The Dugout - Meghan Quinn Page 0,14

a very emotionless voice, she asks, “Did your panini treat you fine?”

What? Who talks like that?

I chuckle and rub the back of my head. “Yeah, it was delightful in all the right ways,” I answer, mocking her. “No bowel issues, if that’s what you were wondering.”

Her nose scrunches up. “I really wasn’t.”

“Ah, so since you already know each other, why don’t you two work together and I’ll take Jerry,” Jason says with a wicked gleam.

I eye the runt next to me and then look over at the beefy Jerry and his expansive chest, then back at the runt. I think I got the short end of the stick—no pun intended.

I lift more than Jason at this point, so there is no way I’m going to be spotted by panini line girl.

“Not a good idea. I lift a lot.”

“She can handle it,” Jerry says, defending his friend and moving to Jason’s side of the weight rack.

I give her a once-over. “My arm is thicker than your leg. No way can you spot me.”

Clearly offended, she says, “Try me.”

“I’d rather not break you.”

“Give her a chance,” Jerry chimes in. “I think she’ll surprise you, plus, she’s a wealth of knowledge when it comes to baseball.”

“Yeah? You know some stats?” Jason asks, loading up his bar with tens on each side to warm up.

“Pish. She’s not a statistician. She’s a coach.”

A coach? Really? I would never have guessed that and not because she’s a woman, but because she looks more like a bookworm than someone interested in sports.

“Okay, you can keep your mouth shut now, Jerry,” she says, her face taking on a scary shade of pink.

“What? You are. Don’t sell yourself short, Milly. You know your way around the baseball field better than anyone I know.”

Milly and baseball? Panini line girl knows a little something about the sport? Is that why she was weird in the dining hall, because she’s a huge baseball fan? I mean, she is wearing those little baseball earrings again.

“You know baseball?”

“Her brother is—”

“Shut. It.” Milly takes on a scary deep voice, full of warning—like Satan popped out of her mouth and bitch-slapped Jerry.

“Don’t be mad at me. I’m just telling it like it is,” Jerry says, shrugging off how upset she is.

And I was the start of that. Now I feel like a dick. Again.

Glancing at my weight chart, she folds her arms across her chest and says, “You know, you’re right. You lift too much. I’ll get Vinny to help you.”

Without another word, she turns around and starts walking away.

Shit.

Now I feel like an even bigger dick.

“Hey, wait. You can—” But she doesn’t let me finish. Instead, she disappears into the office.

I stand there, silent, staring at the office, guilt hitting my chest. Even though I’m going through a tough time right now, I shouldn’t take it out on other people. I’m not really that man, and to be honest, I’m disappointed he’s the only version of me she’s met. I used to be better.

I step to go after her and apologize . . . again, but Jerry stills me with a hand to my chest. “Let her do her thing. She’ll only get more irritated if you go in after her.”

“But if I don’t, I’ll look like an asshole.”

“Trust me, she probably already thinks you are.”

“Great,” I mutter and slink back to my weight rack, where I put on the same amount of weight as Jason, who already started squatting.

I grip the bar, steady my legs beneath me, and lift. I step back and get into position where I start counting off my squats in my head, all the while, peeking in the mirror of the weight room to see if she’s watching.

No such luck.

When I’m done with my warm-up set, I rack up more weight, building up to two-fifty, while Jerry sits between both of us, observing with a watchful eye.

“She really knows her stuff, you know.”

“Who? That girl?” Jason asks.

“Milly. And yes, she does. I’ve seen her work magic on batters before. She grew up with three older brothers, dedicated her life to the sport, and all she really wants is to be taken seriously in this field. Maybe you’ll give her a shot, since you seem to be in a slump.”

It’s a jab, a direct one. A fucking ballsy move too, but then again, I just insulted his friend—or girlfriend, who knows—and he has his armor on display.

Feeling defensive and unable to hold back, I say, “We have the best coaches in

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