Behind the Plate (The Boys of Baseball #2) - J. Sterling Page 0,98
obviously wasn’t. He shouted something at my back, but I was too in my own head to make it out clearly. I had to get away from him. I couldn’t handle hearing another word come out of his mouth about Danika or her future or my lack of a place in it.
“Sorry it took me so long. I didn’t come over until I saw all his frat dickheads show up.” Mac suddenly appeared next to me. “What the hell was that about?”
I’d forgotten that he had been waiting for me.
“Nothing.” I tried to blow him off. I didn’t want to talk to Mac about it. I didn’t even want to think about it for one second longer, but I was rattled.
Fucking. Rattled.
I couldn’t get Jared’s toxic words out of my head or the one question that kept repeating itself in my mind.
Is he right?
It was hot as hell out already, and my catcher’s gear made it five times hotter. The second I stepped out of the locker room and onto the field, I knew I was fucked. My mind was still filled with all the things Jared had said. I spent the rest of the afternoon overthinking my relationship with Danika, worried to death that I was ruining her life by wanting her to be with me. How selfish was I?
No matter what I did, I couldn’t clear my mind. And that was bad business for any ball player. Baseball was a mental sport, and if you fucked with your ability to get your head on straight, you might as well sit it out. The worst part was that every other player on the opposing team knew it too. Being rattled on the ball field was like wearing a giant neon sign that read, FUCK WITH ME.
I was having my worst game in years. I’d made two throwing errors from home plate on guys who tried to steal on me. Normally, they knew better. Running against my arm was a test that most guys failed, much to their coach’s ire. Was the runner on base faster than the ball? The answer to that question was usually a resounding no. But not today.
Today, the answer was maybe. I’d basically invited them to take their chances on me. And twice, I’d overthrown the ball to third base, allowing runners to score and almost tie the game.
My dad walked up to me after the inning and pulled me aside. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just in my head,” I said, shaking it back and forth, like that might make the words Jared had planted there spill out of my ears instead of taking root.
“I can see that. Get out of it,” he said, like it was that easy. Like he’d never been in this position before.
We all had bad games. Even the great Jack Carter.
“I’m trying,” I ground out.
He was pissing me off. No one wanted to stay in their head on the field, and he damn well knew it.
“You’re making it worse.”
“Well, you’re not making it any better.”
“Is it Danika?” he said, and the mere mention of her name made my stomach twist.
“I can’t talk about this right now, Dad.”
We couldn’t get into a discussion about a girl in the middle of a game. That was unacceptable, and we both knew it.
“Yeah, well, I’m here if you need me,” he said before adding, “After the game. Try to pull it together.” He slapped my shoulder before jogging away.
Great pep talk, I thought to myself as I reached for my helmet and bat.
My next at bat, I struck out at the plate, looking. I’d watched the last strike sail right down the pipe and didn’t even attempt to swing. It was my third strike out of the game.
Coach Jackson swore, his disappointment in me obvious for everyone to see and hear. “Carter,” he said through clenched teeth as I stalked toward the dugout.
“Coach,” I said, sounding as dejected as I felt.
“Sit it out.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He was pulling me from the game. In the seventh inning while we were down by one run.
I never got pulled.
I never sat out a game.
Guessed there was a first time for everything.
I resisted the urge to throw shit, specifically my helmet, as I moved down the length of the bench in the dugout to sit alone and sulk. This was my own fault, and I had no one else to blame but myself. My sheer inability to get out of my head and be the leader I