Page 148 of Renegade Ruin

Travers swings his bat in a circle, a wicked grin splitting his face. “Daddy would be so disappointed. Oh, wait.”

Carson takes a step toward the plate, and for a second, I think we’re about to have a bench clear on our hands.

I shoot to my feet and shake my head, silently begging him not to take the swing I know he desperately wants to. Fuck, I want to for him. Travers is an ass, but we’re already on thin ice.

His jaw ticks as he resets, only this time when he stares me down there’s a glint in his eye. One that reminds me of the night he told me his presence on the Renegades was a revenge plot.

God dammit.

The second the ball leaves Carson’s hand, I know it’s not the changeup I called.

The ball rockets toward us, miles from the plate, and hits Travers in the thigh.

Before I can get my mask off, Brent is out from behind me and heading toward the mound. Carson’s wearing a shit-eating grin, not even pretending to care he’s about to get tossed from the game for his little stunt.

I glance at the dugout where our assistant manager gives me the nod to call for a relief pitcher. Lifting my right hand, I pinch my fingers together, signaling for them to send out Efren Watts, one of our right-handed pitchers.

Travers grins, dropping his bat dramatically. He leans over and unstraps his shin guard, tossing it toward the Atlanta dugout.

“That’s how it’s done, Lawson,” he muses, his eyes lit with amusement. “Fuck ‘em up and send ‘em home. You should tell your owner that. Pretty little thing like that, maybe if she sucks the commissioner off, your little cheating problem will?—”

I don’t let him finish his sentence before my fist connects with his jaw.

Travers hits the dirt, cupping his face.

The crowd goes wild. The fucker got a free pass when he went after my co-captain. We’re trained to put up with that shit. The thought that I’m a hypocrite for hitting him crosses my mind, but I don’t give a damn.

He went too far with Willow. Even if she wasn’t mine, I’d have punched him.

She’s a Renegade, and she’s innocent of everything but loving me.

“Keep my team out of your mouth, fucker,” I spit. “Oryourpretty little face will wear more than just the imprint of my knuckles.”

I don’t get more than a moment to revel in Travers’ split lip before I’m shoved from behind. If there’s one thing baseball does well, it’s a bench-clearing brawl.

When I look up the field is a sea of Renegade orange and black, mixed with Thrashers red and white. The manager from the Thrashers tries to rein in his guys, but it’s no use. Graham isn’t there to stop us, and our other bench coaches are taking their sweet ass time. Everywhere around me there are curses flying and shoving matches being exchanged. It’s clear my team has had enough of being the punching bag.

I’ve never been more fucking proud.

McCoy grabs the back of my chest protector and pulls me back from the center of the fray. “What the fuck, Lawson?”

I shake him off. “Jackass had it coming.”

“I heard what he said.”

“Good, then I’m leaving you in charge when Carson and I are ejected.”

The crowd is electric, on their feet chanting “fight” as Brent and the field umps try their best to get in the middle and break up the skirmish.

When the teams finally begin to disperse, it’s no surprise Carson and I are thrown from the game. We head to the clubhouse and are greeted by an irate Graham.

“What the fuck happened out there?”

Carson strolls past him and tosses his glove and hat in his locker. “Travers was going to be walked regardless of what I pitched. I just gave him something to remember me by.”

Graham turns to me. “And you?”

I shrug. “I just gave Travers what he deserved.”

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