my head against my locker. I stare up at Ez, wishing he’d shut the fuck up. I hear enough of his bullshit sleeping on his couch every night. I don’t want to hear it after a loss like this.
He grins, winking at me. “Reins offered his cream to a MILF this morning.” He takes a chug from his Gatorade. “He struck out.”
I kick my foot out, trying to kick him with my cleats on. “You don’t know that she was a mom,” I point out, my thoughts shifting from that shitty game. And maybe that’s why Ez brought her up. He knows me and understands that anytime Brie enters my mind, it takes days to get over it.
“She drove a minivan. If you can call that driving.” With laughter on his lips, he elbows Noah, who’s next to him. “And with those hips, she was definitely a mom.”
“Damn.” Noah smirks, twisting his hat around backward as he peels his jersey off. “Bummed I missed it.”
I’m not. And I can tell you exactly what’s going to take my mind off Brie. Imagining that MILF riding my cock while I’m in the shower later. I also contemplate going back to that Starbucks to see if she goes every day.
“She fuckin’ jumped the curb to get away from him,” Ez adds, screwing the cap back on his Gatorade.
I hope you choke.
I give Ez the look that says “shut the fuck up.” He doesn’t listen to me. I met him freshman year. We lived in the same dorm together our first year, and not once has he ever done what I asked him to. But he saves my ass behind the plate, so I stay friends with him. And his family back in Southern California is some kind of mafia or gang, I’m not sure. But from the stories he’s told me about his cousin Enzo, I want nothing to do with that family. Too bad I’m sleeping on his uncle Luca’s couch these days. Scariest time of my life.
“Reins?” Chiasson yells from his office, our pitching coach behind him with a look of disappointment.
Shit.
Groaning, I make my way into the office and stare at the wall with my dad’s picture. He went to ASU until he was drafted his sophomore year to Seattle. Sometimes I wish I would have taken the offer I got from three different teams before I even graduated.
But the fact that I’m sitting in this office lets me know I’m not ready for the big leagues.
“What was that about?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” Luis, or Chiasson as we call him, is the head coach here at ASU. He played three seasons in the majors with the Cubs, and if you know anything about making it to the big show, you understand just how talented he is.
Most people who watch the game will never understand what it takes to get to the majors. Just because you’re signed with a team doesn’t mean you will ever see a major league game. And if you see even fifteen minutes in the majors, you’re a great baseball player. Maybe even exceptional.
My performance tonight? Not exceptional. Nervously, I chew on my bottom lip, my knee bouncing.
Chiasson stares me down, his voice similar to Kevin Costner’s. You know what I’m talking about. A distinct, rough growl that when he’s talking, you fucking listen. Too bad he didn’t tell me who his daughter was before I fucked her. Would have been helpful. But he mutters, “What happened to the kid throwin’ 105?” as if to throw it up in my face that I didn’t do that tonight.
My jaw tightens and my heart kicks up. Here’s the problem with an exceptional performance in the bullpen. You’re expected to do that in a game. So many variables are at stake there though. Like your ex showing up and tanking your game.
I run my hand through my hair. “I don’t know what you want me to say here.”
“Some nights you have it, some you don’t,” my pitching coach adds, crossing his arms over his chest. He knows I work hard.
I meet his eyes and then back to Luis. I wonder if he’s going to bring up his daughter again, but he doesn’t. His chest expands with a breath. Disappointment, maybe, or a bit of regret that he’s put so much effort into me and I’ve struggled this year.
Chiasson nods to the door. “Get tonight’s game out of your head and focus on tomorrow.”