Page 30 of Unleashed

I notice more of the team has closed in, watching us like a person falling into the lions’ den at the zoo. I can’t help but argue, “You begged for more, Garrison!”

Betsy spouts, “Oh, my God. Are you sleeping together?”

The interruption and the question insinuate Simone and I were more than we pretended to be. Although it’s true, it chaps my ass. Simone scoffs. “Never in his wildest fantasies.”

I retort, “Or her convoluted nightmares.”

Sylvie turns to Hadley. “Well, that’s oddly specific.”

Throwing up her hands, Betsy screeches, “Why is he still calling you Garrison? I thought you changed your last name to Simpson? What the hell do we call you?”

Simone frowns at the office creep and deadpans, “Simone.”

“Is there a problem here?”

Wilders stabs me with his brown eyes, again out of hiding from his obnoxious shades.

With a gasp, Patrice puts her hand to her chest as if to clutch invisible pearls. “Hadley’s ex-husband is shacking up with the new girl.”

Simone rolls her eyes and makes a face at her brother. “I told you I wanted to work with anyone else.”

Wilder inhales between his teeth like he’s reconsidering her plea. Until he laughs. Not the ha-ha kind, but the I’m-about-to-stab-you-dead kind. “And I said no. Period. Suit up.” He then looks at me. “You’re pitching first.”

I toss the softball onto the ball bag, which rolls onto the ground. “Nope. Taking a piss break. Crick is all yours.”

As I stomp past Wilder, he says, “You’re not getting out of this, Rodwell. You do this now or later. It’s up to you.”

Simone gripes, “I don’t want to stay after practice, for shit’s sake.”

I stop next to Patrice, who says, “Sim One has a potty mouth.”

I snort. “She only goes by Sim One on the porn sites.”

Val sighs. “For pity’s sake, Gregory.” I need a break from this, or Val will force Simone and me into goddamn counseling, with both of my parents leading the sessions.

I smile at Val but then roll my eyes at Wilder. “Whatever.” I snatch the ball from the ground and mope to the pitcher’s mound. While he pulls aside three people to bat, Simone takes her sweet time putting on the catcher’s gear. When she tries on a third catcher’s chest guard, I gripe, “This isn’t a Victoria’s Secret fashion show, Garrison!” But son of a bitch, I wouldn’t complain if she stripped naked and laid across home plate. I’d hang that on a ceiling and ruin it in two days.

From first base, Betsy squawks, “Why are you so mean to Simone, Greg?” I swear to God, if she annunciates my name like that again, her headless body will end up on the side of a road like Cousin Eli’s, whose head they later found in a Salvation Army donation bin.

Simone says, “Maybe it’s because he’s overcompensating.”

I frown at Simone, who laughs but glances at my crotch, knowing what I’m packing. She licks her lip and pretends to adjust her helmet before putting it on. I glance at Betsy to shake the electricity buzzing through my groin. Problem solved.

Crick steps up to the plate and practices a couple of swings. When both Simone and Crick are ready, my first pitch is a little on the outside. Damn it. Simone throws it back in a huff.

The next pitch is high. Crick smiles at me because he’s an upstanding dude, while Simone cheers me on. “Air ball.”

I snap, “Wrong sport.”

From the sideline, Tesco scolds, “That’s enough, Rodwell.” Of course, it’s only me causing problems.

I ignore him. “Maybe if you stop fidgeting and distracting me, I’d be able to concentrate, Garrison.”

From behind her mask, Simone glares at me. “Then try harder, Rod.”

Tesco again chides, “Pitch the ball this year.” Bite a landmine.

Just for that, I take more time to toss the ball into the air and catch it without looking. It entertains Crick, but Simone gawks at me.

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