Chapter 22
Tenny
Phones tucked away, the clubhouse quiets to listen to Patrick’s final notes before we file into the dugout.
The batting lineup changed slightly to accommodate Atlanta’s all left-handed pitchers, but otherwise, everything is the same as our season opening games.
I down a cup of water while shooting a menacing glare in Colton’s direction.
Look at that. I’m knocking out superstitions while also letting my dumb teammate know that he’s out of line.
Because who really cares if Alex had to borrow my shirt because of…reasons?
And so what if she looks incredible in it?
No one needs to know that Alex wearing something of mine has electricity ping-ponging around my body—that’s for sure.
And I certainly don’t want anyone finding out that Alex avoiding me for pregame press got under my skin. Even though Alex irritated the heck out of me earlier, I still wanted to chat with her.
Talk about being a complete headcase.
I push my helmet over my simmering brain before pulling on my batting gloves and slipping a single dill pickle sunflower seed between my lips. Instead of hitting five-hole, I’m cleanup, right after Trevor. I move to the railing, watching.
Ricky, our designated hitter, makes a solid line drive between center and left, securing first. Shane fouls off two before popping one deep right. Ricky waits, assuming it’ll be caught, but then the right fielder fumbles the ball, and both Shane and Ricky make it on base.
When Trevor walks to the plate and I step out of the dugout, my blood starts to sing.
Trevor is known for dropping bombs, and we’ll be up an easy three if he can knock out one of his famed home runs.
I line up my practice swings with each pitch as Trevor gets two strikes and the pitcher throws three balls.
You can feel the energy in the stadium, mostly full of Stallions fans with a few blue shirts breaking up the red and gold. They’re betting this full count will go in their pitcher’s favor.
When Trevor hits it up the middle, just missing the glove of the second baseman, I hoot. As the centerfielder scrambles forward, Ricky and Shane sprint like a rattlesnake is on their heels. I expect Ricky to make it home, but he gets caught by a bullet of a throw to the third baseman.
Bases loaded.
And I’m up.
A shaky breath fills my lungs as I walk to the plate, readjusting my right then left glove. I can feel my pulse everywhere—fingertips, throat, behind my knees. My stomach twists like it’s a Vegas contortionist. I swallow, but the boulder in my throat doesn’t budge.
Normally, I’d be thrilled to walk to the plate with a chance like this.
I’d see it as a challenge and be ready to capitalize on the moment.
But ever since I saw Alex’s segment, my confidence has taken a hit.
That’s why I called Zona when I was supposed to be at practice.
As much as my sister likes to razz me, I always feel better after talking to her.
“All you need is a base hit,” I mutter to myself.
Before I step into the batter’s box, I glance left.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for until I see my white shirt jumping, the rolled-up sleeves high in the air.
Alex leans out of the press box, framing her mouth with her hands.
I can’t hear what she’s screaming, but it’s probably not, “I hate your guts.”
A calm hush resonates in the back of my skull as my nerves sharpen instead of shake me. Tightening my grip on the bat, I step into the box. My heart’s hammering like it always does, but my stance is relaxed, measured. The only two people in the world are me and the man on the pitching mound.
Oh, and the woman cheering me on like her life depends on it.
I smile, loading my back leg, feeling the coil of my hips.
When the pitch comes, fast and a little low, I load more before exploding into my swing.
The second it cracks off the bat, I know.
Heck, the whole stadium knows. The ball sails over the fence, and I can hardly hear the eruptive mix of groans and cheers because I’m laughing too hard.
A grin stretches my cheeks, and I wave as I jog the bases.
This ballpark might not be filled with Waves fans, but they’re watching from home.
My teammates, who’d been on the field, wait for me at the plate while two thoughts jockey for position in my overexcited brain.
One: that was the first MLB grand slam of the season.
And two: Alex will definitely have to talk to me now.
After jumping on home like a kid playing hopscotch, I’m met with exuberant high fives and back pats.
The celebration continues into the dugout with Rhett hugging me so tight he lifts me off the floor.
“That’s how you start a game!” He sets me down roughly before jostling my helmet.
I sit on the bench, letting the adrenaline seep out through my pores. There’s still a long game ahead, and I need to stay locked in or, even better, continue this upward trajectory and give Alex even more to report on.
Nine innings later, I’m covered in sweat, infield dirt, and a shimmery coating of joy as we tumble into the clubhouse.
The Waves are generally a happy team. There’s not too much infighting.
We all get along for the most part. The only exceptions are the drama Aaron Lawson stirred up last season and Shane’s continued cold shoulder.
After winning seven to two, we’re downright giddy.
“Alright, fellas,” Patrick says, leaning against the clubhouse wall. “That’s one. One. That’s what we’re supposed to do. We showed up, we played our game, and we took it. Pitching did their job, defense stayed locked in, and we got timely hits when it mattered—”
“And a GRAND SLAM!” Colton shouts, banging on his locker.
A chorus of cheers and hoots pepper the room as Rhett leans over to shove my shoulder. I smile back at Colton, deciding to forgive him for earlier.
Patrick’s bushy mustache twitches with a subtle smile. “And a grand slam. Can’t forget that. But we’re not done here. We have more games ahead of us. We need this focus tomorrow, and the next day.”
Everyone quiets down because the way Patrick runs this team deserves that kind of attention. Our manager not only makes the right lineup decisions and the late-inning calls, but he backs every single one of us.
“Let’s stay right here. Same focus. Same energy. Same edge. Stay sharp, play clean, trust the guy next to you.” A full smile lifts his lips. “Good win. Enjoy it—but not too much. Showers, food, media, and get out. Be ready tomorrow. We’ve got two more to take.”
He pushes off the wall, accepting a tablet from one of the pitching coaches as the two of them file out of the room.
The clubhouse devolves into chatter as some guys strip off their uniforms, but I simply wait. It’s not long before Alex sweeps in with Daphne on her heels. I bracket my hands on my hips, a smirk settling on my mouth.
“I just knew you’d be smug,” Alex says while smiling at me.
“Me?” I point to my chest with mock innocence.
Alex rolls her eyes, but her grin remains as she positions the microphone between us. “Might as well get this over with.”
It’s not our flirtiest interview, but the light shining in Alex’s brown eyes is undeniable. She’s as excited to report on my breakout game as I am to talk about it.
What would it be like to have someone who matches your energy, who really gets you, there for you at the end of the day?
Someone to share your victories with?
Someone who truly cares?
My shoulders droop as I realize…I might never know.
A sickening sensation swirls in my stomach as I glance at the floor, completely missing Alex’s next question.
“Give us a sec, will you?”
I don’t fully register Alex’s words until Daphne turns off her camera and drifts over to talk with DJ.
My face lifts with a plastic smile. “Couldn’t wait to get me alone, could you?”
Alex twists her lips to the side before her fingertips hover over my sleeve.
When I realize how desperate I am for her to smooth them over the fabric of my jersey, my chin dips again.
Internally, I chide myself. Time to kick this sad-sack routine to the curb. You just hit the season’s first grand slam, darn it!
Only…I know I can’t get out of this funk with Alex looking at me with gentle concern. Not when she’s wearing my shirt, and her hair is mussed from cheering, and her cheeks are still slightly too pink from her genuine joy over the game.
That’s every baseball player’s dream—or at least it’s mine—to find someone who loves this game as much as I do.
It’s not just a huge part of my life; it is my life.
I plan on playing until my legs give out, and then I’ll find some way to keep it in my life, whether it be coaching, scouting, or becoming an on-air commentator.
A ragged exhale leaves my mouth, but I don’t lift my gaze. I can’t. I’m suddenly more exhausted than if I had to battle through twenty fouls to get a hit.
“Are we done?”
I hear the defeat in my words, but I don’t have the energy to mask it.
Alex hesitates before saying, “Yeah, Tenny. We’re done.”
Keeping my gaze fixed on the shower room, I press forward. Going through the rest of the post-game routine is a blur. My head is such a jumbled mess I almost forget to see Margo to ice my hands. By the time we line up to board the chartered bus to the hotel, I can barely keep my head up.
Trevor stops me before I step in line. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just zonked.”
He pats my shoulder. “A big game will do that. Head straight to bed when we get to the hotel. No dancing tonight.”
As the oldest member of the team, Trevor tends to be a bit paternal with the rest of us. But since he’s ten years my senior and a baseball legend, I’m not about to ignore his advice.
“Yes, sir.” I give him a little salute, and Trevor chuckles.
Once boarded, I bunch my garment bag against the window, planning on starting my night’s sleep on the commute. I’m about to drift into la-la land when my phone pings with a text.
I grimace. It better not be Colton with any of his nonsense.
Alex
I’m considering a truce.
I blink at the message, my brows furrowing. Hadn’t she blocked me?
Alex
I think I’ve found a way for us to work together without wanting to strangle each other.
Alex
It would be a completely fresh start—if you’re interested.
If I knew what was good for me, I’d block Alex’s number and refuse to speak to her unless absolutely necessary. Zona is always telling me I’m too quick to forgive. But since I’m not very good at keeping a level head when it comes to Alex, it’s no surprise when my fingers type a response.
Tenny
Tempting…what are the terms?
Alex
You’ll find out on our day off on Thursday. In the meantime, try to keep winning.
Tenny
I ONLY know how to win.
Alex
Don’t make me block you again.
My brain fires off seven different flirty responses, but I tuck my phone in my pocket, finally showing some restraint. Then I lean against the window and smile like the fool I am all the way to the hotel.