Dirty Curve

“Never made it to class.” I meet his narrowed gaze. “That little tutor of mine? She didn’t show up with my shit today.”

His head tugs back. “For real?”

I nod, pressing the arrow button to increase the speed on this thing. “I wasn’t early, but I was on time, and she wasn’t there. I went to the tutoring center and everything, but couldn’t track her ass down, so I had to call Coach.”

Echo whistles beside me. “You tell him she was doing your work for you?”

“I told him she had it.” I shrug. “So, I guess I left it up for interpretation.”

He scoffs and matches my pace. “You’re a dick, gettin’ some poor chick in trouble. You should have just sat down with her and knocked it out.”

“Yeah, I’m gettin’ that now.” I frown ahead.

“Did you even ask her to do your shit for you or did you tell her to?”

“Same shit, man. It’s her job to make sure I pass, and I won’t pass without my work.” I chuckle, but Echo doesn’t follow, so I turn off my treadmill and face him.

Of course, he does the same.

The creases between his eyes are enough to know he’s in an off mood again today, some shit he’s not ready to talk about eating him up.

He likes to take it out on me, and I like to let him because if it ain’t me, it’s someone else, and if it’s someone else, well, then we end up in a two-on-two brawl. He can hold his own, but he’s my boy, so he’ll never have to. Not when I’m around.

“That was a dick move.” He glares.

“Don’t act innocent. You’re as much of an asshole as I am.”

“I know, but fuck man, we’ll qualify for the draft after this season. Don’t fuck us both by dropping the ball in class.”

“It’s being handled, and as far as the draft, we’re fuckin’ golden.” I step closer, widening my eyes. “We got years of this shit ahead of us, on the same team, if these scouts know what’s good for them. Dynamic fucking duo, bro. It’s me and you.” I nod, my grin growing, but he’s not biting on my chill pill and pops off again.

“That’s the shit I’m talking about, Cruz.” He shakes his head, stuck in his. “Anything can happen today, tomorrow—nothing’s for fucking certain. Nothing. It’s time to get shit straight and at least pretend baseball might not be around forever.” He backs away, grabs his shit and heads for the exit, but not before he adds, “The season is all we have right now, so don’t fuck it up.”

The second he walks out the door, I subconsciously rub at my elbow.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Baseball’s all there is.

All that matters.

I’m Tobias motherfucking Cruz, the best goddamn pitcher college ball has ever seen. I hold the record for consecutive strikes thrown at this level, and last season I became the first to ever pitch back-to-back no-hitters in a college championship game.

I’ll be traveling across the country this time next year without a thing holding me back, living it up like a damn god.

I will make it because failing isn’t an option.

Fuck school.

And fuck the little tutor who blew me off like she could.

I’ll do what I’m supposed to do without her help because, like I said, failing isn’t an option.

I managed to keep my head in the game, my dick wrapped in the finest of rubber, and my grades up to par the last two-and-a-half years.

What’s one more semester to get me to the draft? I never planned on staying past my junior year anyway.

I’ve got this.

I won’t fucking fail.

q

“You’re failing.” Coach Reid glares.

Fuck.

“I wouldn’t say I’m failing.” I grin. “I might be behind by a week or two, but Coach—”

“You’re sitting Friday’s game.”

A laugh flies from me, but when Coach keeps a straight face, I tip my head to the side and take another step into his office.

“Come again, Coach? Shower must have gotten water in my ears or something, ‘cause no way I heard you right.” I shake my head, adding to my own bullshit and sending the remnant droplets from my hair flying all over.

He leans forward, unfazed. “It’s been two weeks and you haven’t met with that tutor of yours yet. Why?”

“Haven’t needed to.”

He nods. “Interesting, because I got an email from your professor that says you never made up the assignments you missed. You know, the ones that I promised him you would when I covered for your ass two weeks ago?”

“I’m playing on Friday, Coach.”

He lifts his chin, clicking and unclicking his pen. “Your grade’s at a sixty-six percent, you have to have at least a seventy to hit the field. You know this. My team, my standards.”

It’s my team we both know this, but I’ll play along.