Page 30 of Saving The Shortstop

Me? I grew up watching my dad beat the shit out of my mother until I was old enough for him to decide it was time to start beating me. I couldn’t get bigger and stronger because we had no food. So instead, I only became more frail. When he’d leave for days to weeks on end, it would be a relief knowing I was safe from his wrath.

If Tabor thinks he knows anger, he doesn’t. And if he pushes me to a certain point, he’s going to have to find out that once I start punching …

It’s really fucking hard for me to stop.

THIRTEEN

HAVEN

I stand in my ready position at shortstop, and a shiver runs down my spine as Coach hits me a hard grounder. Despite feeling like crap, I track the ball and field it, firing it to first base before I cough a few times. This quickly turns into me having an entire coughing spell—and I remember I just ate my last cough drop.

When I woke up this morning, I felt like absolute trash. But I had a huge assignment due in one class and a test in another, so I couldn’t miss it. Practice was supposed to be this morning, but Coach wanted to keep it outside and it was raining, so she moved it to this afternoon. I knew it would suck. It’s nearing the end of September and it’s cold today, but Coach is determined for us to play outside as long as possible before we move to the indoor facility for the winter.

Normally, I’d prefer being outside. But today, I’m so cold that I’d take anything over this.

Coach continues to stare at me, and even though she’s wearing sunglasses, I’d bet money her eyes are narrowed.

“King,” she finally yells, her voice clearly unimpressed. “Tell me you aren’t sick, coughing and shit all over your hand and then throwing the ball with said hand.”

I bite my lip, cringing. “Um … well.” I pause. “I could use my other hand but … it’s got a glove on it.”

My voice is raspy now, and my throat feels raw. I don’t want to get my teammates sick, but Coach doesn’t like it when her players miss practice—at all. So I assumed my best bet was to stuff my pocket full of cough drops, and I found one last bottle of DayQuil at The Nest from when Isla was sick a few weeks ago, though I feel like that’s wearing off with every waking second.

She sighs, looking down at the dirt and shaking her head.

“Go home, King,” she finally grumbles. “It’s the off season, and we don’t have another scrimmage for weeks. Just … get out of here and stop spreading your nasty germs.”

“Are you⁠—”

“Go!” She cuts me off, waving her hand toward the dugout. “What I don’t need right now is for my entire team to be sick. And with you here, being a super spreader, that’s what’s going to happen.”

I’m bummed. I never miss practice, and even when I’ve had a cold in the past, I’ve powered through and never even let on that I wasn’t feeling good. But today I feel like shit.

Quickly gathering my gear, I head to my car, already eager to be climbing into my bed.

I park in the driveway, and for a few minutes, I just sit here with my eyes shut. My head is beginning to ache, and my body hurts too. A bath sounds nice, but I don’t think I have the energy right now for all that.

Resting my head on the window, I rub my temples. “Good God,” I utter to my empty car. “It’s been a while since I’ve felt this shitty.”

After sitting here for another few minutes, I finally decide it’s time to get my ass out of the car and go inside. But it takes every ounce of strength for me to push open my car door and actually get out, and once I do, I use my ass to shut the door as I break into another coughing spell—which then triggers a bunch of sneezes, sucking every bit of life out of me. And all I can do is just lean against my Jeep, waiting for enough energy to hit for me to make my way inside.

Gathering myself up, I head toward the steps. I move pathetically slow for someone who usually tries to do things lightning fast, but right now, it’s all I’ve got. I know it’s a good thing Coach cut me from practice early because there’s no way in hell I could have hit the ball today to save my life. I would have no doubt embarrassed myself, and I’d prefer not to do that.

When I’m almost to the porch steps, I hear something behind me, but before I can even turn and look, Dallas is standing by my side.

“I’m a few minutes early,” he says in his typical, slightly monotoned voice. “I thought you had morning practice.”

Instantly, it hits me that I’m supposed to be tutoring him. I had scheduled us to work together this afternoon, thinking I had morning practice. And when it got changed, I forgot to tell him. Now, he’s here, ready to work. But even though we’re both here and I want to help him, I know there’s no way I can do it feeling the way I do.

Stopping with one foot on the bottom step, I look at him and sigh.

“I’m so sorry, D. Practice got moved to this afternoon, but then Coach sent me home because I’m sick.” I shiver, my teeth chattering. “Raincheck for tomorrow? I’m sure once I sleep it off, I’ll be fine.”

He looks me over, silently examining me before he frowns. Quickly, he lifts a hand and puts it to my forehead. The movement—like him with my stupid eyelash—catches me off guard. But fatigue keeps my body from reacting or embarrassing myself by sucking in a breath or something crazy.

He keeps his palm to my head for a moment. It feels cool against my flesh, and I wonder if I have a fever coming on.

“Fuck, you’re on fire, Short,” he utters, answering my own question before he walks up the stairs in front of me. “Come on, let’s get you settled in. You need to take some medicine.”