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As soon as Brock reaches me, he tucks me into his side, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. Touching each other has become common place. Zanko and a few others make their way to us. There are so many players and people Brock is friends with that keeping their names straight is difficult.
“Did the kid get your bag?” Brock’s voice in my ear causes me to shiver. Focusing on his words, I turn to face him, hands on my hips, breaking our connection.
“That was just mean,” I say loudly.
Brock and Zanko start laughing, bending over at the waist, hands on their knees.
“I guess Callum liked my gift?” Brock says between laughs.
Unable to keep the smile off my face, my voice softens as memories of the kid’s face pop into my head.
“The poor guy probably needed to change his underwear.” My words cause Brock and Zanko to laugh harder, causing others to approach us.
“Fuck,” Zanko barks out between the laughter. “I told you we should have found a way to record it. That is fucking priceless.”
One of the other guys asks about the cause of their laughter. Brock and Zanko try to speak as I simply stare at them.
Brock finally calms down enough to get through the story, causing the other players around us to laugh riotously, Brock and Zanko joining them in their laughter. Several phones sound with notifications, sobering everyone almost immediately. One of the guys, after checking his phone, lets out a sharp whistle, getting everyone’s attention.
“That’s Coach, let’s go,” he shouts, his voice easily carrying over the crowd.
As one, the group starts walking, grabbing backpacks and bags off the ground where they had been discarded. Butterflies fill my stomach. Unease comes over me, unsure what to expect. Brock must sense my tension as he tucks me back into his side. With Brock on my right and Zanko on my left we start the trek to the field for the first of many road trips.
My thoughts swirl as the outside world falls away. Brock assured me that the guys would be okay with my presence. I have heard about superstitions among athletes, supposedly baseball players being the worst among them. The last thing I want to do is throw the guys off their game. A lot is riding on this season. When the question came up about me attending the game, the coach said that he would take care of it.
A squeeze on my shoulder brings me back to the present. Blinking several times to get my bearings, two large buses idle at the curb in front of us. Two men with clipboards stand next to the door of each bus. Brock guides me to the front of the first bus.
“Name?” he asks in a monotone voice.
“Brock Adams and Kassidy Heartwell,” Brock answers for me.
The man makes a note on his clipboard before tossing a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that we should board thebus. Brock leads the way, taking my hand and tugging me along. Zanko follows behind us as we make our way down the aisle. Brock moves until he is at the very back of the bus. The seat sits three, and as Brock takes the seat nearest the window, Zanko takes the seat to my right, keeping me between them.
The chatter on the bus is muted as everyone finds a seat and gets their backpacks tucked away. From what I can see, several of the guys pull out earbuds, reclining their seats and feigning sleep. Time passes slowly as men in polo shirts sporting the school logo step on, do a headcount, and then step back off the bus.
Brock pulls a notebook from his backpack before tucking it under the seat in front of him. I follow suit, hoping that we can get some work done as we travel. Ideally, doing this once we are in our rooms will be more efficient, but we need to take advantage of any spare time we get.
My body lurches forward as the bus sets into motion, pulling away. Brock hands me some papers for me to check. As I am working my way through his work, a deep voice comes from in front of us. Lifting my gaze, there are several guys turned around, staring at us. Two of them are leaning on the seat backs in front of us as others stand in the aisle.
“So Brock, other than class work, does this little tutor teach you other things?” One of the men says, causing embarrassment to heat my cheeks and the group to chuckle at his insinuation. Lowering my head, my hair falls forward, helping to hide my face. I notice that both Brock and Zanko are clutching their hands.
“Do you think she can tutor me? No doubt she can teach me a few things as well,” another voice chimes in, adding to the lewd innuendos.
Voices sound from farther up the bus, but I dare not look to see who is speaking.
“Guys, leave the girl alone. She isn’t here for you to torment.”
“Fuck off, Spinoza, this has nothing to do with you. Or is she tutoring you too?”
“Brock, are you sharing your girl among the starters?” another voice chimes in.
Holding my notebook to my chest, my arms wrap around my body, hoping to hide myself. Tears collect in the corners of my eyes, but I dare not let them fall, giving these guys more ammunition.
“I want to know what she has that Brock here has given up all other pussy,” the first voice sneers, sounding distant as if he is looking toward the driver of the bus instead of facing us. “She must have a golden snatch. I just want my lesson,” his voice trails off as Brock lurches from his seat.
Shouts and yelling can be heard through the bus. My body gets jostled around in the scuffle due to the number of men in such a confined space. Immediately after Brock gets up, Zanko throws himself into the fray as well.
A body comes over the seat, and a fist catches me in the cheek, causing me to cry out. Holding a hand to my face, a deep voice gets louder as heavy footsteps stomp down the aisle.
