Chapter 17
Hunter
My performance today is shit. My head’s not in the game. Roddy knows it, too.
“Time out,” he barks to the ump before jogging out to the mound. I pull my hat from my head and again run my forearm across my sweat-soaked brow. It’s humid today. Either that, or I’m sweating bullets because I’m blowing it.
“You’re all over the place. What the fuck?” Roddy slaps the ball in my mitt. I pick it out and cover my face with my glove.
“I know. Fuck! I’m just off. I keep missing low.”
“And high. And outside. And inside. And in the fucking dirt. Get it together, kid!” He taps my arm with his glove, then punches the pocket with his fist before lifting his chin.
“Yeah, you’re right. I got this.” I sniff, then glance to my right, to the empty seat that has remained so for the first three innings.
“Hey,” Roddy says, pounding his mitt again to get my attention back where it belongs. His glare says it all.
Forget the girl. Get my head in the game.
I kick at the dirt as he jogs back behind the plate, and force myself to keep my eyes locked on the dirt path from the rubber to the plate.
I lock eyes with Roddy as he sends the pitch through the PitchCom, and smirk when he calls for a high fast ball.
I’m either going to nail this pitch or send it into the seats.
I nod and step into my windup, breathing in through my nose and holding the air hostage in my lungs until I sling the ball to my catcher.
“Steee-rike!” I haven’t heard the ump say that word much today. This one is good to hear.
Roddy zings the ball back to me and calls for another fast ball, this one right down the pipe.
I’m one strike away from getting out of this inning, and the last thing my ego needs is to see another ball sail over the right field wall.
But I trust Roddy. It’s the first lesson I learned in Sweetwater, and it might just be my last if I don’t get us out of this inning.
I feel the ball in my glove, then wind up and throw the heat, holding my breath as the ball cuts through the air and just past the heavy-handed swing of Pablo Cabrera, a guy whose rookie card I have in a box back in my childhood closet in California.
“Strike three!” The ump pulls his fist into his chest with extra flair, and my shoulders drop with relief.
I keep my expression stoic as I walk back to the dugout, and Coach slaps my ass as I take the steps and head straight to the iPad to see all the places I went wrong so far today.
It’s a three-zero ballgame, which, in Triple-A ball, is a good thing.
For anyone else in our rotation, it’s a great start.
Three innings with two hits and a walk. It’s just that those two hits happen to have been dingers, one with an RBI.
But even with that, it’s a solid showing.
For some other guy. For me, it’s a failure, and I know it’s not my mechanics. They’re solid. Which means . . .
“Get out of your head,” Roddy says, basically reading my mind as he rips the iPad from my hands and sets it on the shelf behind the bench. He plops down next to me as he tears at the tape wrapped around his wrist with his teeth. It’s unraveling.
“You’re right,” I respond.
“Yeah, I know I am. And quit looking for Renleigh. She probably just slept in. Or maybe she got wise and went home.” He chuckles, and the corners of my mouth fall.
“You think so?” I ask.
His attention zooms back to my face as his laughter cuts off.
“Dude, I’m kidding. But maybe, I don’t know. Like I said, this world? It’s not good on relationships, and Renleigh knows that. Why do you think she turned you down so many times?”
“Not that many,” I sigh, not laughing at my own joke.
“She’s got a lot on her plate. Maybe her dad needed something. Her mom’s a lot to handle when she’s in town. Don’t worry about it for now. Just focus on the game. Do your job, then sort that shit out later.” Roddy slaps his palm on my thigh and uses my body for leverage as he stands.
“Maybe go get one of those runs back, huh?” I jest as he spits in his palms and slaps them together.
“I’ll try. If you promise that was the last run you give up today,” he says over his shoulder.
“Yeah, I do.” I nod and catch Brooks’s gaze as he glances my way over his shoulder. I step up next to him along the rail. He’s saved my ass today, making some amazing plays at short.
“Hey, I’ll try to give you a break this next inning. I’m sorry I’m giving up the middle so much.” I hold out my fist, and he pounds his on top of mine before turning his attention back to the field. Something’s going on with him today, too. I can tell. I’m pretty sure our expressions match.
I make it through six innings and we end up losing by one, thanks to a home run by Roddy and some spectacular base running by Jayden Vargas.
“Good work today, Hunt,” Coach says as I zip up my bag and shift it to my left side so I can keep the ice wrapped around my shoulder.
“Nah, I know I was shit. I’ll do better. I promise,” I drone. I don’t mean to sound like a pity party, but I can’t accept compliments for what I know was a crap performance.
“Yeah, you were. But also, you battled back. Sometimes it’s good to see what talent does when things don’t go the way they’re supposed to. You figured it out. Get some rest. You’re off tomorrow.”
I nod and head out of the locker room, dragging my feet as I fumble for my phone that I stuffed in the back pocket of my sweatpants.
My dress clothes are rolled into a ball in my bag.
I saw a few of the other guys had garment bags for their suits.
I should probably invest in one of those.
I should also probably get a few more suits.
The only notification on my phone is a text from my mom.
It’s her usual good job, honey. There’s nothing from Renleigh, which feels .
. . wrong. I hover my thumb over her name and open our last text string, which is basically her requesting a Diet Coke from the vending machine late last night when I made a snack run down the hall.
I stop at the stadium gate where kids rush around me with their own balls and mitts, most of them playing catch and pretending to snag deep fly balls like the ones I gave up today.
We’re out of town, so the younger fans don’t recognize me, but a few teenagers stop me for an autograph while I’m mentally debating sending Renleigh a text.
I finish signing a hat with a Sharpie, then hover over her name for a few more seconds before deciding to just get back to the hotel to check that she’s okay.
I get razzed by a few Nashville fans on my way back to the hotel, but laugh most of the insults off.
It’s not until I exit the hotel elevator and some wealthy-looking guy wearing too much cologne says to his buddy, “Looks like he’s going to be sleeping alone tonight,” through a snarky laugh that I pause.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I fire back as the doors close, and I hear them laugh at my expense through the sealed seam.
My pulse ratchets, a little because I’m pissed, but more so, I think, because that guy was right—I am sleeping alone tonight.
And I wish I wasn’t. Renleigh needs to get to the airport.
Or maybe she’s already there. Perhaps that’s why she skipped my game, so she could get a jump on things and make it back to her dad.
Or what if something happened with her dad?
I flail my room key out of my wallet and slap it against the door, shoving the door open with enough gusto that it bounces off the rubber wall stopper.
“Hey, Ren?” I toss my bag on the freshly made bed. The room smells like lavender, and the television is on low, the hotel’s in-room ad channel flipping through the restaurant menu to the sound of smooth jazz.
I walk all the way into the bathroom as if she could be hiding behind the shower wall, waiting to jump out and yell boo! Of course, she’s not.
I pull my phone back out and check our text string again, hoping I missed something or that she just messaged me now, during my panic attack, but there’s nothing. I sit on the side of the bed and set my phone on the night table, then catch the note waiting for me.
Sloane stopped by.
-R
“Fuck me!” I pick the small pad of paper up and stare at the three words, my eyes zeroing in on the name of the last girl I dated in college. My free hand flies to my hair, and I grip a fistful and tug just to relieve some of the pressure threatening to make me blow my lid off.
“I was being nice,” I grumble, tossing the pad of paper across the room.
I grab my phone and flip through my contacts, but of course she’s not in there.
We never fully made it to contact status.
Our last messages were all on social media, and one of those apps doesn’t even exist anymore.
I open the one that does and find her profile, zooming in on the part that says she’s in Nashville for grad school.
I sigh with a touch of relief that she’s not stalking me to the point she’s driving across state lines.
And to be fair, I did invite her . . . sort of.
I just never thought she’d actually show.
We went out a few times my senior year, and we had a healthy, physical relationship. I may have credited my successful last month of the regular season to her, but that’s because I’m superstitious as fuck. I’m a ballplayer. We all are.
It was a cordial breakup, too. She was applying to medical schools, and I had just been drafted.
The team sent me the link for friends and family tickets, and I wanted to keep things friendly, so I told her to come see me play, anytime.
And well . . . I guess she did. Or she tried to. Today. Of all fucking days.
I’ll deal with Sloane later. For now, I need to figure out where Renleigh is. And what she thinks. And how the hell I’m going to fix this.