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Hagan
The guysthat played summer ball are back. This is the first year I didn’t play in the summertime. The off-campus staff decides to scrimmage. This is how we can voluntarily practice together in the off-season—by using facility and coaching personnel not connected to the university. Of course, they know and follow the college baseball team and communicate with the staff.
The baseball organization we’re practicing with is called Top-Tier Baseball. It’s voluntary but guys want to advance their skills in hopes of making it to the big leagues. They divide the players into red and white teams, which is the color of their eighteen and under teams.
Of course, Chaz is on red and I’m on white, playing the same position. He gives me a threatening grin with his jaw clenched.
In the last few days, I’ve tried handing him a drink or throwing him a towel when he needed it, but he’s iced me out for whatever reason. His entourage follows him around like he’s the MLB MVP. But I actually know the league’s most valuable player—and he’d be appalled if he saw this dickwad abusing the role the coaches gave him. Wilson Shepherd plays for my dad on the Chicago Kodiaks and he’s disciplined, leading by example. For example, Tackett was the youngest guy on the team, and Wilson took him under his wing instead of yelling and demanding allegiance.
Both red and white are even skill wise, as far as I can tell. I just met some of these guys. Chaz yells as the redshirts take the field. “Let’s see why the transfer is here. Does he have a bat? Or is it because his girlfriend broke up with him, and he was so upset he had to change teams? Watch out, Danke. I’ve heard you and the transfer have been spending a lot of time together.”
I roll my eyes as I walk up to the plate. This putz wants drama. I’ll give him drama. I visualize hitting this guy with my fist, but instead, I think about what Archer would say. “Baseball is about you. No one else. You have the power to hit the ball and make the plays, every single time.”
I grip my bat while looking up at the barrel. Give it two rotations and step into the batter’s box.
The pitcher’s cold stare holds me in place for strike one. Then Chaz goads me about my bedroom skills. I swing—strike two. Stepping out of the box, I look to the third-base coach for his signals. The leadoff batter’s job is to get on base. My stats on the other team were astronomical. Granted, SEC baseball is a step up from my former college. But I understand Chaz’s point that no one comes in and takes a fifth-year senior’s spot.
I’m not going to take his position on the field because of my name. If I take it, it’s because I earned it. I dig my foot into the red dirt and watch the ball into the glove for ball one. The count is two strikes and one ball. Everyone knows if it’s close to the strike zone, I’m swinging. Lead off batters don’t like to stay in the box too long. It makes us antsy. The pitch comes in on fire—a fastball low and a bit inside, my favorite fucking pitch.
I load up and make the perfect step and swing into the spinning orb, sending it flying over the centerfield wall. When I pass from second base to third, I say, “Winner of the longest home run buys the beer.”
The guys on my team run to home plate, meeting me with congratulatory fist and chest bumps. We do it in style. If my time around the Kodiaks and Sharks taught me anything it’s to give the crowd a show. This may be a scrimmage, but the few maintenance men deserve a good time, nonetheless. If I can’t join Chaz, I’ll beat him. End of discussion.
Chaz was two-for-three with a double and single and one error on the field. Joe’s keeping track because he’s never clicked with Chaz. I went three-for-four with two home runs. I’m not normally a home run hitter, but Baker had scorching speed today, and if you made contact, it was going to the outfield. Luckily, I had the extra umph in my swing today.
Several guys from the baseball house come up to me, making sure I’m coming to the party tonight. “The baseball house. We’re cooking out about seven, then we’ll play some volleyball, and then party!” one of my teammate’s shouts.
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
Chaz looks back and says, “See you there.” I swear he has the voice changer from Darth Vader’s mask.
A smile tears across my face because I’ll beat him at any game he wants to play. I keep hoping that he’ll come out and tell me what his problem is. If I unknowingly did anything to embarrass him or whatever, I’ll apologize and put this wedge between us to rest. If he’s not willing, there’s nothing I can do.
“Can’t wait. You owe me a beer.”
ChapterFive
Adalee
“Come on,Adalee. It’s summer and this party is going to be filled with Thor duplicates. Not just baseball players but football players, too. It’s the last party before school starts. Besides, you can’t let Chaz win.” Ginger pleads with me, giving me her best pouty face.
Every weekend, she begs me to go to parties with her. There’s a new guy on campus, and he’s making a name for himself. “You should hear the girls,” Ginger says. “He’s so charming. He’s hot.”
Summertime is coming to an end, and students are moving back into off-campus housing, so this party will bebigby summer standards. There’s not much going on to talk about, no sports, no classes, so one new—supposedly hot—guy, is big news.
I nod my head, roll my eyes, and say, “Fine. But don’t expect me to stay long.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Ginger pushes me into my room giggling. “Now let’s find you a come get me outfit.”
Pushing her away from my walk-in closet, I protest, “Not a chance in hell am I going to look like a bimbo. Where’s the party?”
“The baseball house. You know they call it the home run house.” Ginger’s eyes sparkle.
I mumble under my breath, “Aren’t they clever?” Chaz and I didn’t hang out there very often because we dated during our athletic season.
Decisions, decisions. I tug on some skimpy orange shorts, but I pair it with a white flowy tank that shows about an inch of my midriff. I pull my long dark hair into a side ponytail and let it cascade over my shoulder. After a little mascara and lip gloss, I slip the boot on my injury and we’re out the door.
The front lawn is littered with guys in athletic gear, their shirts stretching across their muscled chests. Maybe Ginger’s right…I should come to parties more often. There are plenty of girls here with one inch and you’re in dresses. The flowy ones are cute, but the spandex dresses leave nothing to the imagination.
