Chapter Twenty-Five
Ryker
T ime comes to a stop, and I watch in what feels like slow-motion the ball hit the top of the dugout and come right at her at full speed.
I scream her name to get her attention, but when she looks up, her eyes widen right before the ball hits her in the jaw.
Fuck.
Before I think it through, my legs are taking me toward her, sprinting and then jumping up and into the stands to get to her. There’s a crowd formed around her, but people part ways for me when I barrel my way through, telling them to get the hell out of the way.
I drop to my knees once I get to her. “Cami, baby, it’s Ryker,” I say softly. “Let me see.”
Camille’s eyes peek through her fingers. They’re filled with tears that’s breaking my fucking heart to see, but then I see her smile peeking through too.
My brows pinch inward. “Are you laughing?”
“Yes,” she says, the sound muffled by her hands. “Everyone is making such a fuss when I’m fine, only mortified. ”
“Let me see, please,” I urge her, knowing my team is going to give me shit for going off the field, but I needed to check on her.
Camille’s hands fall away, showcasing the red marks on the right side of her jaw, along with a few scratches. The visual makes me want to fucking end that guy.
“I’m fine. Get back on the field.” She brushes me off with a smile.
My jaw tightens. “You’re not sitting here anymore. Come with me.”
She doesn’t argue and follows me down the stands. She waits as I hop the fence and lift her over it, eliciting a chorus of cheers from the crowd.
Fuck me.
I point to a spot on the bench in the dugout, and she sits, setting herself up there.
Coach Warren’s voice filters in through the chaos of the crowd. “You saved the girl, now go play some fucking baseball. The medic team will check on her.”
I nod curtly and jog back to the field, getting myself into position. It hits me then that when it came down to it, I chose to check on Camille instead of keeping my head in the game. I don’t like that one damn bit.
Baseball is the dream. It’s everything. I should be focused on it, not her.
That same hitter who fouled the ball that hit Camille sets back up and hits a fucking bullet of a ball, giving our outfielders a run for their money. He’s rounding second base when the center fielder whips it over to me. Judging by the speed of his throw and the guy running, it’s going to be close. I adjust my stance, putting one foot on the bag, and bend my knees for the ball that’s coming in low, just as the runner slides into me.
Somehow, I manage to make the catch, but the impact of being kicked in the leg causes me to fall off the bag, losing the potential out. Part of me wonders if he kicked me intentionally or he just slid the wrong way, but I already lost focus once tonight. I can’t lose my cool too.
The crowd’s boos echo around the stadium as the next batter comes up, taking a few practice swings outside the box.
That’s when the dumbass on the bag next to me decides to chat. “Sorry about hitting your girl,” he apologizes, and I nod in response, keeping my eyes on home plate. “I just thought girls loved balls in their face. Guess it’s not these balls, huh?” He chuckles as if he’s a fucking comedian.
I don’t laugh. It’s taking everything in me not to react, to keep my eyes on the game and my fists at my sides and not at his mouth as I smash his teeth in.
The new batter swings and misses, and the dumbass decides to talk again. “She’s pretty. Maybe I should take her out to dinner to apologize.”
A wave of possessiveness ravages my body, so fierce that I fear I might actually knock this dumbass out. But I have no right to the feeling. She’s not technically mine and she’ll most likely go out on dates with guys once I’m drafted.
The thought alone enrages me more, and I’m about to tell him to get lost when the ball is hit on the ground right next to me. The dumbass makes a mistake by stepping off the bag, assuming I’ll be throwing it to first base, but I tag up on the bag to get him out. I wind up and whip the ball over to first base and get that out too.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” I bark as I jog past the dumbass.
I’m suddenly shoved from behind, and knowing exactly who it was, I waste no time turning around and shoving my fist right into his nose. He remains upright and swings back, getting me good in the jaw. It’s the only one I’m allowing him to get so it doesn’t seem one-sided. Now, though, he’s done. I yank his jersey and rear my fist back, hitting him repeatedly until our teams are shoving their way between us.
Noah has his arms wrapped around me, preventing me from doing any more damage. “Ryker, stop. You can’t get suspended,” he yells at me, using the one thing he knows will get through to me. Usually, it does, but this asshole pissed me off talking about my girl like that.
It has me attempting to break through the barricade of people separating us until I hear Camille’s voice from not too far away.
“Ryker,” her voice is full of panic, and my eyes instantly find hers. She stands off to the side of the two groups keeping the fight at bay, which is way too close for my liking.
“Let me go,” I snarl while nodding in her direction. Noah must get the hint because he lets go of me, but he walks beside me to ensure neither the dumbass nor I do anything stupid.
As soon as I’m close enough to her, I see the fear swirling in her eyes, and fuck me if that isn’t a punch to the gut. “Camille.” My voice is strained with the need to touch and comfort her.
“I…I…” Her voice is choppy as she attempts to calm her breathing. “Are you okay?”
I press my forehead to hers, letting out a shaky breath. “I don’t give a shit about me right now. Are you good? I’m sorry if I’m scaring you, and if that brought up bad memories for you, but that fucker deserved it. “
A thought appears in my mind, noting how easily my body went from blood-boiling anger to calm within seconds of being around her, but I don’t let myself think too much about it.
Camille inhales deeply. “I’m not afraid of you, just of losing you. I didn’t like seeing him hit you.”
I’m about to respond, when Coach Warren’s booming voice interrupts, jolting us apart. “Lewis, get your ass on the bench. You’ll be there for the rest of the game.”
I knew it was coming, and I know it’ll be the same punishment for dumbass, but I oddly find myself okay with the decision. The viewers will see that I was provoked first, so it’s not a bad look on me and now I get to sit on the sidelines and make sure Camille’s okay.
I call that a win-win if you ask me.
I plop down next to Camille on the bench as the game gets back underway, noting the way she’s eyeing my bloodied knuckles. “They’re fine,” I assure her, flicking my gaze to hers.
“What happened?” she asks as she stands and heads to our cooler where the ice packs are.
I blow out a breath, lift my hat, and rake a hand through my hair. “He shoved me.”
Camille sits down back beside me, a look of that’s bullshit on her face as she brings the ice pack to my knuckles.
“It’s nothing you need to hear,” I murmur, wincing at the sting of the ice on my split open knuckles.
She seems to understand what I’m saying, her eyes on her hand that’s keeping the ice pack on mine. “You don’t need to defend my honor, especially not when your career is concerned.”
“Fighting isn’t against the law in baseball, so it happens. The Panthers know I’m hotheaded, and sometimes, agencies look for players like that. It draws in views and fans more than you’d imagine.”
While that is true, they don’t go looking for draft picks that have been arrested before for breaking someone’s arm. Which is why I still need to figure out how to go about the whole issue with Travis, but that’s a concern for another day.
Right now all I care about is Camille.
“And for the record, I’d defend you in any situation. ”
Camille’s eyes dart up to mine, a whirl of appreciation in her silvery hues. “Thank you,” she says softly. “And I’d do the same for you.”
I chuckle, but it lacks humor. “Not needed, just make sure you get my good side in your videos,” I tease, lightening the conversation.
“That’s no problem when all sides are your good side.” She winks, and the sight makes me want to take her back to the locker room and lose myself inside of her.
Our conversation from there on is easy, commenting on the game as we beat them 4-0. As the stadium begins to empty out, along with our dugout, I make sure to find Camille.
“Don’t leave yet. Wait for me,” I ask, brushing my fingers faintly against hers.
Camille nods, and I rush back to the locker room, hoping our post-game meeting goes quicker than normal. Because I need Camille like I need a ball in my glove.
And I’m not going to last until we get back to her place tonight.