Page 147 of Renegade Ruin

Julio Travers steps in.

Fuck.

Of all the players to take the plate, it had to be this one.

Carson’s jaw tightens. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. Throw some heat and psych himself up.

The back of my neck tingles, and I turn and look up at the owner's suite where Willow is with Indie and Leigh. She’s standing behind the two rows of seats with her hands twisted in front of her, worry painted on her face.

The cards are still stacked against us. After telling the team and witnessing their acceptance of our relationship, it’s easy to forget we still have to convince the Major League Baseball community to accept us. No matter what we do, there will be people who believe it’s unethical for us to be together, but as long as we have each other and our team, that’s all that matters.

Life’s too short. I want my aisle seat.

When Willow sees me looking, she smiles, and it hits me straight in the chest.

Yeah. I’m good as long as I have her.

I flash a wink up at her, holding on to the memory of her writhing beneath me as I dig my cleats into the dirt and lift my glove.

Carson throws the first pitch, a fastball low and on the inside, but well within the strike zone.

“Ball!” Brent yells.

I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood as I throw the ball back to Carson, noting his continued silence.

Come on, big guy, give me something, anything to help get you back in this game.

Brent mutters under his breath behind me, but all I catch is “cheating bastards”.

Fuck, this is going to be a long three innings.

Travers resets at the plate and glances down at me. “Might need to work on that framing, Lawson.”

“Scoreboard,” I grunt.

We’re still up. One inning at a time.I repeat the mantra over and over in my head, so I don’t give in to the anger coiling around my spine and wipe the smug smile off Travers' face.

He shrugs. “We’ll see.”

My thumb finds the PitchCom on the back of my thigh, and I signal a curve ball to Carson, who nods from the mound.

It’s another close pitch. Another ball called.

“Shake it off,” McCoy calls from third base.

“Let’s go, Whitmore,” Brooks encourages from second.

Carson wipes the sweat from his brow with his gloved forearm while the hand that holds the ball twitches at his side. He’s used to being the best and seeing results. This entire game he’s been throwing the pitches, but not being rewarded for the work. It’s messing with his head. Not to mention the asshole in the box knows where he’s weak.

I call for another fastball. Carson delivers and is once again not rewarded. Ball three.

“Fuck!” he bellows, catching Brent’s attention.

“This is the only warning you’re going to get, Whitmore.”

Carson brings his glove to his face, and I would bet my entire signing bonus he’s muttering a few choice words into the leather.

There we go. Get mad. Get your head in the game.

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