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Jason shrugs. “Like every other guy, I suppose—for the love of the game.”
“I’ll drink to that.” I take another swig before asking, “Did you always play first?”
“No, I started as a pitcher, but my fastball wasn’t fast enough.” His jaw tics, and I suspect there’s a story there.
“Is pitching your favorite position?” I prod.
His jaw tics again, but he shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I play first base. My dad coached the high school team and told me that’s where I would play.”
“Sounds as if you have a supportive parent.” I’m fishing. The inflection in his voice makes me think he wanted to pitch and his dad is a dick, or he is better suited for first, and his dad did him a solid.
“Yeah, you know how it goes.” His eyes cloud over, voice devoid of emotion. He takes his first swig of the beer.
No, I really don’t.I try to picture my dad in the stands rooting me on. It was a dream I envisioned back in my tween days. The closest Phil Boyd ever got to the stands was when he came to practice drunk and pulled me from the field to go home and fix Mrs. Clancy’s car. That caused a visit from social services. My brother and I had to pretend our dad was top-notch while the kids on my team made fun of me. I never dreamed about Dad being in the stands from then on. But I don’t mention any of that and just nod. Because even though Jason says the right words, I don’t think he believes them. It’s in the subtle way his lip curls up or the way his fingers clenched the bottle tighter.
Maybe we’re more alike than I thought.
“I suspect your old man was as pissed off as mine was by your not getting drafted?” he asks.
My eyes flash to him. I don’t know what compels me to confess. Maybe it’s because I’m tired of hiding the truth or living this continued lie that everything is okay, that none of this bullshit bothers me. The truth is, I want out from the burden of my family. So, I suck it up and tell the truth. “No. He’d rather see me fail, so I go home and run the family business.”
Jason’s eyes widen. His mouth opens to speak but gets cut off by three guys approaching us.
“What do we have here?” The taller guy in the middle looks from me to Jason before landing back on me. His Irongate baseball hat sits proudly on his head. Isn’t this nice. We face these fuckers in tomorrow’s game—the one where scouts are rumored to be and I can’t screw up—and they’re here stirring up trouble.
“You must be the worthless delinquents from Baytown,” he continues when neither Jason nor I speak.
My eyes narrow at the one speaking’s familiarity. “What’s it to you?”
Jason’s back stiffens. If he really thought we’d stay under the radar by coming into this bar, his plan just backfired. Neither one of us is getting out of here unscathed. These boys came looking for trouble.
“Just surprised to find you tucked away in a bar. Doesn’t Daddy Greenburg have a rule against drinking?”
The stooges next to him laugh while the ringleader’s mouth transfixes into a smirk. No matter how badly I want to be the one to wipe it off, I won’t let his taunts affect me. He can try to rile us up all he likes. It won’t work.
“We’re just here to have a conversation.” I tip my bottle toward Jason and then take a drink. My eyes never stray from the guy. Then it dawns on me how I know him. He’s the prick with the hard slide into Garret, our shortstop, toward the end of the season. Garret was fine, but the slide was dirty, and this prick knew it. We exchanged a few choice words that ended with me being tossed from the game.
“I’m not surprised to see you since you never got drafted. You were the weakest link on the team.” The prick laughs. “You couldn’t keep your temper in check. It’s no wonder you ended up on Greenburg’s team. That’s where the rejects go.”
Jason pops out of his chair, fists clenching. I place my hand up to stop him. “He’s not worth it, man.”
The asshole has the audacity to laugh again. “Oh yeah, tomorrow’s going to be fun.” He drops his voice. “I’ll be sure to have my cleats extra sharp.”
The muscle in the side of my jaw twitches as I grind my teeth. It takes everything in me not to engage. I want to pummel this guy, but hell, he probably already cost me one draft. I won’t give him the satisfaction of ruining this year.
He steps to the side, and I think he’s leaving, but then he turns back to me. There’s an evil gleam in his eyes as the corners of his mouth curve upwards. “Are you staying away from that daughter of his? I heard you’re the lucky bastard staying at the house.”
My fingers ball into fists as anger worms its way through my veins. I straighten my back and try desperately to keep my face passive—it’s hard telling what he’d do if he found out about my relationship with her—but I’m a bit of a hothead. I hate Cassie being disrespected. She doesn’t deserve that. I don’t know if I can hold myself back.
“I’ve seen her once. She’s a fine piece of virginal ass. I’d like to tap that,” the prick says, eying me the entire time. I can feel the muscle in my jaw tic, but my feet stay planted. I hate myself at this point. It feels wrong not to defend Cassie.
“I bet she’s a real wildcat between the sheets,” the stooge to the left says.
“Preachers’ daughters usually are,” the other stooge says, laughing.
My heart pounds in my chest. I’m so pissed.
“Or she may be a frigid bitch.” The words no sooner leave the prick’s mouth, and my fist connects with bone. No one disrespects my girl that way, and I mean absolutely no one. Consequences be damned.
