Page 2 of Stolen Bases

I let the topic go. “Want to grab a beer later?”

“Sounds good. So, tell me, why the early call? You nervous?”

“Yeah. Thought maybe you had the scoop.”

Eli might not represent athletes, but he knows a lot of people who do. My brother has a way of scoring insider information on all the big names, no matter the industry they work in.

“I asked around,” Eli gets to the point, his voice grim.

The sense of dread I’ve been carrying for the past few weeks burrows deeper in my stomach.

“He’s got an offer with the Goliaths, and it’s likely an offer from the Evaders too. There have been talks on both sides.”

“Fuck,” I groan, pulling up to a red light.

Rumors have been flying around for weeks that the catcher from the Los Angeles Saints has gone free-agent and is up for grabs. I’ve been hoping it was just that—a rumor.

Nico fucking Romero.

In his thirties, Romero is still in top form. He’s a powerhouse hitter and a great catcher. Only problem? He’s a total asshole.

We went to college together and played on the Southern California University baseball team.

Go Kodiaks.

For some reason, the prick has had it out for me since I met him, and it’s gotten worse over time. He’d bait me with snarky, underhanded comments in the locker room. It was obvious he was angry and itching for a fight. I never took the bait. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he gets to me.

Romero’s got a major chip on his shoulder, and I know, down to my bones, it’s not about me. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to punch his fucking teeth out.

When he made it to the big leagues—a season after me, and three for him in the minors—it only got worse. The guy made it a mission to run his mouth at me, on the field or on camera. Romero always has something to say about me. I wish he’d keep his mouth shut, but the fans love it.

“Are you going to be okay?” Eli asks.

He knows Romero and I have a beef. The whole fucking world knows it. I don’t know what I ever did to that guy, but it’s clear he can’t stand me.

“Yeah, of course.” My fists tighten around the steering wheel as my skin grows hot with anger. Taking a deep breath, I force my pulse to slow. “Nothing I can do. Management knows there’s an issue. If that’s the way they want to go, I’m just going to suck it up. Besides, he’s the one with the problem.”

“You got this, brother. I’ll let you know if I hear more.”

“Thanks, E. Appreciate it, man.”

“Anytime, kid. See you tonight.”

“See ya.”

Our call disconnects as I pull into the players’ parking lot.

The sun’s golden rays dance across the Evaders stadium, casting the iconic architecture in a warm, golden glow. Wispy clouds drift hazily overhead in the early morning azure-blue sky.

My negative thoughts evaporate like raindrops on hot cement. Standing here, on the hill towering above the city like a king, I’m reminded that this is the dream.

I bleed Evaders blue. Nothing and no one will stop me from bringing home the trophy.

I’m here to play ball.

The clip restarts, and my brows furrow at the image before me. In slow motion, I watch as my elbow drops too low and locks straight before I throw the ball downhill off the mound.

Well, that explains the elbow pain.

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