Page 70 of Renegade Ruin

Not helping, I growl silently at Jackson’s jab.

The Florida sun beats down miserably, causing sweat to drip from my mask down my forehead, which only serves to amplify the shitty atmosphere in the stadium. The fans aren’t happy with what they’re seeing. It’s clear they were under the assumption we’d bounce back and be the team they remembered at the end of last season. How they thought that was possible is beyond me when I’m the only one on the field from that team.

A cackle from the seats behind home plate reaches my ears, and I can only imagine the trash being spouted. Now more than ever it’s evident in a very public way that the Renegades aren’t a team. We’re a bunch of guys thrown together trying to play a game that doesn’t work as individuals.

I press the button on the PitchCom for a slider, knowing Townsend can’t hit them for shit. To no one’s surprise, Morales shrugs it off. Mindful that the pitch clock is counting down, I call for a changeup, hoping we can fool the guy into swinging, but once again the rookie shrugs it off.

Fine, it's your funeral.

I call for the fastball he so desperately wants, and sure enough, Townsend’s bat cracks dead center and delivers abeautiful drive to the pocket in left-center where there isn’t a soul to catch it.

Mentally shaking my head, I pop up and prepare to protect the plate as Keller and Brooks—our centerfielder and second baseman—react quickly and hold him to a single.

When the next batter takes to the box, Morales finally listens to me and throws the slider I’d hoped would keep Townsend off base. The ball comes off his fingertips at an angle and veers right, forcing me to reach out to get it. My balance is off and that’s the only encouragement Townsend needs to take off toward second.

The muscles in my thighs burn as I fumble to right myself, safe with the knowledge I have one of the quickest reaction throws in the league. I manage to pop up and send a beautiful throw to second where the ball lands moments before Townsend reaches the bag—and in the dirt. Etchers, our shortstop, isn’t there to catch it. He’s two feet in the opposite direction.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my eyes darting to where the ball has continued its trajectory into center field.

It was my fuck up. I threw it as if Jackson was the player at shortstop receiving the ball. It’s a play we’ve practiced a thousand times. So much so that it’s ingrained in my muscles. That’s where he stood. Every. Single. Time.

Etchers throws his hands up in my direction and curses instead of covering down. If he had, he would have seen Keller wasn’t there to field the runaway ball. Townsend takes the opportunity and heads for third.

Graham’s curses echo from the dugout as my team finally gets their shit together and gets the ball back to Morales on the mound.

The play is yet another example of our lack of cohesiveness. Ifmyteam were on the field, this never would have happened.

Except this is your team,Tommy whispers.

He’s right—and he’s wrong.

Nothing about this team feels right. It’s easy to blame the fact that we’re individuals trying to find our way in this shit situation, but I’m not sure that’s exclusively the case for me. The rest of the guys were traded here, some of them because they wanted to be and others against their will. For them, it’s absolutely the growing pains of a new beginning. For me, it’s personal.

Lining up behind the plate, I look out at the eight men staring back at me, and I search for something, anything, that ties me to them besides the black and orange uniform we wear. There’s nothing. And I get the feeling they’d say the same when they look at me.

We’re fucking screwed unless something changes.

What surprises me is, I want it to change.

Maybe it’s the fact I hate to lose and there is no way I’m going to sit through an entire season of this bullshit.

Then again, maybe it’s something else. Something more.

And that scares the shit out of me.

To absolutely no one's surprise, we take the loss.

Despite the fact my muscles are screaming in protest for me to give them some sort of relief, I forgo any treatment and head to my private little locker room off the clubhouse, wanting more than anything to lick my wounds alone before I have to open new ones with Jolene at my mandated therapy session in a half hour.

I enter the tiny converted equipment room and change quickly before scrolling on my phone, trying to decide if Willow would prefer purple or pink. She doesn’t really seem like the pink kind of girl. She’s got too many layers for that. Layers I completely misjudged until she proved me wrong last weekend.And while I might have made her come numerous times since then, I feel as though I owe her to make up for my shortcomings.

Okay, it might also be because I still can’t get over how hot our sexting was this morning, and I would love nothing more than to hear her come around a toy of my choosing.

You owe her a fucking apology, Jackson snorts.

I roll my eyes despite the fact he’s right. It’s something I’ve been putting off, mostly because I can’t seem to find the right thing to say. Every time I open my mouth to start, the words feel hollow and disingenuous.

Could it be because you have feelings for her, and you’re running from that too?

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