Page 38 of Catching Feels

He nods. “Yeah.”

I toss two fingers in my mouth and whistle.

Amias Steel glances over, and I hold up four fingers then tap the pointer to my chin—the ASL sign for talk—and then I grab my cup, because it’s been a long time since I have signed and dirty has escaped me.

A big as grin spreads across his face as he looks up at his dad.

“Steel, Pope, Galleon, Turner, Uyar, Locke, Vander, Hart, and Tereira,” Coach T yells our lineup as I quickly take off my equipment.

When it’s all off, the song begins.

Every one of us that was just on the field gets into position and starts off with a hand slap right before we get to shaking our asses.

The crowd even joins in, and that shit is why the Jersey Jags fans are the best in the country.

“All right, get your shit together, Jags.” Coach T laughs. “Let’s get some points on the board.”

Steel steps up to the plate and allows a strike. The next pitch is a ball, and he lets it fly by. The third, he sends into the outfield and makes it to first.

Next up is Pope. He connects with a solid hit to right field and makes it to first, advancing Steel to second.

Rudy G strikes out, but those calls were questionable as fuck, and he’s pissed. Can’t blame him at all, but what are you gonna do?

Turner, they walk, which we all know damn well was purposeful.

“One out. Take your time, Uyar,” Locke calls to me as I make my way out to home plate, flipping my bat and stepping over the lines as I catch the knob, tap the ground four times, before taking three swings. Then I step into the box, grind my left toe into the dirt, and nod to the pitcher.

The first pitch is way outside, but the umpire calls a strike.

I grit my teeth as I step out, roll my neck, and look up at the sky, inhaling a deep breath.

“Jesus ain’t gonna help you, Rookie.” The Cubs’ catcher chuckles.

The next pitch is outside, too, but my arms are long as fuck and my mood has been on simmer all day. I decide to take it out on the ball.

Like last time, I feel an energy course through, but it’s even stronger.

I drop the bat and jog as I watch the ball soar and keep soaring until the announcer yells, “Rookie Nour Uyar has just hit his first grand slam as a major league player!”

I round the bases faster than I have to, but it’s unavoidable. I feel high as hell. So much so that when I hit home base, I ask the loud mouth catcher, “What was that you said a minute ago?”

When I head to the dugout, I look up to see Amira on her feet with the rest of them. My sister witnessed that, and I can’t even begin to understand why that feels so damn good to me.

She yells something, and even though I can’t hear her, I know exactly what she’s requesting, and I give it to her. I do a flip, which apparently is even more appreciated by the Jags fans than a grand fucking slam, because the crowd hits an even higher decibel.

“Jesus, man, what got into you?” Rome grabs me and pulls me into a one-arm hug.

“I fucked a unicorn,” pops out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think, but fuck it, it’s the damn truth.

He busts out into a laugh. “Keep that shit up.”

The Jags win by two.

In the locker room, we’re all still amped up, and yeah, word’s gotten out about my unicorn fuckery. The whole team thinks it’s hilarious, all a big joke. Oddly, that eases the fear about what they’ll say if a picture is ever leaked. I know how they’ll react. I can play the role as team clown if need be. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.

O’Donnell’s is packed from wall to wall, but the bodies part like the Red Sea when we walk in.

“Enjoy it, kid.” Pope smiles. “You earned it.”

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