Page 13 of Bastard

I traded a look of what the fuck with Riddick just before we ran after our friends. From the corner of my eye I saw Sam fall into step with Eve. While we ran around on the field like a bunch of kids, Sam shook hands with several of the players and laughed with Eve, a blonde woman who looked almost exactly like her, and another woman.

That’s when my favorite player, the Mantas main catcher Wes Allen, jogged over with a goddamned hat and jersey in his hands. “Hey! Are you Jace?”

Normally I like to think I’m cool as ice no matter the situation. The badass Red Right Hand of an outlaw MC. Men quaked when I came near. But not today. Nope, today I was twelve. “Yes. That’s me.”

Wes was a little shorter than expected considering how often the announcers talked about how tall he was. His grin was just the same though. “Hey man, good to meet you. I hear you’re a big fan of the team?”

“Yes! I never miss a game. Never. Even when I have to sneak some innings here and there.” I was babbling, damn it. Babbling!

Wes laughed. “Well as a token of my appreciation, I wanted you to have this.” He held out the jersey with his signature on the back.

Three more team members came up behind him, each carrying a jersey and hat. Seth Butler, the home run king, handed Home Run a signed jersey and I think he almost cried in Seth’s arms. Erik Cassidy, the heart of the team at second base, shook Riddick’s hand and I swear my old friend had tears in his eyes, too. Storm froze as center fielder Rhett Ryan moved his way. He nodded stiffly as Rhett handed over the jersey, then stared at the hat in his hands. Rhett clapped him on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear that made Storm laugh out loud.

We met the whole fucking team. And then when they had to return to the locker room, Eve walked us to the dugout to shake hands with the coaching staff.

“Mister Coach Manager Anson, it is so, so incredible to meet you.” Home Run bowed.

“Just call me Coach. Or Isaac. I answer to both.” Isaac Anson was the new manager of the Mantas and had already rebuilt the team into a completely different, but just as successful beast, in his first year.

“Love what you’re doing with the team.” I shook his hand and even though he was just a man, I seriously considered not washing my hand ever again.

“Appreciate it. Appreciate you all. These celebrity meet and greets are a lot more fun when it's with fans.”

“We grew up watching this team,” Home Run gushed. “Gave us something to look forward to on shitty fucking days. Pardon my French.”

Anson put up his hands. “Got me through dark times, too. I fully understand. It’s why this team means so much to me.”

No one really knew why he left baseball just when he made it to the Majors, what he did in the years since, or what exactly got him the job managing the team now. It took everything I had not to ask.

“We’ve got to get ready for the game, but it was a pleasure to meet you all.” Anson waved at us as he disappeared down the back of the dugout.

“Did that just happen?” Riddick whispered, staring at his hands. “Did we really just meet the entire team and coaching staff?”

Sam beamed at us. “You did. And…now you get to run the bases.”

Home Run and Storm stared at each other for five seconds, then whooped again and bolted for first base.

“Hell yeah!” Riddick yelled before hugging Sam hard and following the guys.

“Still mad at me?” Sam whispered.

She stood close enough that we weren’t touching but it felt like we were. If there weren’t fans trickling into the seats I’d kiss her again to show her how much I appreciated her secret surprise. “Nope. And I learned my lesson. Never question Sam’s secrets.”

“You better go. There’s only two more minutes before they clean up the field.”

I ran the bases, pretended to bat against Riddick’s imaginary pitches, hit an invisible home run. Had I ever had fun like this? As an adult the answer was a clear no. There was no time for fun when running a criminal empire. But as a kid? Also no. Todd thought fun was weak. Playing baseball was a way to prove you were better than the other guys. Everything was about proving you were better.

So as I rounded third and headed home, I dove head first, sliding past the plate, covering myself in orange clay and white line chalk. I was filthy and alive and I didn’t care. Even better, the guys all did it too until we were all lying around home plate, gasping for air, and laughing like a bunch of kids.

Sam stood over us, arms crossed, head shaking as she laughed. “You guys are filthy.”

I grinned. “It’s a good thing I have a new jersey!”

6

I was used to being watched. The Chubbies are always staring at me. Studying my every move. Calculating whether to care about me or ignore me. I was on every club’s watch list. None of it got to me.

Until now. Hazel’s death stare was the worst of them all. Maybe because hers actually mattered.

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