Fake Out (Fake Boyfriend 1)

So far, OU is up by one, but that doesn’t mean shit this early in the game.

Logan’s form, from the windup to follow through, is anything but textbook, but he’s got a powerful arm. Too bad he doesn’t know how to use it.

“That was a strike, right?” Maddox asks.

I shake my head. “It was a ball. Missed the strike zone, and the batter didn’t try to hit it.”

“Wait, baseball has rules? Isn’t it all, hit the ball and run?”

I’d cry if Maddox wasn’t so damn cute. “Uh, no. There’s a lot more to it than that.”

“Okay, then teach me, Coach.”

I’m not sure if he’s doing it to try to break my weird mood, but it works. I go into the specifics of the game and get lost in my old world. And fuck, I miss it. Each play, I explain to Maddox what’s happening—stealing bases, fake outs, and the different types of pitches Logan tries. The kid’s only successful in about half of what he delivers. He’s nowhere near ready for representation yet, and with every slow or misaimed pitch, the more irritated I become that I’ve been sent here to scout him. When I was playing, this guy wouldn’t even get a look in.

“Wait, so you can legally fake out someone by pretending to throw the ball but still have it in your hand?” Maddox asks. “Isn’t that cheating?”

“It’s misdirection. Trickery. Kinda like the beginning of our relation—uh, friendship.” Not relationship. There is no relationship. I wish I had the ability to put words back in my mouth.

“True, I guess.”

We only get two innings before Logan is taken off and replaced with a reliever. It’s too early in the game to be pulling the starting pitcher, so he must be having an off day. Knowing he’s not on top of his game makes me feel a little better about coming out here to watch him.

“What do you think?” Maddox asks.

“Honestly? He’s got talent, but he’s too green right now. He needs more control and stamina. He looked wrecked when we showed up. I have to go talk to him, but we can head out afterwards. Go grab coffee, maybe?”

Did I just ask him out on a date? Shit.

“Sure.”

“Meet you out front? I have to deliver the news that OTS isn’t interested.”

Maddox pales as if he’s the one about to endure a confrontation. “Good luck with that one. I might stay here and finish watching this period.”

I cringe. “Inning.”

The fucker smirks. “I know. I really like seeing you squirm.”

With a shake of my head, I make my way to the back of the dugout and mentally prepare to give the rehearsed speech I heard myself a few times. You show potential, but we’re not ready to represent you at this time. Keep at it, and we can reevaluate. Good job out there today. When I knock on the door, one of the other guys answers. “I’m Damon King from OTS. I’m looking for Logan.”

Logan comes to the door wearing his jacket only on his pitching arm to keep it warm. His blond hair is a sweaty mess now his cap’s off.

“I’m—”

“Damon King. Holy shit,” he exclaims.

Ooh, boy. “Can we talk?” I tip my head behind me.

“You know who I am?”

“I work for OTS. I’m here to—”

His face falls. “Oh, damn. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have signed with Hewitt and Locke last night.”

“I’m sorry, you what now?” I ask. He got a fucking contract already? What am I even doing here?

“Yeah, my father was supposed to call you guys. He wanted me to go with Hewitt. They’re bigger, you know? But shit, being represented by Damon ‘The Lion’ King? I’m kicking myself for listening to my old man. And, damn, you were watching today? I was throwing shit. Me and the boys got fucked up last night, celebrating.”

This kid is talking a million miles a minute. Someone get him some Adderall, stat.

This whole thing is bullshit. I wish I could say it wasn’t pure jealousy filling my veins with anger, but I know it is. This guy, who has the same amount of talent that my little finger did when I was top of my game, has an agent. He has the fucking idiocy and disrespect of going out the night before a game, but he has a future in baseball. What do I have? I have to sit back and watch others—others who don’t deserve it—succeed where I failed.

I grit my teeth and force myself to stay professional and calm. “Well, congrats on the contract. I need to get back to the office and inform my bosses you’re already taken.”

“Wait. Can I get a selfie?”

Jesus Christ on a cracker.

“Sure.”

He takes his phone out of his pants—geez, if either me or my teammates had our phones on us in the dugout, it was immediate one-game suspension. Guess Newport has higher standards than OU. Logan snaps the shot, and my feet practically make divots with each hard step I take from the dugout to the field entrance.