Page 25 of Unleashed

“There he is!” Val sings as she meets me for a hug. No matter how I feel about everything else, I’ll always spare a smile and a hug for her. She’s a saint who dances on rainbows and sprinkles fairy dust. If anyone disagrees, then they’re going straight to hell to sit on Satan’s lap.

“It’s about damn time you came back, booze slinger.”

I let go of Val to see her son, Nico Ferrera, grinning at me. I laugh. “What’s up, degenerate wrangler?”

Val shakes her blonde hair and sighs. “Honestly.” Though she rolls her eyes, I know she loves me more than her sons.

Ferrera grabs me into a half-hug, half-shove. “I heard you went off to become a hotshot bartender. They didn’t allow you to talk to friends back in Richmond?” His brown eyes look me up and down like he’s searching for a disability preventing me from at least texting. No infirmities. I’m only a douchebag who shuts out almost everyone. But that’s my well-worn modus operandi, and it keeps me somewhat sane.

“I think you held up fine.” I bet he gets all the pussy he wants but never talks about it.

“Kiss my ass.” He frowns, and it appears genuine. Didn’t expect that.

My shoulders slump, and I feel like shit. “I’m sorry. I wanted to, but I had so much going on.”

“Since my life is a bore,” he sneers.

Stomping over, Betsy swipes at the haystack heaped upon her skull, and the urge to grab a pitchfork engulfs me. Behind Betsy’s ugly mug, I see Crick setting down his glove and water bottle. I wave and say, “Yo, Crock! Thank Gordan Ramsay, you’re here.” From where I stand, I see his face turn bright red as he lifts his hand in a limp wave. I’ve never met someone as shy as him. Not even Rhonda. No worries. He should save his arm for pitching rather than socializing with losers like me.

Betsy continues to gawk at Ferrera and me. My smile at Crick takes a dive when I look back at Betsy. “I’ve been back in Richmond for five minutes. Can you just leave me alone for the next decade?” She’s gotta be close to retirement age or death, even if I need to speed one along.

“That’s rude,” she argues as I watch Shasta sit on a bench with Birdy. I want to see the kid, but I’m in no mood for her mother.

Nico says, “Give me a minute with Rodwell. We have some catching up.”

She shakes her head and wags her finger. “Just remember to call him Greg. He hates for anyone to call him Rod, except for his precious few friends.”

I sneer, “Well, he falls into that category, so bite—”

Nico jerks on my arm, pulling me away from the sorry sack. On the way to the dugout, he says, “She missed you, obviously.”

“I should throat-punch you for that.”

He laughs, tapping his fist on my shoulder. “I’d like to see you try.” He’s got me there.

Nico crosses his arms and squints from the sun, filtering through the chain link in front of us. “Why’d you leave like that? Don’t tell me it was for a job or a break. You left in the middle of the night.”

“Dick’s Sporting Goods was having a sale, but only at the Durham store. Who doesn’t love socks with puppies and ducks? So...”

“Suck one. You could’ve texted me to at least say you were alive.”

“Damn. What did your mom tell you?”

“The usual jackshit. She said you needed to help at your aunt’s bar. But then the funny thing was that Amos took Simone to Durham to do her internship. Isn’t that the weirdest? Did you two run into each other down there?”

I clear my throat and angle my head left and right to search for spies. I then shrug and dig the toe of my Gallianos into the grass. They’re my most expensive shoes, but not brand new. I’d rather wear these than buy cheap Filas. I still have my standards, no matter how poor I get. “You could say that.”

“Hi, Nico. Rod.” I see Audrey grinning at us, looking super chipper for spending a cringeworthy Saturday afternoon and evening later with coworkers.

Nico beams with pride whenever he sees one of his former delinquents on the up-and-up. “What’s going on?”

Audrey giggles, which is out of the norm for her. She smiles a lot, but isn’t the life of anyone’s party.

Nico looks toward the bleachers and grins. “Dylan McGrath is here?”

Her smile is brighter than Wilder’s under a black light. “Yes. He’s never seen us play.”

Nico waves, and I follow his gaze to see a familiar-looking, dirty-blond kid sitting near Shasta. I tip my chin up at him, and he nods in return. His hair is shorter, and his shoulders are a little broader. I laugh and turn to Ferrera. “Oh, yeah. That other juvenile delinquent of yours who did community service with us at Val’s church.”

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