We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,26

with a hangover, striking him out is child’s play. He tosses his helmet to the dirt and storms off the field, looking like someone pissed in his Cheerios. I’m surprised he made it to practice at all. He was so drunk last night, if he blew a breathalyzer right now he’d probably still be over the legal limit.

Ryan Snyder steps up, aluminum bat glinting in the sunshine. Judging by the glare he’s directing my way — and the mottled purple shiner surrounding his right eye socket — he’s yet to forgive me for punching him last night.

Oh well.

No big loss, there. We were never friends. Just teammates — brought together by necessity rather than actual camaraderie. If he wasn’t such a solid first baseman, I wouldn’t put up with his chameleonic bullshit at all.

Snyder is a poser. When he’s trying to get into a cute girl’s pants, he becomes whatever, whoever, she wants him to be. The jock, the poet, the comedian, the tortured soul. Sensitive, quiet, funny, outrageous.

He does it so skillfully, most girls never know they’re being played. But the moment they sashay away, titillated by his attention, that oozing charm goes up in smoke, replaced by cocky bravado. And once they let him under their bra straps, into their beds? Snyder uses the locker room bench as his personal stage, bragging to a captive audience about his latest lay. I’ve lost count of the times he’s chronicled his weekend conquests after practice on Monday.

Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell; privileged white boys use more details than J.R.R. Tolkien describing the trees of Middle Earth.

Smallest tits of all time, but she let me cum on her face!

I’ve seen dogs with better teeth, thought she was going to chomp my dick off…

Look at the scratches on my back! The girl was a total animal.

I hit all four bases, then slid around to the dugout, if you know what I mean…

When I think of Snyder talking about Jo like that, something inside me — something dark — stirs to life. My grip on the ball tightens, the red seams digging painfully into the pads of my fingers.

“Let’s go, Reyes! We ain’t got all day,” Coach Hamm yells. He’s holding the speed gun behind the safety of the backstop, ready to record my next pitch. Every week, the scouts call to check in, wanting a full report. And every week, they ask the same question.

Has he made his decision, yet?

The metallic gleam of Snyder’s bat catches my eye as he swings it up into position. When our eyes meet, a smug smile spreads across his bruised face.

“Better get going, Reyes. Don’t you know, if you move too slow, you’ll miss your opportunity? Things you thought were yours, things you took for granted… they’ll slip right out of your hands.” He pauses, smile widening to a full-fledged grin. “Say hey to Valentine for me, will you? I’m really looking forward to getting to know her better.”

I start for him, nearly stepping off the mound before I catch myself. He’s baiting me — and, dammit, it’s working. I react without thinking, filled with the sudden desire to balance out his face with a second shiner on the left side. To pummel him until he realizes my best friend is off limits.

I tell myself Jo is too smart to fall for him, that she’ll see through his facade in seconds… but then I remember how pissed she got when I hit him last night… how she moved to comfort him when he went sprawling in the grass…

Great.

I’ve made this jackass a martyr.

“What’s the hold-up, Reyes?” Coach calls, sounding confused. “We got a problem here?”

“Yeah, Reyes,” Snyder mocks, leaning into his stance. “You have a problem with something?”

Hauling in a deep breath, I try to regain focus, but all I can think about are Snyder’s hands beneath Jo’s sweater, his fake charm working on her like a drug.

My fists itch for violence.

Get ahold of yourself, the voice of reason inside my head orders flatly. You did not work this hard to get tossed off the team for violating the Exeter code of conduct.

Crouched behind the plate, Tomlinson is signaling for a curveball — two fingers, pointing down at the packed dirt between his feet.

I shake my head.

He signals again — one finger. Fastball.

I nod.

Taking my position, I let the world narrow until it all fades into background noise — Snyder’s sneering confidence, Coach’s concerned frown, the scouts’ pressure to choose. The nightmare that is my brother