Chapter Thirty
Yesterday, we received the results of the drug testing. It was THC that Jared used to dope us. Every player on our team showed signs of marijuana in their system, just enough of it to prove what Amy and I had suspected. Now, we simply need to catch Jared and his cohort in the act.
None of my teammates know yet what's going on. It's better that way for now. I've got my team's backs, and Amy's on board too. We've been strategizing for hours, huddled in her office with the blinds drawn and voices kept low.
"We need to prove he's tampering with the bats," Amy says. Her usual look of determination is adorable and sexy. "The drug tests are only part of it."
"But we need to catch them red-handed," I remind her. "Got any ideas how?"
She leans back against her chair, slapping her pen down on the desk. A self-satisfied smile curves her lips. "We set a trap. After the game."
"After?" I sit up straighter. "Tell me more, Coach."
"If we blow the lid off the drugging scandal now, Jared won't be able to play."
"You're a genius, Amy." I smack a big, wet kiss on her lips. "But I need to whup him so badly that he'll be humiliated forever—before everyone hears about his cheating."
The plan is simple but risky. We'll leave a batch of our torpedo bats seemingly unattended in the equipment room tonight after everyone's gone.
We trust Phil and Ray, so we brought them in on our scheme.
They suggested using several wifi spy cameras that also have audio capability.
Jared and his cohort won't even see the cameras. Each one is the size of a pea.
While Amy and I are busy on the field, Phil and Ray will be monitoring the feeds from their phones. If anything goes down, Phil will call Amy on her phone. She's keeping it muted but with vibration on.
"I still think I should hide in the equipment room," I tell her, rolling a baseball between my palms.
Amy shakes her head. "Too risky. If Jared spots you, our whole plan falls apart."
She's right, but I hate feeling like I'm not doing enough. This is my team, my career on the line. I've faced fastballs coming at me at ninety-nine miles per hour, but somehow this waiting game feels more dangerous.
"But Amy, what if he doesn't take the bait?"
"He will." She slants forward, her hair falling loose from her ponytail. "Jared's too arrogant not to. He thinks he's untouchable."
There's more than baseball at stake between us, and we both know it. We could get into serious trouble if we're wrong about this.
"Ready?" Amy asks, standing up and smoothing her clothes.
"Baby, I was born ready." I wink so she knows I'm joking, though she's smart enough to figure that out on her own. I set the baseball down and follow her out to the field.
The afternoon practice drags. I'm going through the motions, my mind split between the upcoming game and our trap.
Every time I see Jared across the field with his team, I want to run over there and slug him in the gut.
He catches me staring and smirks, tapping his bat against the ground. The bastard thinks he's won already.
"Focus, Braddock," Amy calls out from the sidelines. "Eyes on the ball, not the enemy."
She's right. I shake it off and drill the next few hits, sending balls soaring.
My teammates whoop and holler, their energy infectious.
They have no idea why I'm suddenly locked in, but they feed off it anyway.
For a few glorious minutes, I forget about Jared, the marijuana, all of it.
I'm just playing ball, the way I used to before this mess.
After practice ends, Amy and I set up our trap, carefully arranging the torpedo bats in the equipment room so they look casually stored. In reality, they're perfectly positioned for the cameras. Phil shows me the feed on his phone—crystal clear video of the entire room from three different angles.
"We'll catch the son of a bitch," he whispers, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "Don't worry."
"Thanks, Phil." His support means more than I can express, and I don't even try to come up with anything better to say. I doubt he expects me to, anyway.
As I head to the locker room to shower, I spot Jared lingering near our dugout, pretending to tie his shoe. My muscles tense, ready for confrontation, but I force myself to keep walking. Any acknowledgment now could tip him off.
In the locker room, I take the longest shower of my life, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders. My mind races through every potential scenario for tonight. What if the cameras fail? What if Jared doesn't take the bait? What if he's already figured out that we're onto him?
I shut off the water and towel myself dry, struggling to silence the noise in my head. As I'm getting dressed, I hear a notification sound, indicating a text—from Amy, no doubt.
All set. Equipment room ready. Dinner?
I text back: Starving. Where are we going?
Ten minutes later, we're at a small diner three blocks from the stadium.
It's a team favorite, but at this hour, it's nearly empty.
Perfect for us to talk without being overheard.
Amy sits across from me, nursing a cup of black coffee while I nibble on a meat pie.
Neither of us has much of an appetite, but we need to keep our strength up.
I gently pester Amy until she finally orders a pastry. Well, that's better than nothing.
"Do you think he'll make his move tonight?" I ask between bites.
She taps her fingernails on her mug, a nervous habit I've noticed before games. "If the pattern holds, yes. They've been drugging our team before home games against the Altitude. Tomorrow's match is too important for him to pass up."
"Oh, I can't wait to see his face when we nail him." The thought of Jared finally getting what's coming to him makes the food taste better.
Amy slants toward me, her voice low. "Remember, we need solid evidence. Video of him applying the THC oil to the bats. Circumstantial stuff won't do."
"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill." I twirl spaghetti around my fork, strictly for something to do.
"I can't stop thinking about what will happen after we catch him.
This could blow up into a massive scandal.
" I set my fork down, suddenly less hungry.
"The league will investigate. There could be hearings, suspensions. "
"One step at a time," Amy says, reaching across the table to touch my hand briefly. "First, we get the evidence. Then, we worry about the fallout."
Her phone buzzes on the table. We both freeze and stare at the thing like it might explode.
She flips it over, reads the screen, and then looks up at me. "It's Phil. Just checking in. Nothing happening yet."
I exhale slowly. "This waiting is killing me."
"Welcome to my world as a coach," she says with a tight smile. "Ninety percent preparation, ten percent real action."
We finish our meal in anxious silence, both checking our phones every few minutes for updates. I've never felt time crawl by so slowly. Every person who walks into the diner makes me jump, as if I'm half-expecting Jared to stroll in and catch us plotting against him.
Finally, Amy pays the bill despite my protests, and we head back toward the stadium.
The night air has cooled, stars emerging overhead as we walk side by side, our fingers loosely twined.
We're a block from the stadium when both our phones buzz simultaneously.
My heart hammers as I fumble to check the message from Phil.
Movement in equipment room. Two figures. Get here now.
Amy and I stare at each other for a split second before breaking into a sprint.
We're sprinting toward the stadium. My heart pounds against my ribcage, adrenaline flooding my system like I'm up to bat in the bottom of the ninth.
We dash through the players' entrance, our footsteps echoing down the empty corridors.
"Wait," Amy hisses, grabbing my arm as we near the equipment room. "We can't just burst in. We need to be stealthy, like undercover agents for the MLB."
"MIB sounds more like it."
Amy gives me the cutest look of confusion. "M what B?"
"Haven't you ever heard of Men in Black? It was a movie but also a real-life phenomenon involved with UFOs and other weird stuff. MIB is the nickname."
She lifts one brow, also twisting her lips upward too. "I had no idea I was engaged to a conspiracy theorist."
I chuckle. "Gonna dump me now, Coach?"
"Oh, no. You aren't getting away from me that easily."
"Well, you have your quirks too. There's your 'always flush three times' bathroom policy, for instance."
Amy rolls her eyes. "Silence, please."
She's right. If we spook Jared now, he might destroy evidence or come up with some plausible excuse.
"Let's check the feed first," I suggest, pulling out my phone.
The video is crystal clear. Jared and his coconspirator are in the equipment room. I can't see the other person well enough to be sure. They're hunched over our bats, applying something with a small brush. The sight makes my clench my fists hard enough that it hurts.
"That's it," Amy whispers, her face illuminated by the screen's glow. "We've got them."
I start to move toward the door, but Amy grabs my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Not yet," she murmurs. "Let them finish. The more evidence we have, the better."
I force myself to stay put, watching as Jared meticulously works his way through our bats. He's saying something to his accomplice, but the audio is too faint to catch clearly. Phil texts that he's moving to a position near the back exit in case they try to leave that way.
After what feels like an eternity, Jared straightens up, admiring his handiwork.
He's wearing that smug, self-satisfied grin I've seen a thousand times across the plate.
He high-fives his accomplice, and they start packing up their supplies.
Only then do we get a good look at the other guy.
We learned two vital facts tonight. Jared is irrefutably the one doctoring our equipment to drug us.
And his accomplice is one of our own—Coach Adrian Rivera.