Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“He swiped that bag off you too. Aren’t you pissed off?”
“Sometimes, you lose. That’s just how it is.” He looks down at where my hand is resting, my knuckles white with tension. “Don’t do anything rash, Spence.”
I think of Chris and his unrestrained smile and the punch of his cleats in my ankle. The way he plays like he’s got nothing to lose. I guess he doesn’t anymore. He’s won it all. “I’m not the one with poor impulse control,” I say, though it feels like I might be. Like whatever in me that says focus, focus, focus crumbled when Chris stole his way onto my base.
Though, maybe it’s been crumbling all season since the golf tournament. And every time I ran into him on or off the field since then. With every look. Every word.
All that ends tonight.
“Remember that time in August the Cougars’ pinch hitter slid into your feet first? You weren’t half as mad, and the guy could barely run.”
Ouch.
“It wasn’t the World Series,” I say in my defense. But it sounds weak even to my ears.
“Sure,” Glasser says. “That must be all it is.” He thumps me twice on the shoulder then gets up. “Take it easy.”
I wish easygoing were my style.
But I’m not like Chris.
Eventually, I drag myself out of the clubhouse and toward the players’ parking lot. Except when I get there, someone’s leaning against the door of my car: The last person I want to see right now, flush with victory and cocky as hell and smiling like he’s on top of the world. A smile I want to wipe off his face. Or kiss off. And I don’t know which is worse.
3
Chris
I’ve only fantasized about winning a World Series since I was five.
When I was younger, I imagined hitting the game-winning homer, the crowd cheering, my team lifting me on their shoulders.
As I got older, my dreams grew up.
Playing hard. Winning here in New York and then enjoying the hell out of the victory. We’re talking parties, champagne, debauchery, the world ours for the taking, no pleasure too great to be denied.
Except the guy I’ve had my sights on all season long just called me a dirty fucking player on national TV.
I grab a bottle of champagne from a laundry cart full of them—because I earned the hell out of this expensive bottle, and I have plans for it—then stalk through the tunnels to the players’ lot. Along the way, I replay on my phone that damn interview he just gave.
I can’t believe my rival insinuated the same shit on air that he breathed to me on base. It’s one thing to talk trash on the field. It’s another to do it in public.
It makes me want to throw down with him. Or throw him across my bed.
Both, and that’s messing with me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve thought about the second baseman for the Union. Ever since that golf tournament, I was drawn to him, to his dry humor, to his intensity, and to the way he snuck glances at me. The way he has in every game this season. He stares at me like he wants to eat me for dinner.
Feeling is mutual, Josh.
And I’m sure he’s been playing a reel in his head too of what a night together might look like. Ballplayers are visual people. We have to imagine each at bat, each pitch, each play. So I get the full jumbotron visualization of Josh Spencer’s big body up against the wall in my apartment. Then down on his knees in my living room, so I can tug hard on that thick, dark hair. Then on my bed, spread out, miles of tanned skin for my mouth to explore. Any or all of the above, the kind of celebration that extends into the next day. Or, some traitorous part of me whispers, even longer than that.
But first, I have a major bone to pick with him. Maybe he needs a lesson in choosing his words carefully. For instance, gasping my name would be a much better use of his lush lips.
Outside in the players’ lot, I find his black Tesla easily and lean against it. Waiting. Running my thumb over the top of the champagne, I stare at the moon, then at the emptying lot as other New York Union guys leave.
Some wave to me. Some flip me the bird.
I blow them all kisses. Since tonight I won the trophy, and everything is awesome.
Except for this sitch with Spencer.
Speak of the enemy. The guy who called me dirty strides across the lot, stopping in his tracks when he’s five feet away.
“Let me guess. You came to gloat,” Josh says, a hard edge to his voice.
Funny, I thought I wanted to set the record straight, but it’s really hard to toe that line when all your childhood dreams just came true. “A little,” I admit with a grin since he’s not wrong.