Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Decker
“Again, Davis.” Mercer hits another ball to my right, cognizant of my recent weak spot.
My jaw locks, and I force my face to remain blank.
A ball hit down the line used to be my ESPN highlight reel play, but lately, I’m lucky if I get a glove on it. That’s the part that twists—not the miss itself, but the fact that it no longer shocks him.
“Another off day, Davis?” Mercer teases.
I inhale a deep breath, keeping my temper in check. Me crashing out on a coach during practice isn’t going to help. My control is the only thing I still own right now.
“Hit it again.” I’m determined to leave here without Mercer thinking I’m not the man for the job anymore.
“Goldie, man, give it a rest. Maybe go take a break. Give Harkins a chance to take a few,” Easton says to me.
I look over my shoulder, seeing the guy I’m pretty sure upper management wants in my spot. It hasn’t been said out loud, but it doesn’t need to be. If I’m not doing my job, they might as well take a chance with a rookie like Harkins who comes with a lot less overhead than me.
“Again, Mercer.” My teeth grind as I clench my jaw.
“Sorry, Harkins, you should’ve taken that deal with the Trojans.” Easton laughs and fields a ball from Mercer as clean as if it was routine, but everyone knows Mercer isn’t hitting dribblers to us. He’s hammering them fast and in every weak spot we possess.
Easton throws it to first and smiles a cocky grin to himself, making the play look effortless. His game is never off. Meanwhile, it looks as if it’s my first day in the majors and there’s a hole in my glove. I can already hear upper management in my head.
Davis has lost a step.
Davis isn’t the same.
Davis is expendable.
Mercer hits me another one, and he’s nice enough to hit it so I don’t have to break for it.
I scoop it up and throw it to first, but my throw is low, and it gets by Donnelly.
Sharp heat crawls behind my eyes. The kind that makes my vision narrow.
I don’t miss throws. That’s the whole point of my job.
“Fuck!” I shout, and Mercer rests the bat on his shoulder, waiting for me to finish my little tantrum. The field goes quiet for half a second as some of the guys pretend not to watch.
“Take a break, Davis,” Mercer says, and there’s no point in arguing.
Cursing on the field isn’t unusual for any player other than me.
I don’t ever let my frustration get the better of me.
I’m the steady one. The reliable one. The guy who doesn’t unravel.
So why does it feel as though I’m coming apart at the seams over the one name I haven’t said out loud in three years?
Three years. Long enough that I thought I’d buried it. Apparently not deeply enough.
She’s the reason so many teams passed on me in the draft, picked up other players who weren’t nearly as good as me.
So why am I surprised that when she comes back into my world, my focus is shit?
Penelope’s not to blame, but my chest tightens as I remember the way it felt to watch my name slide down the board.
I remember swallowing my pride, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending she didn’t matter.
I got good at that. I’m still doing it.
I go to the dugout, away from prying eyes, and throw my mitt against the wall. The crack echoes off the concrete, and I stand there, chest heaving, hating myself for feeling like I need something to hit. I am not this guy. Except lately, I keep having to remind myself of that.
“Another shit day?” Foster walks out of the locker room and into the dugout.
The sight of my twin brother still hits me sometimes—the strange, quiet miracle that we ended up on the same team, in the same city, as if the universe decided to give us one more shot at getting it right.
“Shouldn’t you be in the bullpen?” I throw myself on the bench, acting like a fucking baby instead of the grown adult I am. I might as well just spiral all the way down to the center of the earth.
“I’m on my way.” He studies me for a beat, then looks out onto the field. “Harkins getting to you?”
I glance at the field and witness Harkins fall to his chest to catch a ball down the line. He rises to his feet and still gets the throw to Donnelly. Not as clean and quick, but still showing the job could be his.
Foster’s cleats tap along the cement, coming closer. There was a time when him coming closer meant an argument was about to ensue, but now he sits beside me. Ever since Callie came into his life, he’s changed. That chip on his shoulder, all his anger, it dissolves more every day.
“You have no idea what they’re thinking.”
We watch Harkins take the reps that should be mine. Reps I’m supposed to own. Reps I’ve earned.
“Your bat will keep you in, and you’re way too fucking good. You have how many Gold Gloves?”
I frown. “Everyone has their day when the game gets too fast, too much. I’m on the downward slope.”
He laughs. “You were a late bloomer, remember? That gives you a few extra years.”
“I don’t think it works like that.” Contracts only care about numbers.
“Are you going to address the real problem?” Foster asks, arms crossed, tattoos stretched taut across his forearms.
My stomach drops. I keep my eyes on the field as though it can save me because if I look at him right now, he’ll see everything I’ve been pretending isn’t lying just under the surface.
We could be in the Guinness Book of World Records for how different two fraternal twins can be.
But even with our differences, he has everything I want in life.
A woman who looks at him with stars in her eyes.
A daughter who reaches for him like a safety blanket.
The problem is I want all of that, and I want it with the one woman I can’t ever have.
“That they’re not even talking about signing me again? Saying they’ll see how the season plays out.” Talking about my spot on the roster is the easy answer. The safe topic. The one that doesn’t blow up everything we’ve been trying to rebuild.
Foster doesn’t say anything for a minute. “You should’ve let me hit Dad.”
“I don’t think it’s a black mark on my record. Certainly not the reason they aren’t re-signing me. Besides, it felt too good.” It had been years in the making, the dreams I had of hitting him.
He chuckles. “Another reason you should’ve let me be the one to hit him.”
“He’s our father.” I can’t deny the soft spot I still have for a man who never loved me. He only ever saw value in Foster and Foster’s abilities. I hate that I still crave anything from him. Even just a sorry for leaving you behind. He doesn’t deserve any time in my head.
“Bullshit, he wasn’t a proper father to either of us.”
All the shit that went down last year with our dad brought my brother and me closer, so I can’t hate him, but I also know that while I was raised by our mom, Foster endured our dad’s punishing demands that he be perfect on the mound. Somehow, he survived it. And I’m the one falling apart now.
“But this shit? What’s happening out there? Sulking because they’re not discussing re-signing you isn’t going to help. You know you’re better than what you’re showing out there. So, whatever is in that head of yours, straighten it out.”
His words land like a shove. Not cruel, but honesty we never gave each other before.
Foster rises to his feet but stands next to me for a moment, eyes still on me. His pause is loaded, and I’m not sure how long we can both ignore my real problem.
“What?”
“Is it her?” He arches an eyebrow.
My throat tightens. I don’t answer because I don’t want to start our newfound relationship with a lie. If I say it out loud, it’ll be another problem standing between us.
“Penelope?” he clarifies, and just her name leaving his lips tightens that hold inside me.
My fingers curl around the edge of the bench. I keep my face neutral, the way I’ve learned to whenever she’s around. “Give me some credit. I think I can narrow it down to who you’re talking about.”
A cocky smile crosses his lips. “You didn’t answer the question. I know you guys and—”
“No. We were over a long time ago.” Three years ago, to be exact. Probably before then if I’m honest with myself.
His eyebrows raise. “You sure?”
I tip my head and stare him dead in the eye because I want this reconciliation with my brother. It’s something I’ve wanted for years but thought was a pipe dream. Only one thing could demolish it, and that’s if I decide to go after Penelope Ripley.
“Yeah. It’s the contract and playing for a team who might not see my worth.” I hate how easy the lie comes out, but God knows I’ve practiced it long enough.
Foster’s gaze stays on me longer than a beat, an uncomfortable tension running between us. He doesn’t buy it. Or maybe he’s choosing not to push. Either way, my chest feels as tight as though I’m holding my breath underwater.
Because although he’s moved on with Callie, more in love with her than I could’ve imagined, Penelope is a reminder of what destroyed our relationship all those years ago.
Although she’s entwined in our friend group, me entertaining rekindling a relationship with her would damage what Foster and I are building.
“Okay then. I better get going before they don’t want both Davis brothers next year.
” He walks away from the dugout but pauses right in front of me on the field.
“Stop being a fucking jackoff and get your ass out on the field. You’re better than Harkins.
Show them.” He smiles, then jogs toward the bullpen.
I fight a smile because this—whatever this is between us now—is something I didn’t know I was still allowed to want. It’s proof we didn’t miss our chance. That we can still have a future together as brothers.
Until I realize how badly I wish things could be different. Like Penelope Ripley not being the one thing I want that could cost me everything I’ve just gotten back.