Kiss and Don't Tell(134)

“I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you actually fucked someone?”

I scratch the side of my jaw, my nails scraping over my rough five o’clock shadow. “Don’t know.”

“Fuck, dude, if you don’t know, that’s a problem. You and I both know in an adrenaline-laced job like ours we need to work it off in the bedroom. Don’t you have a fuck buddy? Someone you can call? You need to come, man, and not in your hand, because if you show up tomorrow with your shoulders still touching your ears again, I’m going to blow you myself.”

Jesus Christ.

Ignoring Ryot, I stuff my wallet and keys in my pockets, snag my phone, and head to my manager’s office, where I knock on the closed door.

I don’t need to fuck. I need . . . hell, I don’t know what I need.

Ralph Hopkins is one of the toughest managers in the league—fair, but tough—and from the disapproving look he gave me in the dugout, I know this conversation is going to be anything but pretty.

“Come in.”

I push through the door and take a seat in the chair across from him, knowing the routine by now.

But to my surprise, when I sit down, I notice I’m not alone. Nope, the beat-up water jug is “sitting” in the chair next to me. A sick feeling builds in the pit of my stomach. I’m not going to like whatever this meeting is about.

Still in his uniform, Ralph sits back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, and glares at me.

Glares.

Not fucking happy at all.

Staring me down with his classic unhappy eyes, he says, “You acted like a child out there today.”

I acted like an angry ballplayer who’s desperate to get out of his rut, but he doesn’t see it that way. Never has.

The thing about the Bobbies is they’re the most clean-cut do-gooders in the league. They pride themselves on admirable morality, respect on and off the field, and loving the game. There’s no fighting, there’s no long beards, there’s no goddamn personality allowed to be shown on the field. We’re machines. We play the game as it’s supposed to be played, and we don’t show emotion on the field as it’s a sign of weakness. We’re the complete opposite of our rival team here in Chicago, the Rebels; our manager enforces it.

Playing for the Bobbies has been everything I wanted, despite all the rules and regulations we have to face, because it’s kept me close to where I need to be. My temper has hindered me, something I haven’t been able to get ahold of since my rookie season. And Ralph Hopkins is one temper tantrum away from not dealing with it anymore.

“You’ve been zero for sixteen over the last few games with nothing to prove for your talent besides being one of the best catchers in the league. That glove and arm of yours is the only reason you’re not sitting out right now. I can’t afford to have Tony behind the plate, not when he can’t throw his own grandma out at second.” Ralph drags a frustrated hand over his face. “And then you go and pull that shit.” He gestures to the dilapidated cooler. “With every media outlet pointing their camera at you.” His chair squeaks as he leans forward, planting his hands on the desk. “I’m already struggling with your image and shit attitude. How the fuck am I supposed to deal with that stunt you pulled after the game? Sit you out? When I need you to be behind the plate? You don’t fucking think, Rockwell.”

“It won’t happen again,” I answer simply, knowing it’s a promise I can’t keep.

“That’s what you said after you broke the bat over your knee.” See?

“I didn’t break a bat this time, I broke a water jug.”

Coach’s eyes narrow. “I’m talking about your attitude, Rockwell. It’s shit. And I’m fed up with it. If this roster was up to me, your ass would be out of our red-and-blue jersey, warming the wood somewhere else.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent. Ralph has never liked me . . . ever. And frankly, the feeling is mutual. We clash. He’s strait-laced, I’m crooked. He’s smooth with his delivery to the media, I’m bent, broken, constantly piecing myself together to represent something I’m not.

He shakes his head and blows out a frustrated breath. Looking off to the side, he studies a picture on the wall for a few breaths before saying, “Be here tomorrow morning at nine with an apology ready to be issued.”

“An apology?” My brow knits together. “You want me to apologize to the press?”

“No,” he deadpans. “I want you to apologize to the goddamn water jug.” I give him a confused look, thinking he’s joking, but then he says, “You think I’m kidding? I’m not. We’re doing damage control, which means our media team will have the cooler set up in the dugout where you’ll make an official apology and thank the inanimate object for its long service with the Bobbies. It’s a PR stunt that will show a lighter side of you. Believe it or not, you’re not a fan favorite and it’s because you have the attitude of a Rebel, not a Bobbie.”

Not the first time I’ve heard that.

“You want me to apologize on camera to a water jug?” I ask, trying to understand if I’m hearing him correctly.

“Yes.” He leans forward even more and adds, “And you’ll wear a goddamn smile while doing it or I will bench your ass, putting a playoff run in jeopardy for the entire team.”