Bat Boy (Easton U Pirates 1)

“You wish.” He looked away, but I could see his grin.

I did wish it. So much.

“Wanna sit at their table so we can eat?” Jasmine asked him.

“Sure.” He followed her to two empty seats across from us but at the opposite end. He glanced in my direction, then quickly away.

The conversation turned livelier when a group of students walked up to our table. I recognized a few of them from the stands at our home games. We had fans, and it was nice to be acknowledged and talk about baseball stuff, but I also needed to glance at my notes for class.

I casually opened my notebook and began going over some of the more recent stuff.

“Ooh, so studious,” I heard someone say, and when I looked up, two girls were standing in front of me. I remembered them from a recent frat party, where one of them had been giving me the eye all night.

“Only trying to keep my GPA up,” I replied, and that launched them into a conversation about classes. I tried paying attention, but my mind kept drifting to other things. I’d never been good at this sort of thing—conversing or flirting—at least not with girls, and it was probably painfully obvious. Hollister had asked me about it a few times over the years, but I just shrugged him off, telling him I wanted to focus on my grades and baseball. Sometimes I’d pretend, though, like now. Especially after that earlier conversation about Kellan.

When they turned to include one of our outfielders in the conversation, I felt something pelt my head. I looked down and saw a fry land on the table in front of me.

My head jerked in Kellan’s direction. They’d gotten up from the table, and he was emptying his tray in a garbage can nearby.

“What the hell?” I asked as he passed by me.

“Just trying to share,” he muttered as they walked away, and I couldn’t help grinning like a damned fool.

6

Kellan

I sat in the very back of the bus with my earbuds firmly in place and my notes from class in front of me, though it was hard to concentrate on the coming week’s assignment when it was only the weekend. I wasn’t that nerdy, but I had my moments. Thankfully, by hiding back here, I didn’t have to hear most of the chatter from the players or the pep talks from my dad. I could do my own thing, and then focus on the equipment and whatever else my dad needed me to do when we arrived at the field for the doubleheader in Columbus.

Our away games never included our entire roster because of the cost and logistics; plus, some second-string players opted out if they had something important planned with their families. I knew Dad relied on my organizational skills more than he’d admit, and honestly, I liked going on these trips. The change of scenery was nice, and the team vibe more intense. Like now, the players were mostly quiet, doing their own things. Not that they never got into any shenanigans on these trips, but normally it was little competitions, like thumb-wrestling or who could burp the loudest. Or one of them started imitating the major-league announcers who loved to talk about going deep and gripping hard balls. They sounded like a bunch of twelve-year-olds, and sometimes the laughter was contagious.

When I felt the dip of the vinyl seat beside me, I sighed because I knew it would be Donovan. Nonetheless, my pulse kicked up like it did every other time he was around. “You know you’re gonna get shit for sitting here.” The guys already teased him enough, not to mention that he was making it hard for me to heed Dad’s warning. Don’t play favorites.

That last was also the reason why Dad always gave me my own room on the road. Sometimes we’d stayed together, but for the most part, if he ever shared a room, it was with his assistant coach, likely so they could stay up late and strategize.

“What do I care?” Donovan replied, applying pressure against my shoulder. I wanted to warn him to move over so there wouldn’t be contact between us, but he took up so much space with his tall frame and thick thighs that it would be nearly impossible. “Besides, if it gets me more gummies…”

I play-punched his thigh, which actually hurt my hand more than his leg. He snickered. Whereas he filled out his baseball pants with all kinds of muscles, I always took the smallest size just so they’d fit properly.

Why did Brady have to be so fucking hot and sweet? He’d make a girl very happy someday. Not that I ever saw him with any, outside of casual flirting. Not like the other guys. I’d once heard him tell a teammate that he was focusing on school. It was the same for me, so I respected him for that.