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“What thefuckis going on back here?”
Bodies start getting yanked up the aisle, and the crowd of men thins out. Brock and Zanko remain on their feet, tension radiating from their bodies. I must have whimpered due to the pain, as all attention focuses on me, the silence oppressive.
“Iasked, what thefuckis going on back here?” the man asks again. No one says a word, but everyone jumps as his voice gets impossibly louder. “How in thefuckdid she get hurt?”
Brock drops to his seat, placing his finger under my chin and lifting it. His breath hitches when his eyes land on the bruise I can feel forming on my cheek. Keeping my gaze diverted, I losecontrol over my emotions, and the tears I had been holding back fall, streaking down my chin.
“Son of a bitch, we aren’t on the road for ten fucking minutes, and you guys are acting like toddlers.” The man stomps toward the front of the bus before returning almost immediately.
A loud snap sounds before someone presses something cold against my cheek. At first, I recoil from it, not looking up to see what is happening.
Brock coos in my ear, whispering words that are supposed to be soothing.
“When we get stopped, there is going to be a meeting. If someone doesn’t confess to what the hell happened here today, every single one of you on this bus is going to regret it. Punishment is coming. Especially when I find out who hit the girl.”
The man stands in place expectantly, but no one says a word. After several tense moments, the man gives up. “Suit yourselves,” he says before walking away.
“Fucking assholes,” Brock mutters.
Forgetting all about studying, Zanko gets our stuff put away as Brock tends to the bruise on my face.
The rest of the bus ride is uneventful, while the tension in the air is thick. Instead of the muted chatter that was present before the fight, oppressive silence takes its place. We stop long enough for everyone to use the restroom, grab some lunch, and the buses to refuel. During the stop, all the polo-wearing men gather together. Several heavy glares are sentin my direction, which I do my best to ignore. Brock and Zanko tell me that they will grab lunch for me.
Beating the guys back to the bus, I pretty much run down the aisle to avoid any issues. Tucking myself into the seat Brock was originally in, I slump down, hiding from view. Tears pool in my eyes again at the conversation swirling around me as the speakers must not realize I am already on the bus.
“What is with Adams and this chick? He has never been one to keep a woman to himself. Why start now? She isn’t even that hot,” the guy says, earning murmurs of agreement in response. The voice sounds familiar, possibly the one that started the fight in the first place.
Remaining out of sight, more conversation swirls around me about the fight, my place on the bus, my relationship with Brock, and more. Each question sparks more tears. Their questions stop suddenly, and Brock’s voice tells me that his presence is the reason. That older voice barks out, easily carrying over the group.
“Brock, where the fuck is your tutor? She’s the only one missing. We can’t leave until her ass is in her seat.”
My face flames at his words, knowing that as soon as I reveal myself, the guys around me will know that I heard them speaking. At the same time, I can’t continue to hide here, delaying their arrival for the game. Taking a deep breath, I rise to my feet. Several outraged statements sound around me, knowing that I heard them all speaking.
“Oh, there you are,” the man near Brock says. My eyes are locked with Brock’s as he and Zanko move past the coach toward me. The bus lurches forcing Brock and Zanko to grab the back of a seat to steady themselves.
Both of them give me side looks as they pull lunch out of the bags they are carrying. My appetite has gone by the wayside, buthaving skipped breakfast and not knowing when dinner is going to be, I force myself to eat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Something happened during our brief pitstop earlier. Kassidy had been hiding, and the guys around us looked like they got caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. Unfortunately, it is going to be a while before I will be able to get it out of her.
Pushing the eventful bus ride to the back of my mind, I start to focus on the game.
The bus pulled into the field about an hour ago. We unloaded and headed to the locker room. One of the coaches took Kassidy to another part of the field, sending us in opposite directions.
Going through my pregame rituals, Coach Pollard’s voice silences the room. “Listen up,” he pauses, making sure he has everyone’s undivided attention. “I am not sure what happened earlier today. Be warned, when the game is over, I am going to get to the bottom of it. That being said, I want you to do your best, pay attention to what is going on around you, and, above all, communicate. Don’t try and play the hero and do everything yourself.”
Coach finishes his speech, and we all rise to our feet, following him to the dugout.
Setting my glove on the bench, we take the field, lining up along the baseline for opening ceremonies. My eyes scan the mass of people attempting to find Kassidy. Putting my hat back on my head once the vocalist finishes the National Anthem, I follow my teammates back to the dugout.
As the game starts, I mentally run through my pitches, centering myself and preparing to take the mound. Batting toward the bottom of the lineup, it is not likely that I will make it up to bat this inning.
Predictably, we end up with four guys at bat. One was a two-base hit, and the rest were outs. Now it’s my turn. Heaving a big sigh, I grab my glove and head to the mound.
Holy shit!
I am playing the game of my life today with my first no-hitter. Currently, we are winning three to nothing. Coach Pollard has a great poker face, not letting out his thoughts on my performance. While it isn’t just me on the field, the defense starts with me. We are in the seventh inning stretch, and as the home team does some type of antic, the trainers work on keeping my arm warm.
