Page 121 of The Strike Zone

“CATCH YOU LATER, KING. SHAME YOU WON’T BE CATCHING ANYTHING.”

I was still holding the ball, and spun around, throwing it as hard as I could against the board, right below where he was leaning over.

I shouldn’t have done it, I should be mature enough and experienced enough to rise above it. But he was more than an opposing fan, and he’d made it personal.

There was no denying I enjoyed how quickly he flinched back at the sound of the ball making contact.

“Next time it’ll be your head,” I added with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, and ducked into the dugout. Snatching up the phone on the wall, I hit Speed Dial for reception. “Pabs, it’s Parker.”

“My favorite catcher.” He chuckled. “Why aren’t you warming up?”

“I am. I was. But there are some hecklers in the bleachers, can you have them escorted out? I can’t find security.”

He tutted loudly. “Parker, you know as well as I do we can’t kick out the fans we don’t like, no matter how much we might want to.”

“It’s Scout’s ex. The one who came to see her.”

I thought he’d hung up, the line was so quiet. But then, “Give me five minutes.”

“Thanks, Pabs, appreciate it.”

“No problem, now concentrate on winning.”

The line went dead before I could tell him I’d do my best, and I turned to Ace, who was trying to keep his pitching arm as loose and warm as possible.

“Is he doing it?”

“Yep.” I nodded, dropping down onto the bench with a heavy sigh.

He thumbed over to the tunnel. “And are we going in now?”

I nodded again, though stayed where I was. Instead, glanced out to the field where everyone was still warming up; Lux and Tanner were over in the outfield, tossing and catching, Jupiter was standing at the side talking to his third base coach and Marnie, Boomer Jones and a couple of the other guys were sprinting over in the corner.

On the other side of the field were the Mets players, all doing much of the same.

“Where’s Scout watching from today?”

“I dunno,” I replied, kicking at a discarded peanut shell on the floor, one left over by Saint Velasquez, no doubt.

“Dude, are you okay? Ignore those guys, they’re dicks.”

I rubbed at my chest; the heaviness which had been dragging through it all day now felt impossible to move. Like an elephant was sitting on my rib cage doing its best to slowly crush me. Crush my heart. Stop my breathing.

“It’s not the guys.” I curled my hand around the rim of my cap. “I think Scout and I might have broken up.”

“What?”

“I fucked up. Coach caught us and threatened me with getting traded, and I took it out on her. I shouted. I made her think her job wasn’t important to me. Or she wasn’t important to me. And that’s so far from the truth,” I added, my voice cracking as I failed to swallow down the lump in my throat. “And now I have two fuckups to fix. Scout and Coach. Three, if you count Scout’s job.”

“Oh, bud.” Ace joined me on the bench, threw his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me in for a hug. “You won’t have broken up. It’s just a stupid fight. Everyone has them, then you move past it and it makes you better.”

“I dunno, she seemed mad.” I dropped my head into my hands. “Rangers Douche was such a dick to her and I’ve proved I’m no better.”

“Parker, comeon.You aren’t anything like him.” He rolled his eyes. “Coach really threatened to trade you?”

“He said nothing will get in the way of Shepherd winning the trophy this year.”

Ace let out a low whistle. “You’re not getting traded and I’m not playing without you. Coach is just mad because he thinks you’ve been sneaking around with Scout.”

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