Chapter 6
chapter
six
Click .
Familiar sounds follow the clap of the stadium lights glowing to life. Cicadas chirping. Red dirt crunching under my cleats.
And the ball, slapping my glove.
I could do this forever .
I’m almost used to the guilt pinching my lungs. After two months, it’s become as much a part of practice as lacing my shoes and stretching. I swallow down the pissed-off pity and focus on Jesse’s back.
All of his pitches sound different. The whistle of a fastball. A swooping whoosh for a curveball. The uneven whisper a slider makes.
This one screams , flying for the catcher’s mitt.
He’s a stand-in. The fourth one we’ve tried this week. And it’s only Tuesday.
I cringe when the ball hits his glove and he nearly falls backward.
Damn. Jesse put some heat on that one.
“Ninety-seven.”
Adrian’s voice interrupts my one remaining happy place. Because of course it fucking does.
It isn’t a secret that I resent the hell out of our new alpha and all his authority. Colt does, too.
But he isn’t here.
That’s the reason for the rookie catcher who can’t keep his feet under him and the guilt swarming my middle.
Well. Part of the reason.
Cupcake .
That’s what I called Bridget—the day we met, when she waltzed in and started laying out her demands. And ever since, in my own head.
When I came up with it, I had no idea the thought would stick. She just… reminded me of a cupcake. All soft and vanilla-pale, with her bright hair swirled on top of her head like a big, lickable dollop of frosting.
It even had little colorful clips in it. Like sprinkles.
Jesus . I shake my head at myself, trying to clear it. Watching Adrian approach the pitcher’s mound and forcing myself to dismiss a twinge of relief.
Stupid alpha instincts.
I might not want a new pack leader, but the voice at my center seems to disagree.
It helps that our alpha is always put-together, even when he’s wearing sweats and a Kings T-shirt. Any of our friends will tell you Jesse and Colt have absolutely no taste to speak of, but Adrian is like me. He somehow looks like he’s wearing a Dolce tuxedo, even in joggers and a baseball cap.
I wipe my brow, sighing. Deflated.
It isn’t supposed to be this way. Spring training is usually when we’re at our best. Rejuvenated from the off-season, excited to dive into the next one.
Not this year.
So, alright— fucking fine .
We sort of need a pack leader.
Adrian cuts an imposing figure as he approaches Jesse and waves me over, the warm lights of King Stadium silhouetting his wide shoulders and stacked biceps.
He’s not quite as tall as Jesse, but no one on the team is. That wouldn’t matter if it came to blows between us—the guy may have fifteen years on the rest of our pack, but he also has about fifty extra pounds of muscle.
Muttering Spanish insults under my breath, I stomp over to the pitcher’s mound, joining Jesse and Adrian on the new turf laid around it.
The older alpha’s aqua eyes glint under the rim of his black hat. He runs them over Jesse’s left arm—the one he uses to pitch. Genuine concern pitches a tent between his brows. “You’ve done too much today. We’ll rest your arm tomorrow.”
Seeing my sour expression, Adrian’s cools into a foreboding mask. “We need to talk. All of us. Now.”
Jesse’s usually a glass-half-full, whistle-while-you-work type, but he turns pale. I roll my eyes. “What now, Pops? Haven’t we done every goddamn thing you wanted us to do? Jesu Cristo , I’m so sick of your high-handed mierda ?—”
Adrian pulls his phone out of his pocket and waves it toward me. Flashing the headline.
Locke Pack Engagement A Sham?!
Oh.
Fuck.
The pack alpha cocks a thick black brow, looking from me to Jesse. “Just answer this: When did you plan to tell me that our fiancée is fake?”