Chapter 45
chapter
forty-five
This whole scene gives me deja vu .
I remember the days when a dinky dirt diamond like this was my entire world. The dugout, my sanctuary. Home plate, my altar. I lived and died by every practice, game, run.
There was a purity to it. No contracts, signing bonuses, or financial penalties for missed practices. Those were the days I didn’t show up because someone paid me to. I showed up because this place helped me make sense of myself.
Or a place like this one, anyway.
It feels remarkably similar now. Stepping onto the sandy, faded-ocher dirt. Treading over scraggly grass half as thick as the turf at the stadium. Breathing the scent of damp concrete and musty gear—a high school dugout.
It’s a smell as familiar as my own. One I love almost as much as Bridget’s.
Clearly, I’m the only guy having a nostalgic moment here. Dante hasn’t stopped muttering curses since we left our omega’s earshot. I don’t understand most of them, but his tone gets more ruthless as he approaches the troupe of high schoolers gathered near midfield.
I scan for an adult, but no one jumps out at me. Great . Dealing with a bunch of snot-nosed pissants.
For weeks, I’ve been wondering how the hell Bridget does her job. If I ever had to put up with a bunch of hormonal morons with under-developed frontal lobes, violence seemed like a pretty safe bet.
But as we come up to the group of losers clustered together, I mostly feel sympathetic. And maybe a little amused.
Dear God . Was I ever this young?
The guys finally see us coming and straighten.
One of them steps forward—a long-limbed blond kid who sort of reminds me of Jesse. He must be their captain because he has a clipboard in his hand. He tucks it under his arm and does his best to look wary instead of terrified. “Yeah?”
Dante swells beside me, ready to bite the kid’s head off. I hit his chest with the back of my hand, halting him, and ask, “Where’s your coach?”
A surly kid with lank black hair and acne comes to stand beside the captain. “He quit or got fired or some shit.”
The captain winces. “Budget cuts,” he explains with complete earnestness. Because— yep— this is the Jesse of the bunch.
Apparently, hearing these poor assholes don’t even have money for a coach is enough to take the wind out of Dante’s sails. He sputters and gripes, “Well no wonder you act like a bunch of assholes! You don’t have a coach ?”
Mini Jesse shakes his head. “No.”
“No team manager?” Dante tries, and I do everything I can not to snort.
“No,” Jesse Jr. replies, slower—like maybe he’s not speaking to someone quite on his intellectual level. Little shit . “You guys need something? Why do you want to talk to our coach?”
Dante crosses both arms over his chest and lets his growl loose. The kids stagger back a step, and he follows, pacing forward while he grits, “Because one of you brats is fucking with our omega.”
His dark eyes drop to one kid’s shirt, then back to his face. “You Linus ?”
He says the name like it’s an insult. The kid in question seems leaner than the others—not because he’s less built or taller, but because he’s thin .
For a second, I doubt he would have a cruel prank in him, but then I see what’s caught Dante’s eye: red spray paint, speckled over the kid’s forearms.
“Yeah,” Linus admits. He glares back at my packmate, all defiance. “So what?”
This time, I have to fist Dante’s shirt to keep him from lunging. “So,” I say, staring the kid down. “Want to explain what you were doing, vandalizing our fiancée’s car?”
Linus balks, but my packmate gestures at the evidence, silently pointing out that we’ve literally caught the kid red-handed. Instead of quailing, the little punk narrows his eyes. “She isn’t really your fiancée, though. Right?”
Dante mutters something in Spanish, trying to shove around me. I hold him back, ignoring the way my leg throbs when I dig my heel into the sandy grass.
“Listen,” I reply, “I want to help you out here. But if you keep saying stupid shit like that, I’m going to end up letting my packmate rip your head off.
That would be bad for our team and yours.
Not to mention any chance you had at playing college ball.
So, I’d maybe start showing Br— Miss Woods— some respect if I were you. ”
Linus looks paler… and even more determined. Scared, but no less defiant.
Hell, I really get that .
Some indistinct instinct has me narrowing my eyes. “Fine. I see how it is. Maybe we should just talk to your parents, then.”
The kid sniffs, looking at his feet. His jaw grinds. “Good fucking luck, asshole.”
Yeah . That’s exactly what I would have said if someone had asked to talk to my mom back when I played in school. Good fucking luck finding her sober, asshole .
Without dropping my focus, I reach my bad arm out and grunt around the pain that shoots into my shoulder. “Give me that.”
Little Jesse hands me his clipboard. One glance confirms it’s an utter disaster. I hold the page up to Dante and watch his face fall.
“Here,” I tell him. “Sort this shit out. Linus and I are going to have a talk.”