The Trade(23)

“Got something for Orson’s sister?” Maddox asks as he comes up next to me at the bar.

After Jason, Dottie, and Natalie left, I decided to stay, try to talk with more of the guys. There were a few guys who I could tell were less than thrilled to talk with me, and then some genuine guys who gave me more of their time. Mainly it was the bullpen I seemed to connect with. The infielders, the guys I need to get to know the best, seemed cold, standoffish, barely giving me the time of day.

It’s not from my lack of trying either. When I was first traded, I tried to get in with these guys, but they’ve been next to impossible to impress, and I don’t know why. I mean, fuck, I don’t have a bad reputation, and I have years of experience that should make me an asset, not a liability. It’s like they’re so shortsighted, they can’t see past their own egos. Stupid.

Their first baseman prior to me wasn’t doing much for the team; he was actually acquired at the beginning of the season. Batting in the eighth position, there wasn’t much contribution on his end. I can’t imagine them being upset about me taking his position. And then there’s the thought of my contract taking up a large part of the Rebels salary stipend. But that’s not my damn fault; that’s their front office’s fault for wanting to take on something so large.

I don’t fucking know at this point, it’s all confusing. But what’s even more confusing is Maddox Paige coming over and talking to me. Pretty sure the second half of the season, he spoke maybe five sentences to me, one of them berating me for striking out when I get paid so much.

Huh, maybe it is the pay scale thing.

Adjusting my sleeves while I wait for my drink, I say, “Natalie is a friend.”

Maddox snorts and brings his beer bottle to his lips. “Okay.” Sarcasm is obvious, as he stares me down over his drink. “That’s why you were eye-fucking her every chance you got.”

Shit.

Keeping a steady face, I say, “She’s a friend.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” He brushes up against my shoulder, facing one direction while I face the other. “Heard she’s married. I’d be careful if I were you.”

“What does it matter to you?” I ask.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, his head leaning toward me, but he keeps his eyes trained on the rest of the party. “Because you have enough negative press surrounding you when it comes to this team. The last thing you should want is an affair splashed across the papers as well.”

“You act like you care.” I have zero intention of having any sort of affair with Natalie, even though my head can’t seem to stop thinking about her. My mind might be taking her in my arms, but when it comes to making my thoughts a reality, I’m not that guy. Marriage is sacred. There’s no place for infidelity. I also know how to keep my hands to myself.

“I care about this team.” His eyes fall down my body and then back up, assessing me with a thick judgmental gaze that feels like a coating of unwanted mucus. “Something I can’t quite say about you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I care about this team.”

“Sure.” He grins sarcastically and then pats me on the shoulder. “Bobbie for life. Right, bro?”

And with that, he takes off and joins our shortstop and second baseman.

Bobbie for life? Is he fucking kidding me with that childish bullshit?

If that’s what this is about, me being a Bobbie fan when I was young, then I don’t have time for this. I’m not about to run around the clubhouse trying to prove to anyone who needs to hear it that I’m a Rebel now, and as a result, I’m taking that way of thinking out onto the field. If they choose not to see that, then that’s on them.





“Are you focusing?”

“Yeah, Jesus,” I mutter, rubbing my sleeve across my forehead.

“It doesn’t seem like it. Your drive through the ball is shit, Cory.”

Exhaling, I swing the bat lightly over the plate and then bring it up to my shoulder. “Just pitch the ball, Milly.”

The bat taps against my shoulder and then gets in position, muscle memory kicking in when she pitches the ball, and I drive my hands through the strike zone, connecting with the ball. But instead of shooting it back up the middle, I dip my shoulder and shoot the ball up into the nets.

“Fuck,” I mutter, bringing the bat back to my shoulder.

“You’re not focusing.”

“Say it again, Milly. Say it fucking again.”

She stands behind the pitching net, balls in hand, and stares at me. I know that look. She’s not happy, and I’m about to hear about it.

The clunk of the balls being tossed in the bucket below her reverberates off the empty cages of D1 Athletics. The boys and Milly locked the doors after closing so I could have the cages to myself, and so I could have some time with the best batting coach I know. But I haven’t been able to get my head on straight since I’ve been here. It hasn’t been helping that Milly keeps pointing it out either.

And my lack of “focus” has nothing to do with Maddox’s parting words the other night, but everything to do with the way Natalie looked in her black dress, the way she smiled up at me through dark lashes, and the way she leaned in toward me when she spoke. I might be crazy, but it felt like there was something there, something more than her just being friendly.