Bat Boy (Easton U Pirates 1)

“Or Donovan just wants to keep the gummy bears coming. They’re always stocked for you,” Girard said, sounding a bit miffed, and I whirled around to look him in the eye. Shit.

Don’t play favorites.

“Donovan is the only player who tells me exactly what snack he wants on a regular basis,” I replied, feeling Donovan’s eyes on me. Okay, I asked him during one of our bus rides to a game, when he’d sunk down beside me and I tried to keep the conversation light and team-focused. “So help me out with other suggestions, and I’ll keep it stocked for you too.”

Suddenly all the guys started blurting out their favorite munchies—Snickers, Skittles, Doritos—and even though those were some of the snacks I bought regularly, I felt like I’d just created a bunch of monsters.

“All better?” Girard said, glaring at Maclain, who had added his own selection to the discussion. “Don’t take your bad mood out on Kellan just because you blew the game.”

I didn’t have to remove my earbuds to recognize that an uncomfortable silence had descended on the locker room, and when I glanced around the space, most of the guys were standing there awkwardly, their eyes averted.

It was the quiet before the storm because right after that, pandemonium hit. Maclain launched himself at Girard—thankfully by that point, they both had underwear on, or the scene in front of me would’ve looked much different. Jockstraps would’ve been even worse for my easily aroused sensibility. I knew before it was all over that I’d have a mess to clean up. Jackasses. They rolled around on the ground for a bit, each trying to get the other in a headlock, before Brady stepped into the mix.

“Knock it off, both of you,” he said, grabbing Maclain’s shoulder. He was respected as the team captain, and the guys normally heeded his advice. “Girard, you know what it feels like to think you ruined something—pretty shitty. And, Maclain, not saying you did, but your awful mood is affecting everyone.”

Girard pushed away from Maclain and stood up on shaky legs. Good thing no one had landed a punch or had a bloody nose. Dad would’ve blown a gasket. And I wouldn’t be able to handle the blood. Made me squeamish.

Brady side-eyed me, then told the guys, “Get yourselves together before Coach comes in.”

He knew I wouldn’t say anything unless it was serious, like when we’d played Warren College and Devers had dislocated his shoulder. I’d heard and seen everything under the sun with these guys, but no way I’d snitch or betray their secrets. That was why I was constantly walking a precarious line, and it was better that I stayed focused and far removed. As far as I could get while still dealing with the needs of these players and the maintenance of their clubhouse.

Maclain and Girard dressed in silence while I got the broom for an overturned container of foot powder that Sinclair picked up and tossed back in his locker. Donovan handed me the damp mop, to help further hide the evidence, and when our shoulders brushed, my cheeks burned. Why did he have to be so damned helpful all the time?

Before we knew it, the area was clear, I had a load of team shirts in the laundry, had gathered more equipment, and the players were all sitting dressed on the benches.

Just in time for Dad to walk in with the assistant coach.

“Gather round, guys,” Coach said, sidling up to the benches, none the wiser that there had been any type of scuffle. “It was a hard loss, but we still have a shot if we get our heads in the game from here on out.” He looked around at all the players. He was good at that. Making them feel like they mattered. “We’re on the road end of the week, and we need everyone to be ready.”

He walked over to the whiteboard I’d helped him install on the far wall so that he could have on-the-fly moments like this instead of ushering everyone into the room they used for meetings and to review plays.

He lifted one of the Sharpies, drew a diamond outline of a field, and started explaining where he thought they’d gone wrong. Thankfully, not all the focus was on Maclain’s pitching, and when he stretched his legs forward, he seemed much more relaxed.

Dad glanced at Coach Adams. “You got the latest numbers with you?”

He shook his head. “Not uploaded yet. Want me to—”

“Nah,” Dad said, his gaze swinging toward me. I was folding towels in the corner near the laundry area while listening to him. “Kellan?”

I paused with a towel in my hand. “Yeah?”

“Batting average off the top of your head?”

I pretended to think about it even though the answer came to me instantly. “.295” Someone whistled, not because I knew my shit, but because it was a decent average.