Page 59 of Unleashed

I pace near home plate until Wilder yells, “Good catch, Hadley.” He pulls down his sunglasses and smiles at her. Hadley’s responding grin rivals fucking downtown Richmond at night. Ugh. These two are ridiculous. “Rodwell, two more pitches. Try to hit them past the infield.”

Returning to the plate, I mutter, “Yes, Commandant.” Amos chuckles behind his mask, but I keep a straight face as I channel my anger.

My second solid hit sails into the outfield, near the fence. Val runs after it, but Patrice is invitation-only, apparently. Betsy trots over to Sylvie, covering centerfield in Brandon’s place, and loathes being there. It’s a goner.

Amos says, “Superb job, Greg. Maybe Simone should upset you more often.”

Instead of running the bases, I scowl at Amos. “She didn’t do shit to me.”

Wilder shouts, “What are you doing, Rodwell? Run!”

I toss out my hands, confused. “Is it necessary?”

With his arms crossed, Tesco leans his head back and says something to the sky. From behind his mirrored sunglasses, Wilder is killing me in a thousand ways. I wish he’d hurry and pick one already.

I wait for Rhonda to run home. Crick’s proud grin clashes with Hadley’s unamused frown at shortstop. She doesn’t have any smiles left for me? How shitty.

I leave the field and return my helmet and bat. Simone is on deck to bat next. When I pass her, she mumbles a string of nonsensical obscenities.

Before I can sit down, Wilder shouts, “Crick, come in to bat!” Goddamn it.

I retrieve my Legal Eagles hat and head to the mound. I say, “What’s shaking, Crick?”

“Um, nothing here, except for your slams. Those were outstanding. How do you hit the ball with a slight uppercut?”

I shrug. “It’s all in the wrist, I guess. I don’t think about it.”

His eyes light up. “Those bat flips are magical. I tried that once, and I knocked out three of my younger brother’s teeth.”

I smirk but feel grossly underqualified for his compliments. He’s a million times better at softball or baseball than me. “Thanks, but I only pick up things watching you.” His face reddens, and I say, “Just give me the ball, so maybe I can strike you out.”

He laughs as he plops the ball into my hand and goes to the sideline, where Tesco watches me. I roll my eyes and pop the ball in the air, noticing Amos waiting for me to throw some practice pitches. Don’t need them for the ones I’m throwing, and I don’t need his pre-emptive lecturing.

Simone sulks to the plate, her shoulders slumped and her head hanging low. Wilder calls, “Rodwell.” He doesn’t say what he wants me to do, so I gawk at his blank face, morphing into annoyance.

Pursing his lips, Wilder wiggles his fingers at me to come forth. I’m not a damn dog. But yeah. I go anyway. Woof. Woof.

I sigh, exasperated by these two and their melodrama. When I reach them, I ask, “What did I do now?”

Wilder cocks a bushy eyebrow from behind his glasses. “Did you forget?”

“Huh?” Simone and I ask, echoing each other.

Wilder grits his teeth. “Shake. Hands.” With his left hand at his side, he flicks his fingers. I notice he does it when agitated and craving a cigarette.

I roll my eyes but stick out my hand for Simone. She frowns as the breeze blows strands of blonde hair into her face. I offer my hand again, and Simone takes it. The warmth of her hand burns my body as if I’m tied to a stake over hot coals. On impulse, I yank her to me. Simone trips against me and avoids eye contact, but her breaths against my throat falter. For a second, I forget what the hell I’m doing. I lower my voice. “Should we do it on home plate to show our team spirit?”

Simone slaps my chest and tugs her hand out of my grip. “Fuck off.”

Wilder swipes his hand over his goateed mouth. I see he’s leveled up in his aggravation. He glares at Simone, and she backtracks. “I wish nothing but the best for you when you fuck off over there, Rod.”

I grin, her reaction entertaining me more than it should. “And I hope your trip to hell is uneventful, Garrison.”

Wilder says, “You’re working my last fucking nerve. You said you’d get along for the sake of the team.”

Simone grabs her brother’s arm and argues, “Maybe you should explain that to him. I asked him for help with my father, but he refused. That’s not being a team player. Right?”

He looks at me like I’m an abstract piss painting on a wall in a McDonald’s restroom. “Help with what? He’s visiting. So?”

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