The Dugout(19)

But instead of unleashing me on the field to take charge, he has me caged in the dugout, practically frothing at the mouth, begging to be released.

A strong arm clasps my shoulder, and I immediately know it’s Jason from the bubblegum smell that follows. He’s obsessed with Big League Chew and has to have a wad of it in his mouth whenever he’s playing. I have no idea how he doesn’t choke at least once a game. “So glad Disik is a stubborn old ass. Badcock cost us two fucking runs.”

“Yeah, I know.” I grip the padding on the short fence in front of me. “I’m about to lose my goddamn mind.”

Not to mention, sitting the bench with what feels like the entire campus watching is so goddamn embarrassing. There are chants to put me in, squeals from the locker room chasers and rowdy parents getting sick of Disik’s intent to teach me a lesson.

But the lesson has been well learned. I know we’re losing because I let the team down. If I was out there on the field, we’d only be losing by one run. But instead, Badcock is traipsing around like a moron, unable to—

“Stone, get your helmet, you’re on deck.” Disik’s voice booms through the dugout, startling me.

But Badcock is on deck . . .

Oh shit, okay.

I snag my helmet from its cubby, select my bat from its designated hole, and put on my batting gloves as I step onto the field. The crowd immediately starts cheering, and if that doesn’t get my blood pumping, I don’t know what does.

Stepping into the on-deck circle, I pick up the bat weight, slide it down the barrel of my bat, and start warming up my swing. No outs. Frederickson, our left fielder, is up to bat and we’re down by three in the ninth. We need a miracle at this point.

I keep my eyes focused on the pitcher and try to time my swing with his pitch. I’ve battled against him before, so I know he loves to live on the outside corner with his fastball on righties, and he has a wicked cutter that will jam the best of hitters.

I’ll be looking for that outside fastball.

The ping of the bat pulls my attention to the field where Frederickson got jammed and hit a dinker to the third baseman who easily throws him out. Busted on the cutter.

I tap the end of my bat on the ground, loosening the bat weight, and then step up to the batter’s box. I glance at my third base coach, who has nothing to signal to me. Instead, he claps and calls out my name with encouragement.

Turning toward the batter’s box, I hold up my bat in front of me and take a deep breath. I’ve got this. I’ve been in the cages every damn day since my last game, I’ve hit probably over a thousand balls by now, and I’m seeing the ball now better than ever.

Just focus on the release.

Stepping in, I hold my hand up to the umpire while I position my feet and then I swing the bat up to my shoulder.

The pitcher sets his hands, winds up, and throws the ball. In a snap decision, my hands start moving and my bat connects with the ball. My eyes adjust to where I hit it . . . a pitiful grounder to the pitcher. I’m barely out of the batter’s box by the time he picks it up and throws me out at first.

Fuck.

Me.

Because I don’t want to get yelled at again, I run through the bag, making sure to show hustle the entire time. On my return, I pull on the bridge of my helmet and glance at the crowd . . . who is dead quiet now. Great. Just add it to the “magical” things I’ve done this season.

Jammed by the goddamn cutter, and I even knew it was coming.

While chastising myself and jogging to the dugout, my wandering eyes catch a glimpse of something familiar over the disappointed crowd. A muscular blond. How do I know . . . and then I see her, Milly, sitting behind the dugout, wearing a Brentwood fisherman’s hat and a frown.

I don’t even know the girl, I’ve barely spoken to her, but for some reason, seeing her in the stands with a frown on her face does something to my pride. Pokes a few holes through it, deflating any ego I have left.

Fucking great.

When I hit the dugout, I jog down the steps and shove my helmet back in its cubby, and don’t bother to put my hat back on as I yank my batting gloves off my hands. Jason comes up to my side and says, “Hey, at least you didn’t strike out.”

“Thanks. That’s really helpful,” I say sarcastically and then take off toward the water cooler where I pour myself a cup of water, as if the run to first base really took it out of me.

In the blink of an eye, Romeo is put out as well, the game is called, and we’re left to head back to the locker room without a glance from Disik. We’ll hear about it tomorrow. We always do. When he’s this angry and storms off, we’re left to think about the game by ourselves, analyze every out, and be prepared for his attack tomorrow when he throws the inquisition at us.

My teammates scamper off, but instead of following suit and heading into the locker room, I walk back out on the field where the stands are clearing out.

I stare at the field, observing the perfectly trimmed turf and raked clay, my second home, one that doesn’t feel so welcoming at the moment.

What the fuck is my problem? Hitting the ball never used to be complicated. It felt like second nature to me, but ever since my injury, something is off in my body and I can’t figure out what the hell it is.

Both hands pulling on the back of my neck, I tip my head back and take in a deep breath. It’s just the beginning of the season, and there’s still time to turn things around. I just need to figure out how to do so.