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For anyone waiting for the one who got away.
The oval cracked between my teeth, releasing another burst of ranch. I swallowed the seed, then huffed a breath out, shooting the sunflower seed shell at my teammate.
Christian Damiano, our star pitcher, jumped up off the bench, swatting wildly at his arm where the shell hit. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What’s the matter? Afraid of a few germs, Dragon?” I teased the germophobe.
“Do you know how many strains of bacteria live in human salvia? It’s disgusting.” Damiano glared. He swore his nickname, Dragon, was because of his ability to throw the heat, but it had a whole lot more to do with his hostile personality. Only one person escaped his piss-poor moods.
“Funny how it’s not an issue when it’s Avery.” I took every opportunity I could to razz him about his girlfriend. He had no issue with her drinking out of his cup or stealing his fork. Not to mention he was perfectly fine swapping saliva with her.
He lowered his chin a fraction, his jaw locking in a way that made his temple pulse. “Avery’s perfect. She doesn’t have germs.”
“That’s good, because she didn’t wash her hands after she had Puff out earlier.” Emerson Knight, our third baseman and Damiano’s roommate, piped up. Puff was Avery’s pet Northern Atlantic Puffin.
Damiano whipped his head around and set that glower on Emerson. “Puff is the cleanest bird ever.”
The slight uncertainty that flitted across Damiano’s face made me chuckle. The guy was so easy to mess with. Grumpy and paranoid made for the perfect combo.
“And she drank right out of the OJ bottle yesterday morning.” Knight’s smile was huge as he continued to taunt our pitcher.
“Stop fucking with me. You’re all just jealous that I’m getting constant—” The words died on Damiano’s tongue as he darted a look at our head coach, Tom Wilson. “That my girlfriend is perfect.”
Wilson shook his head and snorted. “Sit the hell down and stop being an asshole, Damiano.”
Those two had the weirdest relationship in the history of the Boston Revs. A year ago, they hated each other, but now, the relationship swung between coach, friend, and exasperated parent and his child. It made sense, though, since Avery was Coach Wilson’s only child.
“I hate you both,” he muttered as he dropped back onto the bench next to me. “Spit on me again, Humpty, and I swear I’ll get Avery to put tiger shit in your locker.”
“Always making Avery do your dirty work.” Right fielder Kyle Bosco chuckled. As he leaned forward on the other side of Damiano, the stadium lights shone on the highlights in his hair. We’d all bet on whether they were natural, but he wouldn’t confirm.
“She won’t mind. Especially after I pay her back repeatedly with my tongue.” He lifted his fist to Bosco.
Coach fisted his hands on his hips and snapped, “Damiano.”
The pitcher dropped his hand and winced.
“Love your daughter,” he said, chin tipped high. “Like I said, she’s perfect.”
Wilson shook his head. “That’s never what I question when it comes to your relationship with her.”
All the guys within earshot laughed. Damn, I loved this team. And this was going to be our year.
The Revs owner and management had spent the last couple of years building a team that would finally bring home a world series title for Boston.
I’d had my doubts about the team three years ago when I was picked up as a free agent. I’d spent most of my life on the West Coast and wasn’t all that excited about relocating to a cold-ass city like Boston. A city whose hockey team was dominating but who couldn’t win a baseball game for shit.
I scanned the bench, taking in each of the guys. Now, though, I loved being here. And I wouldn’t ever want to leave.
I couldn’t even be upset when our shortstop went down swinging, leaving a guy stranded on second because we were already leading three to one. We only needed three more outs to put yet another Revs win in the books. And we’d be that much closer to the top of the division.
Glove in hand, I headed out to center field. Boston Harbor was just beyond the wall behind me, and when the wind blew, it brought the smell of salt air with it. The light breeze cut the heat and humidity that could be more than a little oppressive in June. Its proximity to the water was one of the many reasons Lang Field—yes, the Langfields had really named this place Lang Field—was considered one of the best stadiums in the country.
Made sense that the Langfields would have the best. From my place at center field, I surveyed the owner’s box. Like a king overlooking his kingdom, Beckett Langfield stood with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring down at the field. Just behind him, towering over him the way he towered over everyone, was Cortney Miller, the team’s general manager. If the game was at Lang Field, both men would be here sporting their pinstripe Revs jerseys.
At the clap that echoed across the field of green, I snapped back into the moment, zeroing in on the plate. I didn’t need to see the future to know that a ball was headed for the outfield wall. The telltale crack of the leather against wood said it all. With a man already on first base, this could be the go-ahead run.
Not going to happen.
