Chapter 2
This Means War
I’ve spent the better part of my life on a baseball diamond, and regardless of where it is, I never feel more at home than I do when my cleats are in the sand.
Smoothing my fingers over the laces of the ball, I throw it back to my new teammate with a bit more speed.
With each throw, a sense of calm that I haven’t felt since I got the news of my trade two days ago washes over me.
“What’s the deal with Warren?” I ask Shane “Hughesy” Hughes, one of our relief pitchers, as we toss a ball back and forth, warming up our arms.
“War? What do you mean?”
“I mean, he seems to have an issue with me, yet I’ve never done anything to him except strike him out.
” I pause to chuckle at the realization that he’s never gotten a hit off of me in the years we’ve faced each other.
“And yeah, I guess I beamed him last season too. But baseball aside, I’ve never done anything to him personally.
Does he always have a stick up his ass?”
Hughesy shrugs before throwing the ball back to me. “Pretty sure he’s not a fan of the upper class.”
I scoff at that. “He’s a professional athlete. Almost all of us are in the upper class. Especially if you’ve been in the league as long as I have.”
“I think it has more to do with how you grew up.”
“So he hates me for who my family is?” I scoff, insulted and slightly outraged.
“I doubt War hates—”
“Who do I hate?” Brooks asks, his rough voice washing over me perturbingly, which has me feathering my jaw.
And there he is as if the devil himself conjured him. Brooks Warren.
He takes off the sunglasses that were shielding his hazel eyes and then slants his black brows at me in question.
When neither of us responds, Brooks closes the distance between us, getting in my face so we’re toe-to-toe like we were yesterday.
Polluting the air around us, I’m hit with his notable scent—a mix of the salty ocean breeze and the sharp tang of sweat, with just a hint of coconut from his sunscreen.
He narrows his uniquely mossy gaze, one leaning more toward green with amber flecks than any other hazel eyes I’ve come across, before he repeats himself.
Mossy gaze? Amber flecks? What the fuck is happening to me right now?
A cocky smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, exposing a deep dimple on his left cheek. “Don’t be shy now, Pretty Boy. Come on, tell me. Who do I hate?”
Something is unnerving about the way he’s looking at me like he can see right through my carefully constructed facade.
Clearing my throat, I answer, “Me. You seem to have a problem with me.”
His answering chuckle is menacing. “Who knew you had the beauty and brains, Sin?”
“So you admit you do have a problem with me?”
“Hmm.” He hums and acts as if he’s mulling it over. “Is that what I said?”
“Said, no. But you implied it. And you’ve shown it during the few interactions we’ve had thus far.”
Brooks waggles his brows, and his smirk grows wider. “Taking notes of all our secret meetings?”
“What the fuck?” I can’t stop my face from scrunching up in disgust.
What the hell is the deal with this guy?
Before I get a chance to correct him, our pitching coach, Coach Adams, hollers at us, “Warren. Sinclair. Pull your heads outta your asses and focus!”
I step back just as Brooks turns on his heel to resume his warmup with the other catchers.
Even the way he walks away is cocky and self-assured, with his jet-black hair curling out the back of his baseball hat and his batting gloves tucked into the back of his white baseball pants, bouncing with each step he takes.
A slight smile pulls at my lips thinking about yesterday. I have to admit, it was fun putting him in his place when I toured the facilities and squared away paperwork with management.
He can call me pretty boy and arrogant all he wants, but he’s the one with an inflated ego, though, considering his current batting average is sitting just barely above 200, I’m not sure how. This team is a disgrace, and War is a contributing factor to their downward spiral.
I’d say it’s about time I show my new teammates what hard work, dedication, and focus look like. Starting with War.