So it’s time I put Hazel and our future first.
Chapter
Four
Decker
* * *
“Again, Davis.” Mercer hits another ball to my right, cognizant of my recent weak spot.
My jaw locks, and I force my face to remain blank.
A ball hit down the line used to be my ESPN highlight reel play, but lately, I’m lucky if I get a glove on it. That’s the part that twists—not the miss itself, but the fact that it no longer shocks him.
“Another off day, Davis?” Mercer teases.
I inhale a deep breath, keeping my temper in check. Me crashing out on a coach during practice isn’t going to help. My control is the only thing I still own right now.
“Hit it again.” I’m determined to leave here without Mercer thinking I’m not the man for the job anymore.
“Goldie, man, give it a rest. Maybe go take a break. Give Harkins a chance to take a few,” Easton says to me.
I look over my shoulder, seeing the guy I’m pretty sure upper management wants in my spot. It hasn’t been said out loud, but it doesn’t need to be. If I’m not doing my job, they might as well take a chance with a rookie like Harkins who comes with a lot less overhead than me.
“Again, Mercer.” My teeth grind as I clench my jaw.
“Sorry, Harkins, you should’ve taken that deal with the Trojans.” Easton laughs and fields a ball from Mercer as clean as if it was routine, but everyone knows Mercer isn’t hitting dribblers to us. He’s hammering them fast and in every weak spot we possess.
Easton throws it to first and smiles a cocky grin to himself, making the play look effortless. His game is never off. Meanwhile, it looks as if it’s my first day in the majors and there’s a hole in my glove. I can already hear upper management in my head.
Davis has lost a step.
Davis isn’t the same.
Davis is expendable.
Mercer hits me another one, and he’s nice enough to hit it so I don’t have to break for it. I scoop it up and throw it to first, but my throw is low, and it gets by Donnelly. Sharp heat crawls behind my eyes. The kind that makes my vision narrow. I don’t miss throws. That’s the whole point of my job.
“Fuck!” I shout, and Mercer rests the bat on his shoulder, waiting for me to finish my little tantrum. The field goes quiet for half a second as some of the guys pretend not to watch.
“Take a break, Davis,” Mercer says, and there’s no point in arguing.
Cursing on the field isn’t unusual for any player other than me. I don’t ever let my frustration get the better of me. I’m the steady one. The reliable one. The guy who doesn’t unravel. So why does it feel as though I’m coming apart at the seams over the one name I haven’t said out loud in three years? Three years. Long enough that I thought I’d buried it. Apparently not deeply enough.
She’s the reason so many teams passed on me in the draft, picked up other players who weren’t nearly as good as me. So why am I surprised that when she comes back into my world, my focus is shit? Penelope’s not to blame, but my chest tightens as I remember the way it felt to watch my name slide down the board. I remember swallowing my pride, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending she didn’t matter.
I got good at that. I’m still doing it.
I go to the dugout, away from prying eyes, and throw my mitt against the wall. The crack echoes off the concrete, and I stand there, chest heaving, hating myself for feeling like I need something to hit. I am not this guy. Except lately, I keep having to remind myself of that.
“Another shit day?” Foster walks out of the locker room and into the dugout.
The sight of my twin brother still hits me sometimes—the strange, quiet miracle that we ended up on the same team, in the same city, as if the universe decided to give us one more shot at getting it right.
“Shouldn’t you be in the bullpen?” I throw myself on the bench, acting like a fucking baby instead of the grown adult I am. I might as well just spiral all the way down to the center of the earth.
“I’m on my way.” He studies me for a beat, then looks out onto the field. “Harkins getting to you?”
