The Locker Room(34)

“Hell, that’s better anyway since you barely get any time with her.”

Tell me about it. With my schedule, I haven’t really had a chance to get to know Emory like I want or give her as much time as I promised, but I’m making it work; little glimpses here and there are better than nothing.

We’re on the tail end of fall ball, which means we’re going to be getting heavily into strength and conditioning as well as technical and individual training. We have a pretty good squad of newcomers who need fine tweaking—hence Farkle and his prancing across the diamond—which is something we always take care of in the late months of the semester. What does this all mean? I’ll have more time to make Emory mine.

“Tell me about it. I pop in and out of her life, but I don’t think I’ve been able to do anything long-lasting yet.”

“Get low and then pop up,” Disik yells, showing just how agile the old fart is by showcasing what he’s talking about.

“She likes you though,” Carson says, nudging my leg with his glove. “You can see it in class. She does not stop smiling around you.”

“Yeah, I know the attraction is there, just need to seal the deal.”

“And you like her, right? This isn’t a conquest for you?”

“Yes, like that,” Disik cheers. “Again, but this time with a ball.” He jogs back toward the bat and hits another screaming grounder to Farkle, who scoops it up and takes two steps rather than five. Better, but not what was asked of him. Not happy, Disik yells, “Again. Do it right or the whole team does pushups.”

“Focus, Farkle,” one teammate mutters.

“You know I’m not a douche,” I say to Carson, just as another grounder is hit to Farkle. “I like her, and by no means is she a conquest.”

Farkle scoops the ball up and sweeps across the field. One, two, three steps.

Jesus Christ.

Looks like I’m going to be taking this guy to the side and working on his release.

“Thirty pushups, everyone,” Disik yells while flipping the bat and walking up to Farkle, hovering over him as he counts out every single pushup.

A few “Fuck you, Farkles” are said while grunting out pushups.

Once we’re done, we pick up our gloves, and Coach lets out another warning to the freshman to do it right or we’re spending the rest of practice conditioning.

“She’s a good girl, Gent,” Carson says while we intently watch Farkle get into position. “I wouldn’t want to see her get hurt.”

“When have I ever hurt a girl?” I ask. What the hell?

“When have you ever been this willing to be with someone, rather than just fucking around? I’ve never seen you serious about a girl.”

“Which means I won’t fuck this up.”

Farkle scoops the ball up, takes one step, then shoots the ball across the field.

Thank God.

“Was that too much to ask?” Disik yells. “Jesus Christ, get in the back of the line.”

“Or, you care too much that you will fuck it up.”

“What the hell is your problem?” I ask Carson.

“Nothing, just be careful, man.” He steps up into position and just as the ball is hit, he dives to the left, catches the ball, hops to his feet, and throws the ball over to first in one smooth motion. He’s the best second baseman in the country. He has the stats to prove it and mechanics to make any coach drool, even Disik, who nods his head in approval.

Even though I’m good at blocking out unnecessary shit when on the field, it’s hard not to think about what Carson said as I’m getting into position.

I’m not going to screw this up. I might not have ever really cared this much, but that means I’m going to work harder when it comes to Emory. Because she’s worth that.

Disik grounds a ball out to me and it bounces high, hitting me in the chest. Not even flinching, I grab the ball with my right hand and throw it to first. It wasn’t clean, but it was effective.

“Good recovery,” Diski yells, but I drown it out when I walk up next to Carson.

Muttering under my breath, I say, “I’m not going to fuck it up.”

“I sure hope not, because she’s perfect for you.”

I couldn’t agree more.





I check my phone for the hundredth time of the night and when it reads blank, I subtly pound the back of my head against the wall.

What the fuck?

I left a message on student chat for Emory, letting her know to get here around eight, and it’s now nine thirty and there’s no sign of her. Trust me, I’ve been scanning the party every five minutes, making circles like I’m herding cattle, looking for one girl and one girl alone.

Is she really not going to fucking show?

I know she said she would think about it, but hell, we’ve been playing this little cat and mouse game for a while now, so I thought that was her coy way of saying she’d spend the night with me rather than actually saying it.

Boy, was I fucking wrong.

I drag my hand through my styled hair—yeah, I fucking styled it—and scan the room once more as Carson comes up to my side and holds a beer out to me. I have yet to take a drink of anything tonight in the hopes I would be spending my evening with Emory.

“Dude, I hate to say it but I don’t think she’s coming.”