Page 64 of Tagging Bases

I frown because Charlie isn’t looking me in the eye. He’s staring down at his cleats, toeing circles in the dirt.

“You’ve had rough games before. So have I.”

“Never this rough.”

“And here I thought you loved it rough,” I jest, slapping him on the ass before heading back to home plate.

The next batter steps up, smirking as if he knows what’s coming. Ignoring him, I focus on Charlie, signaling a splitter. It usually throws the batter off, and this guy could stand to be knocked down a hundred pegs or so.

Charlie winds up and throws with everything he’s got, which isn’t much at this point.

Crack!The ball’s gone again, over the fence, and halfway to Manhattan. The little shit takes his time rounding the bases because he knows there’s nothing any of us can do about it.

Coach eventually pulls Charlie after six innings of futile effort. By some miracle—or maybe just sheer pity—Rutgers finally strikes out a time or two before we all stagger to the locker room, survivors of some horrible disaster movie.

“Uh, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, fellas,” Javi says.

I tear my gaze from Charlie’s deflated form to see that the showers here aren’t the same as the ones back home. At good ol’ Ashford, it’s all about letting it all hang out. Communal shower, zero privacy. Just a bunch of dudes getting clean and shooting the shit. But here? Individual shower stalls with doors that hide everything from the waist down.

The sleek black tiles and gleaming chrome fixtures give the place a modern, almost futuristic vibe. Steam billows out from behind the closed doors, carrying the scent of fancy-ass bodywash. None of that generic stuff we’re used to.

“Fancy digs,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

The guys crack jokes about how it’ll be a relief not to see each other’s junk for the first time in forever. And then Javi chimes in with, “Yeah, who’s gonna admire Hollingsworth’s hairy ass now?”

Raucous laughter bounces off the walls, and even Coach Bryant grins at the banter.

But not Charlie. He doesn’t even crack a smile. It’s as if someone sucked the fun right out of his soul. His shouldersslump even more as he trudges over to one of the stalls, closes the door, and shuts himself off from the rest of us.

It’s weird as hell seeing him so damn quiet. I know I need to talk to him, but not with everyone else around. For now, I focus on cleaning the grime of sweat, dirt, and loss off my body.

I gasp when the shower head shoots out sprays of water that are borderline luxurious. Half the dudes are giddy over the situation, laughing at how soft we’re all going to be after this road trip.

“Hey, McManus,” I call out to Charlie when I realize he hasn’t moved a muscle. “You’ll turn into a prune if you don’t start showering.”

No response. Just the steady rhythm of water hitting tile.

“You alive over there?”

“I’m fine.”

I roll my eyes, lather up some bodywash, and let the silence take over for a minute. His “I’m fine” reeks of anything but. “Wanna tell me why you threw like your arm was made of spaghetti today?”

Still nothing. I rinse my body and watch him shift uncomfortably.

“Charlie?”

He turns halfway, avoiding eye contact. “You’re gonna keep asking until I say something, aren’t you?”

“Bingo.”

He lets out a sigh that comes from his toes and waits for our teammates to leave. Once it’s only us, he finally looks my way. “It’s dumb.”

“Always is with you.”

He flicks water at me with surprising precision that he didn’t have earlier. “I dunno, man. Everything’s off lately. I’m off,” he says.

Now we’re getting somewhere. I turn off the shower and lean against my stall door to listen better. “What do you mean?”

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