As we reach the infield, we both come to a stop. Jace turns toward me, his lips pressed into a flat line, his eyes wandering awkwardly, waiting for my next move. I take the ball from my glove and spin it in my hand. "I'll figure it out," I say, smirking. "I always do. Now, stop trying to distract me from getting this done."
Jace huffs out a laugh and grins. "You're sure in a hurry to train your replacement, huh?"
I lick my lips and stare at him blankly. "I'm anxious to make sure you don't ruin what I've built."
"Montgomery, I've got this. You act like because I'm on two that I don't know anything about short."
Scoffing, I adjust my hat, lifting it and settling it back down on the top of my head. "Yeah, sure. That's like saying being a man means you understand women."
He reaches into my glove and takes the ball sitting in it. "Oh… I understand women."
I grab it back. "Would they agree with that?"
Holloway bites his bottom lip, smothering a smile. "Don't give me shit, old man." I ignore the running joke he's had going lately—we both know this old man can give any one of these guys a run for their money. "In all the time I've known you—shit, in all the time I've followed your career even—I don't think I've ever heard mention of a chick in your life."
I scoff.Chick.
Walking backward, I look to the sky as I put space between us. "I've got one girl who means everything to me, and that's more than enough."
He catches the ball I lob at him. "Your daughter doesn't count," he argues, tossing it back.
I catch it and nod toward Mack, our infield coach and one of my closest friends. "You're more wrong about that than the pivot I saw earlier."
"What?" he asks, squaring up. "What was wrong with my pivot?"
"You're too tight. You gotta dance with the ball, not fight with it."
Jace tips his chin down at me and raises a brow. "You tango, Two-Three?"
"Only in your dreams, Rook."
Mack reaches us, laughing behind the fungo bat. "He's right, kid," he says. "You look like a robot out here."
"Oh, come on," Jace groans. "I do not."
A short laugh escapes my lips. "You definitely do."
Mack draws both of our attention when he jerks his elbows up and puts his arms in L shapes. He moves them in short, rigid movements. "I'm. Hollow. Way," he says in his best robot voice. "I'm. A. Stud. But. Can't. Move. My. Feet."
Jace runs his hand over his freshly shaped cut and bites his cheek. "You guys think you're funny."
"And you think you're perfect," Mack says, stepping closer. "Which isn't the worst thing in this spot—confidence helps." He tips his hat toward me.
"Right, but this has to be as natural as breathing."
Mack smirks. "Or scratching your balls in the morning."
I look at him side-eyed as a silence falls between all of us. "You're a poet, Mack."
He winks, and I turn back to Jace. "You just need more reps."
"Alright," he says, still smiling at our coach's comment. "I guess it's time to show off my dance moves."
Mack raises a brow in my direction, then jogs backward. I stand to the side as he chops a grounder between us. Jace charges, fields it off the bounce, then rips it to first, more smoothly than he did earlier.
"Again," I say before he can open his mouth.
Our coach rolls another his way, and Jace moves with it, scooping it and sending it quickly—cleaner, crisper.
