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Chapter One
DALTON
This is such bullshit.
And I don’t mean arriving at the San Francisco International airport. Nope, I mean my destination—Baytown, California. But I can’t let my frustration show through. I’m about to meet my summer league coach, and you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be sporting the widest grin possible. I’ll own that first impression like a novice gymnast sticking a perfect landing. The coach won’t know what hit him.
At least, that’s the plan.
Stepping up to the baggage carousel, I silently curse the baseball-powers-that-be for sending me here in the first place. I ended the regular season with a .352 batting average, twelve home runs, eighty-two hits, and fifty-five runs batted in. And what accolades do I receive for these accomplishments—none, other than punishment.
I’m not amused.
Obviously, the fallout from not getting drafted still stings. Couple that with Dad’s echoing words that my dream will never materialize, and annoyance doesn’t come close to describing how I feel.
I’m fucking pissed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket right as the conveyor belt kicks to life. With plenty of time left before my luggage arrives, I pull it out and smile at the name, Noah Geren, sprawled across the screen. Noah is one of three former teammates-slash-roommates. I couldn’t have asked for a better group of guys to share these last two years with—the fact they won’t be at school when I return sucks. Especially since I haven’t exactly made friends with any other teammates.
Noah:Whatever you do, don’t fuck up. You’re welcome.
A self-deprecating laugh escapes, but I take note of his sound advice. Messing up isn’t an option. Not now. Not when it’s the summer before my last year of college. They redshirted me my freshman year, so technically, I could tack on another academic year, but funding would be an issue. Unlike my former roommates, my funds aren’t unlimited, and the baseball scholarship only covers so much. I’ve accrued a shit ton of student debt, and it won’t disappear on its own. Ineedthis upcoming year to work out for me.
Me:Stellar words of wisdom.
I spin Gramp’s ring on my finger as I wait for a reply.
Noah:Seriously, good luck. The guy may be a hardass, but he’s a good coach. Whatever you do, don’t get on his bad side.
Don’t get on his bad side, I repeat the words to myself. That may be an impossible task, consideringThe Guyis also my host. Yep, my life-long dream to live with the head coach has now been fulfilled.
Whoever coined the phrase “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade?” is a fucking dick.
I grind my teeth, watching the baggage carousel spit out every piece of luggage but mine. Am I being cynical? Maybe. But my entire life has been nothing but rotten lemons. Unless some vodka spills into that shit, I’ll have a tough time enjoying it.
Northern California isn’t where I want to be. My ass should be training with either a single- or double-A baseball team—not stuck in some Podunk town getting an attitude adjustment.
That’s therealreason I’m here.
Not to improve my game. To improve my attitude.
And I only have myself to blame.
Because here’s the kicker—Cessna University wasn’t my first choice. I turned down my dream college with a full ride to become a Wildcat. Andwhywould I do such a thing?
That’s easy to answer.
I didn’t want to live my life in constantwhat-ifs. No regrets, no remorse has been my motto my entire life. This time, it may have gotten me in trouble. Or maybe it was my dick. Blame him for turning down my top-choice school to chase a ghost. Or better yet, blame temporary insanity. Either way, it was a matter of being stupid.
But honestly, I thought the ghost I followed wasthe one. The girl I would spend my happily ever after with, or whatever bullshit thought went through my head at the time.
How fucking stupid was I?
Now, my “what-if moment” is wondering if I would’ve been drafted by now had I attended the other school. I know for sure I wouldn’t be attending the worst summer collegiate league in the program. And I certainly wouldn’t be sentenced to the preacher’s house as if I’m under house arrest.
Oh, did I mention the coach moonlights as a preacher? No?
Well, like I said, “Fuck the person who makes lemonade.”
