Page 78 of Playboy Pitcher
Turning, I slam the door with every ounce of power I gained from those bastard CrossFit classes Tig’s wife, Delia, dragged me to a few months ago. This time, more than half of the room stops what they’re doing and stares at me like the angry elf who materialized out of thin air.
I came here for Ben, but I might as well address the viral and trending elephant in the room. “If anyone here has anything to say to me, say it now. This is your chance.”
A throat clears. “Are you and Ben dating?” I peer into the sea of faces to where one of the few remaining rookies stands with his hand raised.
“No.”Technically we’re married.“Next question.”
Maybe this wasn’t the brightest idea. Their relentless stares feel like the needles of a sewing machine jabbing me all at once. But to gain respect, you have to command it, so I harden my stare, refusing to show weakness.
“Are you dating Prescott?” Gritting my teeth, I glance down the line to find the same hand raised.
“No.”
“Well, he said—”
“What he said is irrelevant. Drake Prescott is a lying, manipulative dickhead who wouldn’t know the truth if it kicked him in the nuts.”
The sound of raucous laughter sifts through the wall of men, easing the tension knotted in my neck. Despite the bleak situation, my lips twitch, threatening to pull a smile across my face. Crooking my index finger, I place it over my mouth, but it’s no use. It’s like trying to hide a smashed windshield with a Kleenex.
Oh, what the hell…
“Look,” I say, dropping my hand with a sigh. “I have an entire public relations nightmare camped outside the stadium right now. We’ll get through this, but no one is to speak to the press. If they say anything to you, your response is, ‘No comment.’ Any official response regarding anything about last night comes from me. Got it?”
Dozens of heads nod in unison. “Got it.”
This time, my lips don’t just twitch; they curve into a smile born from a foreign burning inside my chest.
Great. What the hell is this shit?
Then it hits me.
It’s pride.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t run away from a problem. I faced it head on. I stood in the middle of a training room filled with a bunch of apathetic professional athletes who hate me, and I stood my ground. I took control.
And they laughed…notatme, butwithme.
I hate this game. I hate everything associated with it. But as I stand here, fuckingbondingwith men who hold it as sacred as a month of Sundays, my stomach clenches.
What if I have it all wrong? What if baseball was never my enemy?
What if it was my crutch?
Drawn out of my riptide of self-revelation by a sharp, rhythmic sound, I quickly scan the crowd, frustrated when I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. As if sensing my tanking mood, there’s a shuffle of sneakers, and the mass of bare chests part like the Red Sea.
There, leaning against the back wall with his arms folded tightly across his chest stands a man in athletic shorts as black as his swollen eye.
“Ben…”
He stares at me, a ghost of a smirk haunting his lips as his loud, slow clap echoes off the training room walls. “Great speech, boss. Is this the part in the movie where it inspires us to turn it all around and win the big game for you?”
I wince at the sting of his steel-tipped words. “We need to talk.”
“I did enough talking last night. On the record, of course. You can read the arrest report. I'm sure it’s online somewhere by now.” Before I can regain the upper hand, he turns and walks out the rear door, leaving me with an open mouth and tarnished pride.
As the seconds tick by, shock erupts into anger.One moment.For one goddamn moment, this team felt like home again. I felt like somebody. I didn’t feel second best.
Howdarehe take that away from me.
