The Trade(109)

“Her tits real?” another fan calls out.

Fucking “fan appreciation day.” Whoever came up with this idea should have their head dunked in a toilet. It’s our last day of practice before the preseason games start, and they let a certain number of fans into the stands to watch practice and “cheer us on.” You could imagine my excitement when everyone moved to my side and started jeering. Why the fuck do they do this?

Today, we’re not just practicing our sport, but I’m also mentally practicing ignoring the voices behind me.

The rookie sweeps across second and throws the ball right at my chest. I stretch out my arm, and when the ball hits my glove with a snap, I trap it in my glove and then toss it toward home plate where they’re collecting all the balls.

Coach says, “Again” and I take three more throws from the rookie, each deathly accurate. He’s fucking good and shows great promise. He has for the last week. I also heard he was tearing it up in the minors last season. Nate should be shaking in his cleats with Houston Morrow barking up his tree.

“Do you share, Potter? Because I’m looking for a good fuck,” yells someone from the stand.

Who the fuck let these fans in? I know the Rebels are all about the rowdy tenth man—that’s what they call their fans—but can we get some fucking crowd control here?

Coach hits another ball, this one to Ray, who tosses the ball to Nate, who sweeps across the base and short hops me. I handle his throw easily and toss it back to home plate. I’ve been playing first base my whole life. I know exactly how the ball is going to come to me the minute it leaves a player’s hand. I’ve studied bounces and hops and high throws. I know how to keep my foot on the bag for every single one of them, especially when I feel as focused as I do right now.

“What are you doing here?” I hear a guy shout, the same one who asked about Natalie’s boobs. “Where’s your fucking Bobbie’s shirt?”

Block them out. Block them out.

“You don’t deserve to be here. Get her out of here!”

I hear a girly yelp, and just as I whip my head around to see where it came from, I see Jason flying from the dugout headed for the commotion, and hear my name shouted at me.

“Potter!”

I turn back to see a ball whipping toward me. I lift my glove just before the ball clocks me in the face. I stumble backward over first base, falling on my ass from the shock of not being prepared for the throw. I look over my shoulder to see Jason, in all his gear, ready to climb up into the stands . . . and that’s when I spot her.

She’s being screamed at by two fans. Their fingers are jabbing near her face, her eyes are wild with fear, and tears are streaming from them.

Mother. Fucker.

I quickly scramble to the stands and grab Jason by the pants. “Get down, Orson. Don’t touch them.” The last thing he needs, we need, is him punching a fan in the face. I pull him back into the field just as security shows up and grabs both abusive men by the arms and starts to drag them away.

“You don’t fucking talk to my sister like that! You hear me? You want to talk to her, you talk to me,” Jason says, chest puffed, murder in his eyes.

The two fans both whimper under Jason’s threat because the dude is enormous and holding him back right now almost feels impossible. Thankfully Marcus is right next to me, trying to calm Jason as well.

When the fans finally disappear and we get Jason to settle, he looks at me, and for the first time since I’ve met him, I see disappointment on his face. He shucks his arm away from me and heads back to the dugout, tension in his shoulders. Every player on our team watches him, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to identify the respect Jason just earned from every one of them. It also doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice the sliver of respect they had for me vanish.

I didn’t protect my girl.

I look back up at the stands. Natalie is gone, and once again, I fucked up.





“What the fuck was that?” Jason asks, coming up to me in the locker room. “You were just going to let them berate her like that? I thought you loved her.”

There is one thing about Jason that I’ve learned quickly: if you set him off in anger, he fucking flies.

“I do love her,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Then why the fuck weren’t you the first one in the stands dealing with those assholes?” Of course, Jason decides to do this in front of the entire team after practice.

“Because, I had no clue what the fuck was going on until I saw you fly out of the dugout. I’m trying not to listen to the jeers. Eliminating the—”

“You knew she was coming today.”

“I fucking didn’t,” I say, starting to get irritated. “I told her not to come, because I said it might cause a scene. I warned her, and she still came. I can’t do anything about that. She’s her own person. If she wanted to risk it, that’s on her.”

“It’s your job to protect her,” Jason says, shoving my shoulder.

I grind my teeth, jaw tight, my eyes narrowing in on Jason, who’s holding his ground with me. With an even tone, I say, “I’m trying to protect her. It’s why I’m doing what Coach told me to do and lying low. The last thing I need is to get into a fistfight with a fan. But you don’t think I didn’t want to? That I didn’t want to climb those stands and plow my fist into every one of those assholes who said something about her? I did. But I also know it won’t help the nightmare I’m living in right now.”