Chapter 29
chapter
twenty-nine
My abuela got me my first bat when I was three.
She got them for all my cousins, actually. A cheap Christmas gift—the hollow plastic sticks kids use to chase each other around.
But not me. According to my mother, I refused to put the thing down until I hit the ball off the tee. And then again.
And again.
It was weird, she said, because, as a kid, I mostly had the attention span of a squirrel. But I could hit that ball all day long and never get bored.
Not much has changed, I guess.
I still live for this moment, when I’m on deck and the bases are loaded.
Sanderson is up at the plate now. Whiffing. Because he’s a decent first-baseman but a shit batter. Thinks too much.
Jesse’s average sucks for the same reason: This isn’t something you can analyze. You have to feel it.
The way the wind hits your face. How much tension tweaks the opposing team’s pitcher. The weight of the aluminum in your hands.
My walk-out song kicks on, swelling over the stadium’s speakers. I spin my bat and traipse up to the plate, absorbing every beat. Feeling it all .
And even before the breeze picks up and the rival pitcher, dressed in crimson, releases a slider, I know I’m gonna hit it.
Middle of the bat. Toward left field. Barely in-bounds.
The outfielder will think it’s a foul ball. That’s exactly what I want him to think. Because by the time he gets his head out of his ass, I’m at first.
He scoops it off the ground as I round second. I toss Adrian a glance to be polite, more than anything. I know he’s going to motion for third, and I know I’ll make it. I have to slide in, but?—
My cleat kicks up a cloud of orange dust before knocking the base. Their third-baseman curses. And three points appear on our scoreboard.
I slink upright, already grinning as I turn…
To Bridget.
Not the dugout full of whooping teammates. Not the pack alpha clapping with his clipboard under his arm, or the crowd chanting my name.
I pivot toward the box situated just right of home plate, three floors up.
There, the gold-trimmed open-air balcony frames what might be my favorite picture of all time—a yellow-wrapped, red-haired omega with curves to kill for, jumping up and down.
Wearing the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. Cheering me on.
When our gazes touch, she brings her hands to her mouth and wolf-whistles loud enough for me to hear it over the rabid fans between us.
Of course Bridget can whistle like that.
And of course it’s just about the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
Our next player steps up to the plate. I find myself fidgeting, anxious to get back to the dugout so I can keep watching our omega.
She says something to Colt, and he snaps out a reply, pouting.
They continue arguing, but the sound of a bat connecting with a pitch snags my focus.
I turn just in time to see the hit. Fuck. A ground ball. I’m toast .
I run for it anyway. The catcher tags me out, but at least our other shortstop gets to second. Adrian stills claps me on the back as I pass him. “That was a great hit. Three runs. Well done.”
Maybe watching Bridget soak up his praise like a flower gulping down rain has had some effect on me. Normally, I’d shrug him off, but this time I try to let his approval past my bluster. And as it sinks in, I feel good .
“Thanks,” I grunt. Jesse trudges past with a bat. Scowling. “Time for Jesse to fuck it all to hell.”
Adrian smirks and smacks the back of my head. “Get in the damn dugout.”
I try not to gag about the fact that his order doesn’t even bother me. Ducking my head, I step down into the dugout. Orange sand crunches between my cleats and the fresh concrete beneath. Our bat boy hands me a water bottle and a towel.
I drop to my place at the end of the long bench, barely hearing my teammates. I’m already busy, scanning the crowd.
Jesse misses his first pitch as I find Bridget again. She’s arguing with Colt in earnest, now, but he pauses her with a hand on her shoulder. His head turns to scan the crowd, though she assumes he’s stopping their conversation so she can watch Jesse.
Her attention flies to the blond alpha at the plate. She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts something down to my packmate. I watch the words hit him, and he pauses. A strike whizzes past his shoulder.
Shit .
But he doesn’t tense or screw his face up in concentration. He turns and points his bat right at Bridget, flashing the rarest, widest version of his smile.
The next pitch is a curveball. And he hits it . The ball goes screaming straight down centerfield. Jesse darts for first.
I barely see him, though. Because right after he points his bat at Bridget, the stands erupt . People crane their necks and point. Phones stick out of the crowd. Someone yells something, and another person calls back.
Except… no . They aren’t yelling at each other. They’re shouting at Bridget .
“It’s the Fake Fiancée!” I hear.
My body feels like it’s flipped inside out. There are jeers and boos as Adrian steps out of the dugout and glares up at the stadium. On the field, our next teammate at bat is so distracted by the ruckus that he strikes out and ends our inning.
The turnover only makes everyone rowdier. People start to throw cups and napkins. Hundreds of phones snap pictures. Adrian snarls a curse and stalks toward the umpire, pausing the game.
Jesse comes running toward the dugout, but he’s out of earshot when Sanderson starts running his stupid mouth behind me.
“Oh shit,” he chortles. “They’re on to you guys, huh?”
I pin him with a murderous look, gritting, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Our second-baseman, Riggins, snorts, “Oh, c’mon. Everyone knows. It makes sense, by the way. We all thought it was weird that you were engaged to a librarian .”
I growl before I can help myself, whirling to lunge. Knowing the entire time that I’m acting crazy.
This is how we all talk to each other—none of us mean any harm. Busting each other’s balls is a time-honored dugout tradition. Like chewing sunflower seeds and spitting.
Hell, two weeks ago, I would have laughed .
Would have fucking agreed .
Me? With a woman who manages books and educates young people for a living? It sounds like a good joke, given who I am. I don’t think I’ve voluntarily picked up a book in years… and I’ve always been more of a weekend-in-South-Beach guy than the Charity-Softball-Game type.
But now? I remember Bridget’s sassy little hip-cock. Her quirked auburn brows. The flirty smile she flashes whenever she catches me checking out her ass.
And— Cristo —the way our bodies fit together. How she took me, and everything I could dish out, like a fucking queen . Even in a heat-spike.
How dare anyone think she isn’t really mine?
She isn’t .
But still .
Sanderson’s eyes bug out as I grab his jersey. His blue-and-yellow Kings cap falls to the orange-dusted floor when he flails in my grip. I cock my fist, but someone snags my arm.
Jesse.
Fucker.
The pacifist alpha doesn’t even try to apologize to our teammate or calm me down, though. Instead, he flicks Sanderson a loathing look of his own and nods at Adrian, who’s busy shoving our second-string pitcher onto the field.
“We’re going,” Jesse says flatly. His hazel eyes flit to Riggins and the rest of our guys. A roiling wave of alpha aggression, unlike anything I’ve ever felt from him, crashes over the small space. Leaving it silent as he adds, “Our omega needs us.”