Roman glared at him, and Hudson laid it right out there.
“What we have is the mother and sister of two protective, give-no-fucks men, especially when it comes to them. Jail? Sure, I’ll do time. Stitches? Line ’em up. Take on the whole bar? Been there, done that.”
So, I turned to avoid eye contact with Rome since I had been one hundred percent just checking out his sister’s rack and simply nodded.
“Bennett’s heading out to the hill.”
“Thanks.”
I glance up at my sister again, and she points a finger toward her open mouth then acts as if she’s spitting something into her hands.
I blow a big-ass bubble and wink at her before pulling down my facemask and heading out to home plate, making damn sure to step over all the foul lines on my way.
Even if I couldn’t see his face, from the first pitch, I can feel it against my palm that Bennett’s pissed. I don’t know his and his old man’s story, but I can relate. I can’t imagine having to work with mine which, ironically, is what led me to playing in the minors and now here.
After warming up, we head in.
Coach T yells, “Listen up; the batting order’s different tonight. They’re starting their rookie, so we’re going with Steel, Pope, Galleon, Turner, Uyar, Locke, Vander, Hart, and Tereira.”
“The fuck?” Bennett mumbles.
“You’re tight,” comes from behind us.
“Fuck I am,” he replies without looking back at his old man.
“Let’s get you loosened up,” Bennett Senior says, ignoring the fact that his son clearly wants nothing to do with him.
Sucks not being able to tell his old man to fuck off because he’s a coach, but that doesn’t mean I don’t let him know I think he’s a dick.
“Nothing here changes a thing you and I do out there.”
His jaw tightens, and he gives a firm nod before heading toward “Coach Bennett.”
After taking my gear off, I stand outside the dugout with the guys, watching the pitcher warm up, when the song “Talk Dirty to Me” by Jason Derula starts.
Laughing to myself, I glance at Amias, who’s looking up at his family, shaking his head.
AJ Tereira nudges me and nods to Bennett, who’s looking at us, no doubt remembering the night we were all drinking and the four Steel brothers were busting on Patrick and showing us his TikToks. This song came up on his feed with people all over the damn world doing a dance. All of us learned that damn dance, and yeah, we posted it. That video went viral.
“Fuck it.” I wave him over, knowing it will lift his spirits.
“Hell yes!” Tereira cheers.
AJ, Rudy G, myself, and Blaze fall in line. We all slap hands and wait for the chorus to begin.
“Been around the world, don’t speak the language …”
Once we’ve sufficiently shaken our asses, made fools of ourselves, and have Bennett smiling, I look around. The owners and WAGs who are in the stands are all on their feet, cheering like we just won the fucking series, and the Angels fans are no longer booing the Jersey Jags but fully engaged and whistling, clapping and having a good damn time. And I feel damn good. Then I remember Amira is up there, too. I force myself to look up, half-expecting her to be hiding under her seat, but she’s not. She’s beaming from ear-to-ear.
When she notices me looking at her, she does the whole spit your gum out routine again.
I turn and look at the sun. It’s coming down, but it’s still in the sky. Then I glance back and shake my head, which causes her to smile in a way that I remember my older sister smiling at me before everything went to shit.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Anaheim Stadium! It’s a perfect day for baseball as the Angels take on the Jersey Jaguars. We are moments away from the first pitch, so grab your snacks, find your seats, and get ready for an exciting game. Let’s … play ball!”
Steel steps up to the plate, swings at the first pitch, and connects, sending a rocket into the outfield for a double. The crowd roars as he stands proudly on second base.
Next up is Pope. He connects with a solid hit just over the shortstop’s head and races to first base while Steel holds his ground on second.