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CHAPTER ONE
The rhythmic thump, thump, thump of my feet against the belt of the treadmill is muted by the music blaring in my ears, helping to set my harsh pace. My body is drenched in sweat, and my shirt is soaked from the rigorous workout. Sweat drips down my face as the muscles in my arms, chest, and legs burn from exertion.
It won’t be long now before practice starts, so having my body in top physical condition is imperative. This ismyyear. Scouts from various major league teams will be watching me. And I can’t fuck up my chances at the majors.
If all goes well, I will be able to skip my senior year at Groveton College and slide—no pun intended—right into Major League Baseball. Ideally, signing with one of the Texas teams is my goal, allowing me to stay in my home state.
My phone rings, cutting out the music and my aspirations of greatness. Checking the phone strapped to my arm shows the coach’s office calling. Quickly stopping the treadmill, catching myself on the handrails as all movement halts, my brows furrow in confusion, and I swipe my finger across the screen to answer after struggling to remove it from the case.
“Hello.”
“Adams, mandatory meeting in my office, three o’clock today.”
The call ends as abruptly as it started. Coach Pollard’s harsh voice has a distinctive rasp to it, leaving no doubt who just spoke.
Checking the clock, I have two hours before the impromptu meeting. Deciding to end my workout, I start back to the frat house after wiping down the equipment.
I, along with many on the baseball team, belong to the Kappa Nu fraternity. The entire house is comprised of athletes. Thankful to have become a full-fledged member my freshman year, I wasn’t forced to live in the dorms my sophomore year.
Taking the steps leading to the front door two at a time, the smell of stale beer hits my nose as soon as I pull the door open.
A week before classes start, and the place is already a wreck. Empty beer cans and boxes with half-eaten pizzas are strewn about the place. Picking my way through the debris, I head toward the back of the house to the kitchen.
A few guys are playing foosball and shooting pool, money exchanging hands among the audience. Many of the guys greet me as I move through the first floor, whether it be a simple hello, chin lift, handshake, or pat on the back.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I quickly chug it before grabbing an extra one to take up to my room with me.
Opening the door, Zanko is passed out, snoring loudly. A semi-naked girl is lying across his chest. Doing my best to ignore the pair, I head to the shower, change of clothes in hand. My mind starts to spin, wondering what this meeting with Coach is about.
My walk to Jackal Field takes longer than expected. Various students stop me to say hello, chat about the holiday break, get an invite to the next party, or simply be seen on campus talking to me. Making excuses to get out of several encounters, I jog the rest of the way since I am already late.
Stepping inside the building, the warm rush of air makes me shiver against the cold outdoors. Making my way through the labyrinth of hallways in the administration section of the field, I head toward Coach’s office. My tennis shoes squeak on the linoleum as I walk.
Standing at Coach’s closed door, I rap twice on the frame with my knuckles. Some of my teammates have learned the hard way, that you don’t just walk in, even if you are expected.
“Come,” the voice behind the door says.
As I open the door, my gaze lands on Coach, seated behind his desk, arms crossed over his barreled chest. Taking in the rest of the room, my steps falter, and my eyes widen. My father occupies one of the two chairs opposite Coach Pollard’s desk.
“Well…”
The sharp statement from my father has my spine stiffening. Darting my gaze between the two men, my movements are hesitant. Whatever has brought my father here cannot be good.
Lowering myself into the empty chair in front of Coach’s desk, my father’s causal posture has me on edge, knowing how deceptive his facade can be. Trying not to let his presence affect me, my focus stays on Coach Pollard.
“You…a…wanted to see me, Coach?” My voice stutters a bit, my nerves getting the better of me.
“Brock, I’m going to get to the point, son. Your grades last semester sucked. You need to get your head out of your ass.” Coach sighs heavily, slumping back into his chair before dealing the ultimate blow. “The administration has placed you on academic probation. If your grades don’t improve to at least a C-average, you won’t play ball this season.”
“What?” I start to rise from the chair before my father’s hand slams down on my shoulder, pushing me back down.
“You heard me,” the coach’s tone is flat as if this conversation is now boring him.
“They can’t do this,” I say in outrage. “What about my shot at the majors?” My volume is loud. No doubt anyone in the hall is able to hear me. “If I don’t play, the scouts aren’t going to look at me. I’ll be fucked!”
Coach is unfazed by my language and outburst. My father, on the other hand, is not. A hard slap to the back of the head, causing me to jolt forward, reinforces that fact. It’s been his only response or contribution to the conversation thus far.
“Your father is taking care of getting you help. Just remember, it’s up to you as to whether you play or not this year,” Pollard says with zero sympathy for my situation. “Meeting over—now get out. This is the only warning you get, Brock.”
