I wakeup early and hit the training gym.
It’s technically the off-season, and a lot of the team are taking it easy, but as the star pitcher, I still have to train. Pitchers are made in the off-season, after all, and I didn’t get this good by being lazy.
Even though I’m itching to throw, Coach Elbin will have my ass in a sling if I even think about touching a ball before November. So, I go for the next best thing—squats and deadlifts. And luckily, I know it’s unlikely any of the guys will be in this morning. There was a party last night at the baseball house that I decided to skip, partially because I wasn’t in the fucking mood to pretend to enjoy beer bongs and bro talk, and partially because I’m nervous as shit that any of them caught the cookie competition live stream on The Morning Show. Chances are slim—none of those idiots watch The Morning Show—but it’s still got me feeling anxious.
I knew it was a risk when I entered, but I took it because it would make my mom happy. Talia let me use her apartment to test out recipes, so I was able to fly under the radar. The only reason the KitchenAid mixer was at my house the night Bailey first came over was because I had just gotten it, and since I knew my roommates wouldn’t be home, I hadn’t hidden it at Talia’s yet. Then yesterday, I told the guys I was hanging out with Tal, and they didn’t ask questions. I had every intention of showing up at the party to keep up appearances, but when everything went down with Bailey, I just couldn’t muster up the energy.
Fucking Bailey.
She still hasn’t read my last messages. The one I sent around midnight last night, because I had a dumb-ass moment of weakness, doesn’t even say delivered. She probably blocked my number. I could try to message her on social media, but then she’ll see my carefully curated profile and likely jump to more conclusions.
I keep trying to be angry with her, but I just end up pissed at myself.
I did this.
I made my bed, and now I have to lie awake and stare at the ceiling in it.
Turning up my gym playlist, I step up to the squat rack. I start every set with “Drop” by G-Eazy, and as soon as the beat hits, my head clears of the bullshit.
I’m halfway through my second set of heavy squats when the gym door opens and in walks Xavier, one of my roommates and my catcher. Of all the guys on the team, I’m closest to Zay. I gotta be. He’s my partner on that field. But even with that connection, I still wouldn’t call us close—not since last year, at least. I have to keep all my plays close to the vest these days.
My nerves jump. I wasn’t ready to face one of them yet, and I watch him closely as he heads in my direction, scanning for any sign that he might know something. He’s wearing his team sweats, his Beats are already on his head, and his face is a bored mask. He steps up to the rack next to me, nods in my direction, then starts stretching. When he begins his set without saying a word to me, I release a relieved breath and get started on my final set.
I’m on my first set of light deads when Zay finally strikes up a conversation.
“Missed the party last night,” he says, eyes on his reflection in the wall mirror.
“Yeah,” I nod, focusing on putting more chalk on my hands, “wasn’t feeling it.”
He just grunts. Face still bored. Tone still nonchalant. He positions himself under the bar and starts a set of squats, so I step back up to my bar and start a set of deads.
We finish our sets at the same time, and when I step back to take a breather, he drops a bomb.
“There was a cool live stream on The Morning Show yesterday.”
I freeze, and my eyes snap to him. He’s still facing the wall mirror, arms folded on top of the racked bar, but he’s looking right at me.
I keep my face neutral. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He positions himself back under the bar and readies his stance for another set of squats. “Some cookie competition for that café on Main Street.”
I swallow and say nothing.
“I was at the house. Watched it on my phone.” He meets my eyes in the mirror once more. “None of the other guys were awake yet.”
I nod, and he starts another set, leaving it at that.
When I finish my deadlifts, I head to the mats for some core work, and twenty minutes later, I’m packing up to head out. I swing by Zay, where he’s moved to the deadlift bars.
“Since when do you watch The Morning Show?” I ask as he drops the bar and steps back for a rest. He shrugs and takes a drink from his water bottle.
“Since sophomore year, I think.” He flashes me the faintest of smiles, super rare for Zay. “Carmen Fredricks is hot, and I like when they do the ‘About Town’ segments. Found some cool local places that way.”
“Cool.” Zay really is a man of mystery. “Welp, I’m gonna head out. See you at the house.”
“See ya.”
“My dude!”Dylan yells as he comes through the front door later that evening. I can hear him kicking off his shoes on the mat and the jangle of his keys being hung on the hook. He comes down the hallway, sees me sitting at the kitchen table, and slaps me on the shoulder in greeting. “Riggs, man. Missed a banger of a party last night.”
“I bet.” I laugh at the sight of him. Pretty sure he was wearing those same clothes when I saw him on Friday, and he looks like he’s about to pass out. “You look like shit.”
“I feel it.” He rummages in the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Gotta get my partying in before preseason. You know coach will flip shit if we go crazy once training starts.”
“You mean your dad will flip shit.”