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“Come on, show-off,” Wilder called as he exited the dugout, bat in hand. “We get it.”
Noting my distraction, Coach threw the ball. That zing up my arms felt like a reward when he swore in my direction.
“You done?” I asked, smiling like a dickhead.
“Get the fuck outta here,” he answered without any heat in his voice.
I shrugged, knocking fists with Wilder on my way to the dugout.
“You could at least pretend you have to try,” Tate snarked, handing me a beer.
“I may be many things, but a liar ain’t one of them.”
“Don’t listen to Tate,” Shelby— one of our assistant coaches—said, twisting her golden hair into a fresh bun, her voice cheery. It always was when Tate’s pride was on the line. “He’s just butthurt he can’t hit one over the fence. Just keep on trying, little buddy. You’ll get it someday.”
“Trust me, I’m not the one who’s gonna get it,” Tate promised.
“Oh, and you’re gonna give it to me?” she challenged, one pretty brow arched.
“Shut the fuck up about my sister,” Wilder yelled from the plate, pointing his bat in Tate’s direction.
I clinked my can to Shelby’s, who laughed at Tate’s scowl but was smart enough to keep her mouth shut otherwise. By my math, she’d been giving Tate hell since elementary school and he’d been giving her noogies just as long. As close as Tate and Wilder were, they might as well have both been her brothers.
Shelby scooted down to make room for me, and I sat, watching Wilder through the chain-link. His form was perfect, the torque of his body supplying the exact force to knock the ball into the outfield without much effort, which was one of the many reasons he was a first-round draft pick after college. He’d played pro for a few years before tearing his rotator cuff. Never could pitch fast enough after that to stay in the majors.
Our piddly little softball team was damn lucky he decided to come back home.
The Roseville Ramblers were a competitive fast-pitch rec team stacked with all but a few ringers. Most of us had at least played through college, and all but one played on the high school team. Grayson, his dark hair shot with gray at the temples and his mouth full of bad attitude, coached our team and the high school boys, and Shelby coached the girls’ softball team. We’d been winning competitions too, and the prize money that came with them.
I might not have been in the big leagues, but I had the Ramblers, and that felt like enough to me.
I took a pull of my drink, my mind wandering to a subject I couldn’t seem to shake.
And she went by the name of Duchess.
Last night, I’d endured waiting on my cousin and her crew with the patience of a saint. Truth be told, Henry was the only thing that needed enduring. That, and the look on Jessa’s face as she fawned over him. Once she’d had a couple glasses of wine, her cheeks were smudged with color, her eyes all sparkly when she laughed at whatever stupid joke he’d told. It was weird to see her like that, gone from fancy and classy to a flustered, giggling loon.
By the time they left, my boss had rearranged things, and I was able to get back to The Horseshoe for the rest of my night, which was nothing to write home about. When I made it back to the house, I walked in the door to a different place than I’d left. It was so clean, it was unrecognizable. Didn’t know if it’d ever been so clean, despite Mama’s best efforts to shame me into submission.
But everybody knew I was shameless.
“Y’all are ridiculous,” Coach yelled from the mound as another of Wilder’s balls disappeared behind the fence. “How about we give somebody a chance to learn something? Carlin—you’re up. Wilder—go sit on the bench and think about what you’ve done.”
“What, be awesome? No prob, Coach,” he said, narrowly avoiding getting nailed in the ass with Coach’s softball.
Carlin sighed, picking up all hundred and ten pounds of himself and snagging a bat on his way to the plate.
Shelby set her beer down to clap. “C’mon, Carlin! Just make a connection, that’s all! You’ve got this!”
Carlin thanked her with a pale smile before turning his attention to Coach.
“Poor kid looks terrified,” she said under her breath. “I wish he was here because he wanted to be and not because his mama made him.”
“She’s been pushin’ him into sports since we were kids,” Carlin’s sister Trish, the other assistant coach, said from down the bench. “Mama’s not a fan of his Star Trek obsession. The last time he addressed her in Klingon, she lost it. Told him if he didn’t play, he didn’t stay.”
“Man, your mama must be some cook,” Tate said with the shake of his head.
Trish snorted. “She does laundry real good, too.”
