Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
Foster
Word travels fast because Hayes sat away from me on the bus and the plane. He hasn’t said a word to me today.
When I corner him in the bullpen before the game, seeing Callie’s eyes reflected back at me with the same pain I saw this morning tells me it’s a stupid endeavor to try to explain my side.
“Not yet.” He walks away but turns back around. “I’m not saying never, but I need some space.”
He leaves with McCarthy, and I sit in the chair to watch the game, wondering where she is now.
I don’t get called in until middle of the eighth, and of course the bases are loaded with one out. I reach the mound, and they’re all waiting for me. I’m met with Decker’s usual disapproving glare. Easton can’t even look me in the eye. And Hayes is fuming for good reason.
Ripley hands me the ball.
“Hey, guys, let’s just win the game.” Easton steps in, trying to ease some of the tension, which I suspected he would. “Put the personal shit away and get out of this inning.”
“Just throw a fucking strike.” Hayes turns and walks back to the plate.
“Fuck, man, what happened?” Easton asks. So he doesn’t know. “This is going to tear up the team.”
“Kodiak,” Decker says, in a tone that says shut up.
My jaw clenches. “Stay out of it.”
I throw a warm-up pitch that’s high, making Hayes get up to catch it.
“You have to fix this,” Easton continues.
I whip around before throwing my next pitch and point my glove at him. “Stay the fuck out of it.”
Coach Cal runs onto the field. “Guys, let’s focus on the batter.”
I turn back around.
“We don’t know what happened. Why are you automatically blaming him?” Decker asks.
I’m shocked he’d even question whether I was at fault or not.
I throw another pitch, and it’s inside.
All I can think about is Callie and wanting her and wishing I wasn’t the fuck-up I am.
Somehow, I get out of the eighth, but we go three up and three down, leaving Pittsburgh up one run in the top of the ninth.
We’ve got two outs down when I walk a batter.
Hayes calls time, and I wave him off to go back to the plate, but he comes over anyway.
We step off the mound, and he covers his mouth with his glove. “Get your head out of your ass. I get that you’re all lost in your feelings, but you caused it, so suck it up and actually throw a strike and get us out of this.”
Hayes has never talked to me like this, and I thought he never would.
But what do I expect? I fucked over his little sister.
Blood is always thicker than water, and what does it say that my blood doesn’t want me?
“Why don’t you guys score some runs and make it a little easier for me?”
He shakes his head, and his eyes bleed anger. “It’s always someone else, right? When are you going to actually get over this chip on your shoulder?”
“It’s not a chip.” My words are delivered through clenched teeth.
I should back down. I’m in the wrong here. I’m the one who needs to apologize. I took liberties I shouldn’t have.
“You’re right, it’s a fucking boulder. So you had a shitty childhood. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t give you license to fuck around with other people’s feelings. You hurt her.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I shout.
Art comes up from behind the plate to interrupt and get us playing, but I want this over with. I want to have this out with Hayes for reasons I don’t understand, but I want it over and done with.
“Go back.” I point at Art to go back behind home plate, but he keeps coming. I step toward him, arm still extended. “Art, go the fuck back, we’ll be done in a second.”
“Foster,” he says, shaking his head. “This is a warning.”
Ripley steps out of the dugout, on the line ready to call time and cross, but I point to him to stay back too.
Decker jogs over, puts his hand on my chest, and I fling it off.
“Everyone, just go back to your positions, and I’ll fucking throw the ball.”
“Stop it,” Hayes says, but why would I stop now?
After all, I’m Foster fucking Davis. I fuck up everything. This is what I do. This is who I am, right?
Art continues to approach me. He waves Ripley in, and he crosses the first base line, joining our party.
“You better calm down, Foster,” Art tells me.
“Fuck off.” I spit off to the side, into the grass.
“Out!” he yells, making the ejection signal.
I chuck the ball into centerfield. “Happy to.”
“Davis!” Ripley shouts. “Get in the locker room. Now!”
Fuck all of them. I walk through the dugout and right into the locker room, throwing my glove as hard as I possibly can.
I pull my phone out of the safe in the locker. I sometimes carry it with me, but I didn’t want to be tempted to contact Callie or read our text threads again.
There are two messages waiting for me.
Jagger Kale: Way to lose the endorsement. They’re not interested in you anymore.
The other one makes my heart stop for a second.
Callie: I’ll survive, don’t flatten your career on my account.
She hs no business messaging me, showing once again that she’s way too good for a fuck-up like me.