Page 15 of The Fall Out

Yes, my father did. He had all sorts of rules. And he had no idea that I’d broken abigone a few months ago. I hoped like hell I could keep it that way. Hence, why I’d been avoiding this place like it was the plague.

“Besides,” Beckett said, turning back to the field, “Cortney’s dating someone.”

“Is he?” Gavin turned to his brother. “Who’s he dating?”

Beckett grunted. “You don’t know her.”

“Idon’t know her.” He pointed to himself, then poked his brother’s shoulder. “Butyoudo?”

“Duck you.” Beckett stomped back inside, all storm clouds, with his brother on his heels.

“Did he just call his brother a duck?” Wren slapped a hand over her mouth and giggled.

With a shake of my head, I shrugged. The Langfields dominated Boston sports, owning both the hockey team and the baseball team. Every one of the four brothers was hot as fuck, but they were each their own brand of weird.

“So the Starlight?” Jana asked.

“No. We are not talking about my”—I glanced back at the box next door—“orgasms,” I whispered. “Not here.”

“I personally think we should talk about the guy who is becoming the most talked-about pitcher this season.” Wren wiggled in the seat beside me. “I think someone here mightknowhim in every sense of the word.”

Ignoring my obnoxious friend, I focused on the pitcher’s mound and the reason I’d avoided Revs games all season.

Christian Damiano. Gorgeous. Moody. A thorn in the Revs’ side. Hands down the best sex of my life. And, according toSports Illustrated, baseball’s most popular bachelor. Wasn’t that a kick in the teeth?

I sighed, still annoyed that the damn man hadn’t mentioned his occupation. If I had known who he was, that night would never have happened. But it had. And, irrationally, the way he was being paraded around as a bachelor irked me. Even if he was. Even if I had no claim on him. We’d shared one hot night months ago, and I hadn’t talked to him since.

And there he was, standing tall, all handsome and broody, on the mound, pitching another great game. For all the bad press, the temper, the comments about my dad being evil, he had a fastball like the league hadn’t seen in decades. If only he could get his attitude under control.

That still stumped me. The man I met at the bar was grumpy, sure,but I never would have described him as explosive, which was the term the media threw around most when they talked about Boston’s new favorite hothead.

“Earth to Avery,” Jana called.

I blinked, and when I turned back to my friends, both were smirking. Dammit. They’d caught me staring at Mr. Tall, Dark, and Moody.

“You promised we wouldn’t talk about him.” I focused on the field again, doing my best to avoid direct eye contact with either of my friends.

On the field, the team’s mascots stood along the wall by third base. Two of the three Revolutionary War soldiers rode fake horses. The costumes were one piece and made it look as though the soldiers wearing blue regimental coats were seated on the animals. Over their coats, each wore a different jersey. One matched mine, the original look. Another wore pinstripes. The third wore the royal blue city jersey and carried a drum that he beat constantly as they pumped up the crowd.

The two on horses stuck their horses’ hooves out, attempting to trip the drummer. In retaliation, he bopped them on the head with his sticks. I shook my head at the idiocy, then went back to scanning the field.

My attention caught on a bird flittering in the air on the first base foul line. It was black and white, with orange legs, and its beak was bright orange and yellow, with just a hint of blue. Aw, the clown like bird was apuffin.

But how on earth had a puffin ended up in the stadium? Rock pigeons and sparrows were common, and of course a goose or two popped up from time to time, but I’d never seen a puffin.

A colony of them lived near the harbor about a quarter mile from here. I’d seen them venturing short distances from home periodically, especially the younger males, but puffins typically they didn’t come into the city.

I tracked the bird as it landed in the dirt. When the ball boy moved, it flitted to the away team’s dugout. It was definitely a puffin. I’d bet the cameras were on him now. They were the adorable Easter bunnies of the avian world. Absolute clickbait. A few fans leaned over the railing,trying to touch it. In the process, they startled it, and it took off across the field, flying straight toward third base and the mascots. And on the mound, Chris had just started his windup.

No.

My heart plummeted, and I swore the world around me slowed. All I could do was watch in horror, hand over my mouth, as the ball left Chris’s hand and headed toward home plate. The trajectory aligned perfectly with the small black and white ball of fluff.

I winced as the ball smacked into the bird’s right wing, and I jumped to my feet as the puffin tumbled through the air and crashed into the dirt.

“Shit.” I pressed my palm to my forehead as a collective gasp echoed around the full stadium.

“Is it dead?” Wren clutched her chest.

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