“Fuck off, Drew,” Hayes says. “Be happy you’re making those big new salaries worth it the way you’ve hit this month.”
I glance over my shoulder, and Hayes shakes his head, telling me not to let the DICs get in my head.
When the DICs joined our team, I was all for the monthly bet between the infield and outfield over who could score the most runs. Healthy competition is good, but the DICs take it too far when we’re in a slump.
Or maybe it grates on me more now because their shiny new salaries might be the reason the Colts’ upper office doesn’t want to sign me again this year.
“Goldie’s contract is hanging by a thread. I’m pretty sure Harkins gets third once your bat stops working too.”
“Cut the shit, Drew,” Ian says, low and firm. At least one-third of the DICs has enough sense to know when Drew’s crossed a line.
“Get traded already,” someone else in the dugout mumbles.
“You’re like fucking warts that won’t go away,” Torres says.
Drew gets into it with Torres, who bats after me, and I let them go at it while I step out of the dugout to ready myself.
I circle my neck and loosen my arms. This is where I excel. My bat hasn’t been dead this year, and I need to keep it going if I have any shot of staying a Colt next year.
Camden hits a grounder that could have been a double play, but thankfully Easton could give a damn cheetah a race, so he makes it to second. He blows out a breath.
“Hey, you moved him, Cam,” I call.
He just shakes his head with a frown.
The poor guy is in a slump. I assume Ripley will give him the rest of this series before he drops him, which only adds more pressure, but that’s why we get paid the big salaries, I suppose.
“Can’t Stop” by Red Hot Chili Peppers plays through the stadium, and I walk over to the plate. Easton is standing on second, probably trash-talking Porter as I step into the box.
I go through my entire routine, twisting my cleats in the dirt, pushing my weight back, lifting my bat. I visualize myself hitting right to the gap between center and right so Easton can get to third, if not all the way home.
The first ball that comes at me is fast, and I swing and miss.
My mind goes to Drew in the dugout and the fucking opinions he’s probably spouting off. I step out of the box to clear my head.
You’ve got this, Decker. You’ve been hitting in situations like this since you were in a rec league and nobody watched. This is nothing new.
I step back in the box, twist my cleats, and lean my weight. Another ball whizzes over the plate, but it’s a curve on the inside. One pitch that is not mine. So, I hold off and hear the umpire call a strike.
That’s a two-zero count, which is not a best-case scenario. It’s actually the worst.
I set up again, and this time, the pitch is practically hanging over the plate. I swing, and the ball jumps off the bat. It carries too far for the second baseman to reach it, and the outfielders sprint in.
“GO, KODIAK!” the dugout shouts as Easton’s arms pump, his chains swinging from side to side after coming out of his jersey.
I find first since they decide to throw it home, then keep running to second with the hope that they don’t catch East at home and make a quick exchange to get me out at second. My feet feel like cement weighs them down, but I’m sliding into second when the fans cheer, and the dugout goes crazy.
At least I’m able to do one fucking thing right. I let myself enjoy it for exactly three seconds before my mind spirals again.
“RBI!” Easton points toward me. He claps his hands and points again. “That’s on you, Goldie.” Then he turns to the dugout and says something to Drew. A smartass remark, if I had to guess from the expression on Drew’s face.
Easton’s really been trying to make sure I don’t get down on myself with the way I’ve been playing at third. Or the way third has been playing me more like it.
I’m not gonna lie. Contributing to the team and getting one more run closer to tying Texas feels good. We’re still behind by one, but with Torres and Hayes coming in next, we should be good.
Torres gets up to the plate, and I step off second, taking my lead off.
“Tell me, Davis, is it true what they’re saying about Ripley’s daughter?”
