Pitch Please (There's No Crying in Baseball 1)

“That’s a load of bullshit and you know it!” I bellowed, anger making my voice shake with rage.

“Sorry, Parts. You know the drill.” He gestured to the bench.

I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Coach is contesting it,” I gestured with my chin. “I’ll leave when you prove to me that I missed it.”

I damn well hadn’t missed it, and the ump needed to get his fuckin’ eyes checked if he thought differently.

Henderson growled in frustration, and I caught the shake of his head before he turned and stomped up to the other umpires who were going over the call on the TV that was situated beside the home dugout.

My eyes automatically went to the dugout where Sway usually sat, but when my eyes finally trained on the spot, I realized it was empty.

Brows furrowing, I let my gaze wander and quickly realized why I’d been so pissed off in the first place.

She’d been chatty today.

Really chatty.

Like right now for instance.

She was chatting up Rhys like they were the very best of friends, and I found that I didn’t like that anymore than when she was talking to Furious George the same freakin’ way.

Jaw tightening, I turned my face away from the two and focused in on the umpires.

“You touched second,” the third baseman for the other team, Milo something or other, said, breaking into my thoughts.

I turned my eyes only to take him in.

“I know,” I mumbled.

“When I got into the draft, it was my dream to meet you one day,” he informed me.

A grin broke out on my face as I realized I had a bona fide fan on my hands.

“Is that right?” I asked.

He nodded eagerly.

“Where’d you go to college?” I asked.

“Penn State,” he answered quickly. “I was lucky to have a scout see me. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

The kid was funny.

He also had one hell of a beard, which was abnormal for a kid his age.

“How old are you?” I asked, admiring his beard.

The kid brought his hand up to his beard and started to stroke it.

“How old do I look?” he challenged.

I snorted.

“Twenty-two, at most,” I admitted. “The beard does things for you, though.”

Milo started to chuckle.

“Thanks,” he grinned. “And you’re right. I’m twenty-two.”

“You know anywhere good to eat?” I asked. “I’m going to force our athletic trainer to go out with me to dinner. You’re welcome to come if you want.”

He hesitated.

“I’m not sure if that’s allowed…” he hesitated.

I shrugged. “Up to you, kid. Just throwing the offer out there.”

He nodded, thinking.

“The Root is good,” he finally decided. “It’s got a good atmosphere, and not many people know about it. Locally owned and not many tourists go to it.”

I nodded. “They have burgers?”

He nodded his head eagerly. “They do. The best.”

The crowd started to boo, and I realized that the call had been handed out.

“They gave you the base,” Milo muttered. “Knew they would.”

I knew they would, too.

Henderson was a dick, and it seemed like he always made bad calls against me. Then again, when I was younger—about Milo’s age—I decked him because he’d thought it’d be funny to laugh at something another player had said about my mother.

Granted, I wasn’t the most chill of people when I was younger—and likely still wasn’t if the rise of my blood pressure had anything to say about it—but that wasn’t something you continued to hold over a person’s head. I was ten years older now.

At thirty-two, I was nothing like the hotheaded boy who’d entered the league.

If anything, I was a hell of a lot more rounded and could control my temper just as well as the next guy.

“Fuckin’ A,” Milo muttered, then dove for the ball that I hadn’t even realized had been hit.

“Shit!” I hissed, running for home.

The catcher got in my way at home plate, and I knew the ball was about to hit his glove any second.

And it did, landing right in the sweet spot.

With no other recourse, I slammed into the catcher like a linesman, hitting him so hard that my breath left me in a whoosh.

We both went down in a tangle of arms and limbs just like I’d done my last game.

Frantically, I tried to scramble for the base, which I somehow missed when I hit the catcher, and touched it.

That’s when I saw the ball that was lying next to the plate.

“Fuck yes,” I bellowed, getting to my feet.

I offered my hand down to the catcher, and he shook his head, refusing to take my hand.

Not caring, I pointed at Milo.

“You almost had me,” I told him.

A grin kicked up the corner of his lips, but he didn’t respond.

“Fucking bastard,” the catcher mumbled as I walked away.

I chuckled as I walked back to the dugout, laughing when my teammates came out to meet me.