, if his wince is anything to go by. “Unless you’ve suddenly become the team trainer, I suggest you get your hands off Waters.”
Avery’s nostrils flare, and from the tick of his jaw, he’s barely preventing himself from flying off the handle at Coach. Yet, somehow, he does, shoving off and away from me to his cubby after a muttered, Yes, Coach.
I gulp down oxygen greedily now that I’m free of his wrath, slumping down to sit at the bench as I wait for the agonizing pain in my ribs to subside. When it still doesn’t after a minute, I look up at Coach helplessly.
“Go see the trainer about that side before we get out of here,” he murmurs just to me before turning to the rest of the guys. Some are still milling about, watching the outcome of this with interest. “The rest of you, get your shit together and get on the bus so we can get home!”