Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Maclain only wanted his dad to be proud, no matter how flawed his logic about the man might’ve been, and I felt for him. I wanted to tell him how much I cared, but that would never go over well with Maclain. Might even result in another bloody nose. I smirked. Or another jerk-off session.
Our turn at bat, we tied up the score, and when I next jogged out to home plate, I no longer saw Maclain’s stepfather in the stands. I spotted them near the first baseline instead. So maybe the heat was getting to them, or maybe they were about to make their escape to the parking lot. For Maclain’s part, it seemed he was instantly disappointed either in himself or them, and his first two pitches resulted in low balls. He kept wiping his brow and swatting at flies—imaginary or not—and though we were all miserable in this heat, he was being a bit too extra.
Thankfully, he got us out of the inning, and Lopez was on deck to close out the game. Back in the dugout, most of us got fresh water from the jug Kellan had already filled twice.
Maclain was talking to Coach at the other end of the bullpen, and I suddenly saw Maclain stagger against the fence dividing the dugout from the field and claw at his throat. His face turned beet red, and all I could think was that he was choking on something.
I pushed past other teammates to get to him. “What’s wrong?”
“I…” Maclain tried talking, but all that came out was a bunch of gibberish. It was like his tongue was too thick or his throat had closed.
“Are you choking?” Coach asked, alarmed, and Maclain shook his head with effort, but all he could do was make garbled sounds. My pulse skyrocketed.
That was when I noticed a large red welt on his arm and knew instantly what happened.
“Where’s his bag?” I yelled to Sinclair, who knew his habits better than any of us.
“Huh?”
“The bag Maclain always carries with him, where is it?”
He pointed under the bench with a shaky hand, and I immediately squatted and began ransacking it.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked over my shoulder. He wasn’t only the team captain; he was also going for a degree in exercise physiology and had helped Kellan last year when he’d fainted from seeing my nosebleed.
I held up the EpiPen I found at the bottom of his bag like a prize. “He’s allergic to bees.”
When Donovan reached for it, I gave it up willingly and followed him as we raced back to Maclain, who was now sitting against the bench, his face swollen, his breaths reedy, and fear gripped my stomach like never before.
Holy fucking hell, I had no idea what to do in this scenario. I just knew it was serious. All you had to do was look at Maclain to figure that out. Was he gonna make it? My body went numb as I stared at his eyes, which had swollen to slits. I unsnapped my chest protector to give myself room to breathe and tossed my face mask on the bench.
“The ambulance is on the way,” Kellan called out as the coaches crouched nearby, one with a wet rag against Maclain’s forehead, the other searching through the first-aid kit.
“We can’t wait for the ambulance.” I motioned wildly as my heart clawed its way to my throat. “He needs that now!”
“Agreed.” The next second, Donovan was already pressing the orange tip of the pen against Maclain’s outer thigh.
I held my breath. Donovan knew what he was doing. I vaguely remembered from my allergy research that it had to be done a certain way and, right then, I was so grateful that Donovan had taken charge.
I plopped down on the bench behind Maclain, and with shaky hands, I squeezed his shoulders, then his nape, hoping to help calm him as he took straining, gulping breaths. “You’re gonna be okay, Mason.”
Glancing up, I noticed lots of eyes on me, but I didn’t give two fucks right then. Let them think what they wanted.
When I looked onto the field, the umpire was pacing, the other team was waiting expectantly in their dugout, the stands were quiet, and Maclain’s stepfather was nowhere to be found.
Or maybe I just didn’t know where to look. Where in the hell was he?
The next several minutes were a blur as the paramedics arrived, got the stinger out of his arm, disinfected the area, and applied a cold compress. Slowly, Maclain came back to himself as the epinephrine began working. His skin looked less flushed and his breathing returned to normal.
I leaned over, hands on my knees, finally feeling like I could breathe as well.
“Good work, guys,” Coach said, patting Donovan’s back.
“It was all Girard,” he replied. “Thankfully, he knew Maclain is allergic to bees.”