Page 1

CHAPTER 1

AUSTIN

I hate Philadelphia.

I hate the weather, I don’t like cheesesteaks, and I don’t understand what the big deal is with water ice.

I hate that I was traded to the fucking Bad News Bears, where I’ll waste the last few good years I have left with my arm.

I hate that I was so close to winning the pennant and going to the World Series, and my brother ruined it all.

My career and my life.

When I first moved here, I was greeted by Malcolm King, my new “personal assistant” sent by the higher-ups at Rosenstein & Hill, the public relations firm that works with the most high-profile athletes in the city. Apparently, my reputation precedes me, and the Thunder thought I needed a babysitter.

Or, at the very least, someone to keep my temper in check.

Breaking my brother’s nose and all but starting a riot in the middle of a game isn’t something I’m proud of, but banishing me to this hoagie hellhole is beyond punishment.

It’s torture.

The traffic is a mess, alcohol is sold at something called a state store, and I’d give up a kidney if I could find decent barbecue anywhere in this godforsaken city.

It’s not only that the Philadelphia Thunder suck and the team hasn’t made it to the play-offs since before I was born, but they make every player participate in community outreach programs, including this clinic being put on today for the Future Baseball Stars of America or some shit.

We’ll be working with little leaguers, teaching them skills, and giving advice. What I’d like to say?

Run.

Run far away as fast as you can before every last bit of joy you’ve ever gotten from this game is sucked from your fingertips.

But I can’t.

Because Malcolm King has once again cornered me on my way to the field. It’s no surprise he’s here, popping up when I least expect it, apparently given complete access to the complex, so he can keep me and whoever else is on his babysitter list under supervision.

“Austin Ashwood,” he says with a clipped smile. Unlike near everyone I meet, Malcolm doesn’t give a shit about who I am or what my reputation is. He doesn’t avoid eye contact, nor does he seem uncomfortable, even though I practically tower over him.

As usual, he’s dressed in a bespoke suit, his fade is perfectly trimmed, his unlined brown skin giving no hints to how old he is. Though he does give the impression of being an impatient old man in a young man’s body.

“King,” I grunt in acknowledgment.

“How are you?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

“Lovely,” he deadpans then gestures toward the field. “I’m here to remind you of the rules, the first of which is to watch your mouth.”

I roll my eyes.

“The Thunder are a family-oriented program, you know that.”

I huff.

“So you need to act as if you like families.”

I scoff, raking a hand through my hair. If he only knew. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on my best fucking beha⁠—”

His glare stops me mid-sentence, and I have to give it to him, he doesn’t back down. I respect that.