Page 48 of Stealing Home

“Stay with me,” I mutter against his chest.

He kisses my temple and slides under the blankets with me. “There’s nowhere else I want to be.”

And the biggest miracle is, for once I trust he means it.

17

Scott

Harlow issound asleep when I get up in the morning for practice. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to be around Coach knowing what I know now, but I’ll have to keep my shit locked down for her sake. She’s right, I am a nice guy, but that doesn’t mean I’m a push over. Far from it. Like my father, I have a deeply ingrained need to protect those I care about, and Harlow is fast moving to the top of that list.

Grabbing her notepad from the fridge, I scribble a quick note to her so she knows why I’m gone.

Low,

I have morning practice. I’ll see you after you get off work tonight.

Scott

I stick the note to the refrigerator with another magnet and high tail it to practice. I’m usually early, but I slip in without anyone commenting that I’m not the first one in the room.

The guys move around the locker room like a bunch of zombies. Clearly they took yesterday’s early release from practice as an excuse to party, forgetting we still had morning practice. Taylor drops his bag on the bench next to me while I’m lacing up my cleats.

“You didn’t come back last night,” he grumbles.

“Are you keeping tabs on me, mom?” I ask him. I don’t like fighting with him, but he’s being a little bitch, and he needs to back the fuck out of my business. I’m sensitive when it comes to Harlow. There’s enough working against us, I don’t need his shit too.

“You’re making a big fucking mistake, man,” he says and shakes his head.

“Yeah, you’ve made your thoughts really clear. I’ve heard you, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

Max storms into the changing area from the office and throws his cleats at his locker. “I don’t know what bug crawled up Coach’s ass, but I don’t need his shit today.”

Joaquin stops applying KT tape to his knee and looks up. “Is he busting your balls about the party last night?”

“No, that would have made sense. You guys have been acting like idiots, partying like you don’t have a fucking job to do. But that’s not what this was about. He’s pissed off because a scout from his old team is coming to check me out, and I told him I have no intention of trying to go pro. He says I’m making him look bad, but I’m not turning down Columbia Law School to play on a farm team when we all know I’m never going to make the majors,” Max explains.

Campbell Chase leans against his locker, crosses his arms. “You’re fucking stupid.”

Max narrows his eyes and the muscle in his jaw clenches. “I’ve got tears in the ligaments in my rotator cuff. I’m already throwing slower than when I first joined the team. I get cortisone injections just so I can finish this season. I’ve got a private scholarship to law school, and I’m not passing that up so I can sit on the bench in the minors and pray that my tendons don’t snap if I ever get put in a game. You can think I’m stupid all you want, Chase, but it’s still my decision to make.”

I put my hand on Max’s chest and keep him from getting closer to Campbell. They always seem like they’re one comment away from beating the hell out of each other. “Ignore him.” He listens to me, grabs his cleats, and sits down.

Campbell Chase is far from my favorite person either. We’ve been circling around each other since I joined the team and bumped him from the pitching rotation. “We’re not all here for a chance at fame. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to continue your education. You’ve got my support.”

Loud footsteps thunder down the hall from the coaches offices. “When you’re done braiding each other’s hair or whatever girly bonding session you ladies are doing in here, get your pansy asses out on the field,” Coach Rivera shouts.

“Dude, I think he just violated several of the university’s anti-harassment policies,” Joaquin observes.

Max looks up from tying his cleats and says, “I told you, he’s being a dick.”

We move out of the locker room as a team instead of straggling out onto the field as we finish getting ready. Practice is grueling. He makes us run extra laps and perform drills until our arms go numb. The way Max is shaking out his arm makes me think the punishment is meant to cause him the most pain.

Coach Rivera is a vindictive asshole, and it gives me a glimpse at the hell Harlow has lived every day for the last eleven years.

The time morning practice usually ends comes and goes. Several of the guys have classes right after practice, and the mood of the team plummets rapidly as the torture session continues. The rest of the coaching staff starts to gather together, and judging by their body language it looks like they’re not on board with today’s practice either.

Finally, Coach Tucker blows his whistle. “Hit the showers, men. Let the guys who have class in thirty minutes go first so they aren’t late. The university will have our asses if we interfere with academics.” He says the last part looking directly at Coach, reminding him we’re students first.

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