Page 75 of Under Pressure

The group of us lets him know that we’re in before Roman steps into the clubhouse with Wes at his side. I blink twice, making sure I’m seeing things right when our catcher slaps Roman’s back and then wanders over to his cubby like this is just . . . normal. Kellan eyes me curiously, seeming to catch my train of thought.

I shrug a shoulder and turn to our manager when he clears his throat to grab our attention. Everyone in the clubhouse faces him now, waiting.

Roman Shore is a total beast of a guy. He’s not as tall or built as me, but he’s got a scowl that could make the bravest soul piss himself before he’s realized what’s happened. At forty years old, he’s an expert at commanding a room of adrenaline-flooded, confident athletes with little more than a few words and a sharp look. It’s really no surprise that Brielle fell for him.

“Jett, I need to talk to you in my office.”

I fight back the urge to make a dramaticoohingnoise and keep my mouth shut. The moment Roman’s eyes flick to me, I’m grateful I didn’t act like an ass.

“Kordell will be here in a few minutes to speak with you as well, Beck. Stay close.”

I immediately think back to whether I did anything recently that would have pissed off my pitching coach. My mind comes up blank, so I relax.

“You got it, Coach.” I salute.

He stares at me for a beat longer before turning away and leading Jett into his office. Finn is the one who slaps my ass and takes a seat.

“What did you do now?”

“Nothing. I’ve been a good boy.”

Wes snorts. “Right.”

I whirl around and smirk. “Teacher’s pet.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” he boasts.

Kellan stands and stretches his arms above his head. “You’re going to get a ball to the cock later if you’re not careful.”

“It’s cute you think Beck’s aim is that good. He’s just lucky I’m such a good framer,” Wes drawls.

I ignore the urge to whip him upside the head and turn to my cubby instead. Just one more look at my phone is all I need. I’ll send Quinn one more message, and then I’ll be able to focus.

Her last text was short yet still brought a shit-eating grin to my face when I read it the first time. It has the same effect now.

Quinny

No wonder you think you’re so great. I’ve counted thirty-seven Rourke jerseys already and I’m still in the security line.

The fact that she bothered counting, let alone felt the need to text and tell me how many there were, stroked my ego. If it weren’t obvious from last night that things were changingbetween us, the fact that she’s even here at the stadium today would have changed that.

Slowly but surely, she’s warming up to me.

Keep a tally for me, baby. I want to hear the final number later when I’ve got your legs over my shoulders.

28

“So,Rhys Casey is the starting pitcher today because Finn played two games ago. He’s good, but Finn’s the team’s ace. His stats are the best, and usually, Rome will go to the bullpen fewer times when he plays because he can go more innings than the other starters can,” Brielle explains beside me.

I nod, still staring at the hot dog on my lap. It’s overflowing with ketchup, mustard, onions, cheese, and who knows what else. Apparently, this is the only way to eat a stadium dog. My initial decision to only have ketchup was quickly brushed off when Brielle took over dressing it up. Now the thing looks terrifying and completely inedible.

“Beck’s in the bullpen right now along with the other relievers that are feeling rested enough to play today. He’s only played once in the series, so if the team has a close lead, he’ll most likely come out to finish the game. If they’re winning or losing by a lot, Roman won’t bother wasting his arm.”

“That’s my dad!” squeals the little girl between Brielle and Evie, Roman’s niece.

The information overload I’ve had today is making me a bit slow to reply to people. I stare at where the tiny pointer finger is waving at the field. The guy holding the bat in front of the otherteam’s catcher is Jett Ellington. His name is on the screen across the stadium.

Sara, his daughter, is only eight, yet she knows more about baseball than I do. When Brielle isn’t listing off rules or explanations for calls and plays, the little girl fills in the blanks with a mouth full of either cotton candy or popcorn. Her tongue is bright blue from the drink she finished by the end of the first inning. I can still smell the blue raspberry syrup lingering in her empty cup.