covered in a thick layer of dust, and he’s gone at all hours of the night.
Ez stares out the window with me and the chick getting into the black SUV like some kind of kidnapping gone wrong. “Don’t ask. The less we know, the better.”
“That’s exactly what people who are into shady shit say.” I raise an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “He just shoved that chick into his car.”
With a mouthful of cereal, he quirks an eyebrow out the window. “I think it’s his girlfriend.”
“You think or you know? Last week he had a fucking chicken running around the kitchen.”
“I never said what he did was legal. Stop asking questions. My last roommate did and pissed him off.”
I look around the small house in south Phoenix. It’s pretty far from campus, doesn’t have air conditioning, and smells like weed. Constantly. For two college athletes, that’s a bad thing. “What roommate?”
“Exactly.”
I snort, shaking my head. “I need to find a place to live.”
“I said you could sleep here. Not that it was safe. Yeah, you do. You’re a horrible roommate. Why do you leave your shit everywhere?”
“I don’t.”
He points to the couch and the clothes I have strung out all over the place. “Really?”
I reach down and take my shorts from the kitchen counter where I left them earlier and toss them on the pile of not clean clothes I have next to the TV. A baseball falls to the floor, so I reach down and pick it up. “You’re being dramatic.”
Frowning at the mess, Ez plops himself on the couch, using my pillow to support his head, and he props his arms up and swipes his finger over the screen on his phone. “How do you get kicked out of a college dorm with a full scholarship? That’s next to impossible.”
“I don’t know. Good luck, I suppose.” It’s a long story about how I ended up on Ez’s couch. He’s living with his uncle, who is as scary as the rest of his family. I’m pretty sure I saw him kill a dude last week, though I’m too terrified of him to ask if what I saw was real.
“You need good luck for tonight. Chiasson is gonna have your ass if you don’t pitch good.”
I toss the baseball in my hand from one to the next. The last thing I want is to lose my starting spot to our backup pitcher again. “I know.”
Noticing my bag of jelly beans, he picks it up. “Did you pick out all the butter popcorn ones?”
“Yep.”
“Damn it.” He digs through the bag. “Any cotton candy left?”
“Probably somewhere.” I think about what Ez said and my pitching lately. “I ran into Brie the other night after the game.” As much as I don’t want to admit the sudden pitching slump I’m in, it has everything to do with Brie. Girls can really fuck you over. And it’s always the innocent ones who destroy you because you’re least expecting it. It’s like seeing a short skinny kid come up to bat thinking it’s going to be a base hit, maybe a pop-up, hit short to left field, and they drive one out of the park.
You’re never expecting it, but it happens.
“Oh yeah?” Ez sets his bowl on the coffee table and leans back, adjusting his robe, and continues texting someone.
I sit next to him and stare at the ball in my hand, running my fingertips over the stitching. Baseball got me through a childhood where my mom basically handed me off to anyone willing to watch me. It got me through the death of my best friend when I was seven and through a rough freshman year, but it hasn’t gotten me through this.
Why? Had the game given up on me, or was it back to that old saying my dad told me. Baseball gives you what you deserve, good or bad.
Maybe.
With his attention on his phone, he kicks my leg. “What did she say?”
“Acted all fucking innocent. Gave me some bullshit about loving baseball over her.”
“Bitch ain’t wrong, but why they all always pull out that goddamn line?”
“No idea.” Leaning forward, I sigh into my hands. I don’t need to be thinking about Brie, or women in general. I need to focus on why my fastball is suddenly the most hittable pitch in the league and where I went wrong. We’re two games into our series with Oregon State, and it ain’t looking pretty. “Ready?”