“Shhh,” I hiss. “Let’s not broadcast that, alright? If anyone asks, it was a terrible accident, and I most certainly did not smile as I managed to stretch a single into a triple because I broke his balls.”
Jake cackles. “And he still had the audacity to show up at her hotel room last night? What a loser. How did he find out what room she was in?”
“I have no idea. I assume Coach will look into it.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard him shouting. You mighthave broken his balls, but they apparently were balls of steel. He literally thought he could strut right down to her room, and none of us would know.”
I shrug. “I don’t know what he knew. He may have thought we were on a different floor, or that we’d switched hotels or something. He’s a dumbass and a major tool.”
“Hey,” Dante Russo says as he walks up to us. “Layla okay?”
“Why?” I snap.
He throws his hands up in defense. “Just asking. Seems like the two of you are close. Did you stay with her last night? How’s she doing today?”
Jackson Archer and Ryder Sullivan approach, and Ryder speaks up. “Yeah. We were wondering if maybe we should take turns sleeping outside her door or something.”
I lower my voice. “I stayed with her last night. She’s a little freaked out, but not hysterical or anything. Dude’s an asshole. I walked up on him with his hand around her neck before the game yesterday.”
“Jesus,” Dante breathes. “So which one of us gets to fuck him up today?”
Surprised, I turn to him. “You’re ready to go on the offensive? Just from what I’ve said?”
He shrugs. “He fucked with one of our own. That’s what families are for.”
Jake slings an arm around my shoulders. “Bridge Point isn’t the only family-centered team, asshole. If you give us a chance, you’ll see we’re pretty awesome too.”
I chuckle. “I told Layla that. Seems like she’s had the short end of the stick in the League, and I said it seemed like the Raptors were a stand-up team. From the conversation with Coach last night, I’m even more convinced she’s going to get the support she should have gotten years ago.”
“So this is a recurring theme with Morales?” Dante asks, and I nod. “He’s a piece of work. Always chirping shit from the field. Ihave no problem teaching him a lesson. Seems like he needs to be tripped if he makes it on base.”
Dante is a third baseman, so tripping Morales could potentially keep the jackass from scoring. “Remember to keep it somewhat clean, so the umps don’t assume it was intentional.”
Dante scoffs. “You think this is the first time I’ve tripped someone? Please.”
A few hours later, I’m close to charging across the field because Morales will not shut up. He’s taunting us at bat, on base, and even from the bench. The Houston coach has had to reprimand him multiple times, and I’ve run out of patience.
“I’ll take the suspension,” I murmur to Coach. “Let me go get one punch in.”
“No.”
“Come on. Why not?” I whine, throwing my hands up in frustration. “He’s an asshole, and he needs to be pushed down a peg or four.”
Coach turns to me, leaning in so I’m the only one who hears his response. “Because it’ll be way too clear that you’ve got a thing for our nutritionist, and that won’t fly with management or the owners. I’m trying to protect you, Callahan. Take some deep breaths, and try to control your temper.”
“I don’t have a thing for her,” I say defensively, and he raises an eyebrow at me. “What? I don’t.”
He laughs humorlessly. “You have no poker face. I’m surprised you didn’t bust out into the hallway last night to stake your claim.”
“Whatever,” I mutter. Coach is full of shit. It can’t be that obvious that I have a thing for Layla, right? I mean, I told her I’m a bad liar, but that’s mostly about how I lie, not about how I lookwhen I lie. You’re telling me everyone knows when I lie just because of my face? Fan-fucking-tastic.
At the bottom of the ninth, there are two outs, and we’re up by one. Morales is at the plate. I find myself wondering if Layla is watching the game, and I almost miss a high fly ball that drops between me and first base. Morales laughs as he rounds first base, and when I reach the ball, he’s almost at second. I launch it to Dante at third, then watch gleefully as he tags Morales out, but somehow their cleats get tied up. Morales seems to fall in slow motion as Dante tries to jump to avoid him and kicks one of Morales’s feet in the process. Morales slams down into the splits and howls in pain.
If it were anyone else, I’d feel bad. But there isn’t one ounce of remorse in my body as I jog past him to our bench, high-fiving all of my teammates. Sometimes karma is a friend, not a foe.
“I see we’re finally understanding the team dynamic here,” Coach murmurs as I pass him with a fist bump. “Let’s try not to break any of his bones tomorrow night, alright? It’ll be a little too obvious he’s being targeted.”
“I make no promises,” I say cheerfully, skipping down the hall to the visitor’s locker room. Jake gives me a fist bump as I enter, then hands me the Raptor hat we present to a new player each game. I got it last night for my line drive into Morales. “Clearly gotta give this to Russo for getting all tied up at the end!”
