Page 42 of Very Unlikely
He stops cringing when I reply, “I guess we did. I just didn’t realize a plus-one was classed as a date.”
“Of course, it is. If it isn’t, there will be a lot of lonely men at tonight’s event.” His chuckles end when Coach Randall calls his name. “I better get back before he bursts an artery. I’ll cruise by around eight to pick you up? Unless you need longer to get ready.”
“No. That’s fine. Two hours isplentyof time for me to prepare for a night out.” It usually only takes me ten minutes, although I may stretch it out to twenty when I notice how tight Lennox’s jaw becomes when Cody leans in to press his lips to my cheek for the second time in the past five minutes. It’s nice for the shoe to finally be on the other foot. “I’ll see you at eight.”
With my mood higher than the clouds, and Lennox’s prissy attitude strong enough to guarantee his team a win, I skip back up the stairs to finish the next three hours of my shift like a majority of the time won’t be spent plotting ways to make Lennox jealous.
16
Lennox
Another reason for my father’s resurrection in my life is unearthed when I make my way toward the locker room at the bottom of the stadium. He’s lapping up the media’s attention like he had a record-breaking number of strikeouts and a fastball quick enough to see his name printed in theGuinness Book of Records.
My record-setting pitch was the fastball I threw when Cody swooped down to greet Summer with a kiss. It’s lucky his lips landed on her cheek, or Jonas would have more than a swollen hand to contend with.
I grin like my mood is nowhere near as bad as it is when the media contingency spies my swagger down the gangway of the Ravens’ home stadium. They sidestep my father like he’s the old news he is before greeting me halfway down the corridor with a flurry of questions.
“Do you have anything to say about your team’s awe-inspiring opening game?”
“Are the rumors you’re planning to skip the final year of college true?”
“Will you sign on to play for Ravenshoe Ravens permanently if Isaac Holt personally endorses your contract?”
While wiping a towel over my sweaty head, I answer their questions. “When a team plays as a team, you can’t lose.” I slant my head and furrow my brows before adding, “I’ve yet to speak with my manager about the possibility of an early draft pick.” The droves of men and women swarming me laugh when I say, “And who?”
I know who Isaac Holt is—everyone in this town does—I’m just too much of an attention-hogging prick to share the limelight with the man responsible for this city’s immense growth over the past decade.
One question from a journalist nibs my conceitedness in the bud. “Is it true you decided to become a pitcher because you wanted to take out the greats like your father?”
When I spin to face the female voice, the crowd parts. I recognize the face of the brunette journalist questioning me, but her name slips my mind.
“To begin with, that wasallmy game was about. I wanted to knock my father down a peg or two.”
Ninety-eight percent of the male journalists laugh, but the remaining two percent are as clued in as the female journalist. “Things changed?”
I halfheartedly shrug while replying, “I’m slowly learning that the greats aren’t always the people you see out on the field. There are just as many good, if not better players, teaching little league or coaching at a college level.” The collective head bob of the media slows when I add, “Then there are men like Rye Ramsay who know there’s no trophy for the real victories.” I drift my eyes to my father. “He could have had everything. Instead, he chose to have it all.”
When his nostrils flare, I know he felt my underhanded punch to its full effect. His favorite saying during his heyday was, “Why have it all when I can have everything.” The media took it as him meaning the world was his oyster. Only those closest to him knew his ‘all’ was the family he abandoned, and his ‘everything’ was the things he tried to replace us with.
I return my eyes to the female journalist when she asks, “Can I quote the name you stated in my feature?”
“Yes.” When she asks me to spell his name, I reply, “Rye, as in the wheat. And Ramsay as in—”
“The most toted shortstop in the country over twenty years ago,” interrupts a man with a receding hairline who makes it obvious he was an adult during Rye’s golden days. “How did you stumble onto a name like that? Rye hasn’t been heard of in years. Is his throw still as deadly now as it once was?” The admiration for Rye can’t be missed in his voice. He looks ready to cream his pants.
“I don’t know about his throw, but his swing is still up there. He almost took my head off when I pitched him a couple of balls.”
The man’s face gleams with happiness. “That’s right. His hits were on par with his fielding skills. He was a true all-rounder.” As the harsh glint in his eyes softens, he murmurs, “Thanks for the memories. I miss those good old days.”
“What’s to miss when you can relive your youth through your offspring who’d rather you disappear?”
Happy to leave my father to answer the multitude of questions my reply will instigate, I push through the locker room doors. It feels good to be back in the limelight, and it was nice to share it with Summer’s dad instead of my attention-hogging one.
I’m so hyped to tell Summer about my interview, it takes me a little longer to register the snickering voices discussing matters that are regularly debated when testosterone levels are high but rarely involve a name I know.
“Cody doesn’t give a fuck what Jamison says. He’s adamant Summer is a virgin. You saw the way she blushed today when they were talking. She has thatrealinnocent look about her. A pure glow Cody plans to claim A S Afuckin’P.”
Adam, my half-brother who was a late call to the Ravenshoe lineup, eyes rocket to mine when I spit out, “She looks innocent because she hasn’t been fucked over by a douche like you. Because she’s wholesome and nice—”
