Dirty Curve

Not me, that’s for damn sure.

Now, though, we’re in the clear and taking recommendations for this year’s contenders at our annual Memorial Day Jell-O Jamboree.

Sure, it’s technically against the rules for a school to fund their athletes beyond tuition, but the NCAA made a change to their guidelines this year. Student athletes are now allowed to make money off endorsements and the like, so no one really knows who’s paying the bills. The man never directly hands me a dollar, so no harm, no foul.

My coach knows my worth, and he made it clear from day one he will do anything to make sure I’m comfortable as well as able to keep my focus where we both want it—on the field, where he needs me.

Having no financial burdens allows me to do that, it’s part of the reason he’s asked me not to accept any sponsorship offers. He says they always ask for more and what I can give is already limited to near nothing. I can’t afford to put my energy anywhere else, and he understands that more than anyone. He’d probably pay someone to do my work for me too if there was a way to go about it that didn’t involve bringing someone else in, and that’s just too risky.

It’s like I said, Coach always knows best.

He also knows without me, his entire program would be fucked.

No joke.

The team ragged on Echo and me when we started packing up, talking shit about how we were becoming two old men ready for domestication. They were just fucking around, mad the party boys, as they liked to call us, would be gone and could no longer be a bargaining tool they could use when inviting the sorority houses over.

We knew every son of a bitch on that team would gladly take the third room we had if we let them. Who would pick one pad with twenty dudes, two to four in a room, depending on clout, over a three-bedroom house that gave them their own space? Nobody, that’s fucking who.

Especially when we still have full access to the team house, so when we feel like hopping over for some fun, we do.

Echo spots me as I cross the living room threshold.

“What up, man.” He breaks from the girls, joining me in the kitchen. “You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“Yeah, it was a bunch of bullshit.” I tear the fridge open, reaching in for a Vitamin Water. “You want somethin’ to drink?”

“Yeah, a fuckin’ beer,” he huffs out.

I hear him on that. Coach has a strict no-drinking policy that started after holidays and holds until the end of season. Saturday nights are technically our only free days to get drunk and fuck around, that and the occasional Friday when our games are done for the week, but that’s keeping in mind how on those kinds of Fridays, Coach likes to run our asses off at practice as a way to weed out who went too hard the night before. That and the early game film review Saturday mornings.

I mean, I drink whenever I want, and I do get bitched at for it, but it’s all for show, to make sure Coach is being fair and whatnot.

See, I’m a pitcher. The pitcher.

Number one in the country, that is, as far as college ball is concerned. I hold the record for the most consecutive strikes thrown and am one of the few pitchers at the D1-level who doesn’t use a designated hitter.

Yeah, my coach tried to fight me on it, but he lost.

They all lose when it comes to what I want, not that Coach Reid put up much of a fight.

Bottom line, the team needs me, the school wants me, and coach fought damn hard to get me, so if there’s ever a pass to be given, it’s mine.

If you ask the world around me, I’m handed things on a silver fucking platter with a side of ass-kissing.

Guess the day in, day out ache in my muscles from over-exertion means nothing.

People don’t care to know about the work that goes into what I do, only the outcome and since I stepped into the starting pitcher spotlight, the team went from late-night reruns to primetime playtime. We have MLB Network switching over to our live games, looking to catch a few minutes of pristine performance, something they know they can depend on when I’m on the mound. And that’s not me being conceited, it’s facts. It’s why I’m paid to be here rather than paying to be here.

It’s a lot of fucking pressure, but it’s worth it.

Never let ‘em see you sweat.

With a heavy inhale, I pull my drink to my lips and glance around the room, noticing E’s cousin is MIA. “Where’s Drew?”

“Couldn’t make it. Some shit for bio.” Echo shrugs. “How is it that half the team is stuck in some fucked-up version of science this semester, and we’re the odd ones out with nobody else in our classes to share the load with?”