2. Jeff
JEFF
A aron Hill and Tanner Johnson had the tempers, not me, yet the urge to slam my fist through a wall grew stronger the more I thought about Jaime Smith.
The fundraiser had done nothing to appease the growing frustration, nor had working out harder than normal that morning.
It was bullshit. I left the shower and called him again, hoping he’d answer to explain what the hell had changed since the previous month.
The kid had talent and deserved a scholarship and a place on the team—so what had made my coach take it away?
“Yo, Maddow,” Jaime answered without the normal pep in his voice.
“I’m fucking pissed, man.” I clenched my fist a couple of times and asked the question I couldn’t stop thinking about. “What are you going to do now?”
Now that your future’s been taken away for no reason.
“Look, this guy from a community college contacted me and he seems all right. Might play for him a year or two, save up some money. My ma found a part-time job for me on the weekends, so I’ll be good.”
A dull headache started at the base of my skull and I needed to clarify one more thing before storming into my coach’s office. “I know I’ve asked before, but Coach talked to you, verbally promised you a spot on the team and backed out without an explanation?”
“Yeah, dude. Said something about funds, but I can read between the lines. They gave my spot to someone else. Dude better be worth it.”
“No way he will be. You earned this, Jaime.” I squeezed my phone and let the anger roll over me in waves. “I’m talking to Coach about it. I don’t care.”
“Nah, don’t cause trouble for yourself. My ma won’t admit it, but I think she’s relieved I won’t be too far away to help out. She needs me for my siblings. It’ll work out.”
“You should be playing at a D I school, getting the attention of the scouts.”
“If it’s meant to be, it will be. Thanks for all the support and encouragement, Maddow. It’s nice knowing guys like you are in my corner.”
“Anything you need, let me know,” I demanded.
“Will do. Keep that swing hot, Maddow.”
He hung up but my hands shook with adrenaline and fury at my coach flip-flopping on a verbal offer. He tells me he likes Jaime and sees a spot for him on our team, but then he pulls this shit? No. I wanted answers.
I had my duffel bag over my shoulder and ignored the looks of younger players as I stormed down the hall toward his office. My normal calm demeanor was shot to hell and I slammed my fist against the door. “Coach, can we talk?”
His heavy footsteps carried to the door and he opened it with a surprised look on his face. “Jeff, what’s wrong?”
“We need to talk.” I waited for him to push the door open, but someone shouted for him down the hall.
“ Coach, Martinez is bleeding !”
“I’ll be right there.” He pointed his finger toward his desk and spoke in his commanding tone that I used to admire. “Wait in there. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I nodded, annoyed that I had to wait, but understanding that an injury would take precedence over my grievances.
I plopped down on the chair facing his clean desk and thought of how best to approach it.
Did I accuse, or gain information? Did I demand an explanation or ask to see who did receive Jaime’s place on the team?
Or, did I ask him to explain why he would go back on his word, something I had never seen him do?
This is the type of shit Amber should post about.
Not bullshit. Seeing her dressed in a prim-and-proper outfit had messed with me—I was used to seeing the party girl in clothes that revealed a lot more skin—but this wasn’t the time to think about my semi-hot, annoying neighbor.
People told me she cleaned up her act, but I hadn’t really seen it.
I played baseball overseas for four months, missing quite a bit of action from my friends, and since I’ve been back, things felt different, somehow.
My headache increased and I tossed my bag onto the ground, accidentally hitting his desk and causing the few papers on the top to fall to the floor. I bent down to pick them up and froze when Jaime Smith’s name was handwritten on the top of the page. What the fuck is this?
My heart raced to the point where my pulse pounded in my ears.
Jaime’s name was listed with four other players I had never heard of—all in one column.
Three other names were written on the other side and there was something familiar about them.
Max Miller, Cooper Killian, Dillon Cage .
The third column had the name MARTIN RHETT and a list of dates and the fourth… . a list of numbers and checkmarks.
Why was Jaime’s name on the list? Who were these dudes and what were these numbers and checkmarks?
I snapped a quick picture of the paper as my mind spiraled.
The name was familiar, Martin Rhett, as if I’d heard it recently, and the other names rang a bell, too.
My leg bounced up and down with adrenaline—was this the proof of why Jaime didn’t get recruited?
The hair on the back of my neck tingled as the weight of what I’d found dawned on me.
This was Coach’s handwriting and not my business.
I glanced over my shoulder at the crack in the door, waiting to hear if my coach was coming back, but injuries could take a while depending on if they were severe.
Injuries.
That was why I recognized the three names.
Typing Max Miller’s name into my social media meant I pulled up a picture of a face I knew.
He’d started on the team in the fall and something had happened for him to not return.
He’s injured, that’s right. That was what our hitting coach had said.
Did something stupid and tore his ACL. He’s gone.
My thoughts blurred together as I typed Cooper’s and Dillon’s names into social media—their faces were familiar, too—former members on the baseball team who I never saw play. They had all been injured before the season had started. So where are they now?
Max’s Instagram account showed a recent video of him snowboarding. I clutched my phone tighter as rage coursed through me. He’d said he’d torn his ACL and couldn’t play baseball, but there he was, snowboarding like he was fine.
What the fuck is going on?
Who was Martin Rhett and why was my coach writing notes about this? I wanted to research and I stormed out of there, desperate to get information and to find out who these people were, and to get an honest answer for Jaime.
Social media was a blessing and a curse.
It took me less than five minutes to see where Cooper hung out with all the geotags online and my adrenaline kept me warm on my march to see him.
My mind flip-flopped with wanting to punch him in the face or demand answers. Both seem like great and valid options.
The library had four floors and a coffee shop known for its multi-colored coffees and that was where I found Cooper Killian.
The son of a bitch wore name-brand everything and had his arm around a chick that looked opposite his type in every way.
His clothing all had labels displayed while she wore large glasses, a baggy gray sweater, and had stacks of textbooks on the table.
Cooper wasn’t a bad-looking dude—and he knew it, too—but this chick was not someone who ran in his league. She has to be his tutor.
My heart pounded against my ribcage as I sat down a table away from him. It wouldn’t go well for me to cause a scene. I had enough coverage being a senior on the team and Coach would kill me if I got into a brawl. But I could wait until the girl left and question him.
“Cooper, focus,” the girl said in a mousy voice.
“Jane, I’m paying you to do my work. This isn’t tutoring , no matter what you think it should be. I posted the ad, you accepted, so stop trying to fucking teach me.”
Paying you to do my work.
Jesus. I pressed my palms against my eyes as it dawned on me that this guy had money and wasn’t afraid to use it.
Who else paid others to do work? Entitled people, that’s who.
I stood, disgusted with Cooper, and left the library with the intention of researching more. But it didn’t hit me until I got home.
Shit! The numbers!
Money.
I had more questions than answers, and none of them made me feel better.
If anything, my anger got worse when I typed in Martin Rhett’s name and found a picture of the man Amber Henderson had been hugging at the event.
Of fucking course she would be related to the man involved in something shady.
How else could these guys get into school for baseball, never play a goddamn second, yet all still attend the school like it was no big deal?
She had to know something to make sense of this.
How else could some party girl like her get into this university?
I threw on a jacket and stormed out of the baseball house and walked past the house that stood between ours.
I slammed my fist against the door and almost barged in when she opened it wearing tiny-ass shorts, long rainbow socks and an oversize sweatshirt that hung off her shoulder. “We need to talk.”