Page 3 of Wild Pitch

Not a fucking clue.

It’s not until I feel a set of arms yank me back that I realize what I’ve done.

“What the fuck, dude?” Jackson says as I stare down at the crumpled-up costume on the ground. I know there’s a guy inside it, and I’m afraid I might have knocked him out. I bring my eyes up to the crowd, who are stunned silent as they look onto the field in horror. Backing away slowly, I irrationally hope nobody saw me just attack our mascot, but I only get about two steps before our manager Clyde’s voice jolts me back to reality.

“Valentine!” he yells. “Get your ass in the locker room,now!”

Eyes wide, still in shock, I walk toward the dugout as angry fans throw their food and drinks at the netting that separates the field from the stands.

“I hate you, Riggs Valentine!” shouts a small voice. I look up to see a little girl with tears streaming down her cheeks, obviously concerned about Friggle’s well-being.

Fuck my life.

“Come on in,” Taylor, the team’s public relations manager says, holding the door to her office open for me. I stand from the chair, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants before heading into the room with my tail between my legs. I was tossed from the game by my own manager and was forced to watch on a TV in the locker room as the Boston Tide embarrassed us on our own dirt.

Apparently, the meeting started before I got here, because the office is already full. I look around, nodding sheepishly in greeting to Clyde, Taylor’s assistant, and of course, Friggle. Well, the guy who wears the Friggle costume. He can’t be more than nineteen years old, which makes me feel like a total dick. Poor kid just got his ass beat on national television with nothing to defend himself with except his four-foot flappy arms.

“Sorry, man,” I grunt as I sit down in thevacant chair across the room. He just gives me a disgusted look, shaking his head.

“Okay,” Taylor says, plopping down at her desk. “Respectfully, Riggs, what the fuck was that?” My eyes widen and I look around the room to see everyone’s reaction to her language, but they’re all just staring at me as they wait for an answer.

“Ummm,” I say, trying to stall. I’m a pro athlete. I’m used to being heckled on the field and should be able to block it out after being in the majors for this long, but I’ll admit that my fuse has always been a little on the shorter end. “I lost my temper. I was wrong. It won’t happen again.”

Friggle scoffs quietly, and I clench my hands tightly over the armrests of my chair so I don’t launch myself at him again.

“I have to be honest with you,” she begins. “The fans have been calling for your head for months. You leaving the playoff game that ultimately cost us a shot at the pennant so you could attack the most beloved quarterback in all of football wasn’t a good look. The owner was ready to make a trade after last year, but I talked him into keeping you. This little stunt may have been the final nail in your coffin here. Unless you have one hell of a reason for what just happened, I can’t do much to save you.”

Fuck.

If I get traded because of this, the chances of another team wanting me after what I did today aren’t great. I’m a hothead, and I literally just attacked an innocent mascot because he pretended to laugh at me. I’m a great pitcher, but those are a dime a dozen in this league. If they shitcanme, there’ll be ten guys ready to step in and try to take my place. I need to think of a way to save my own ass or I could be forced to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.

“I…” I say, spitting out the first thing that comes to me. “I’m just really stressed. My girlfriend…I’ve been trying to get her to move to Daytona and it’s been roadblock after roadblock. I guess it finally all just hit me at once.”

My fuckingwhat?What the fuck am I saying? I don’t have a girlfriend. Not unless you count the cleat chaser who sucked me off in the bathroom of Club Wave two nights ago…and then again in the front seat of my car before I went home, which,I don’t.

I am a proud manwhore. I admittedly sleep around, but I’m honest with the women I bring into my bed. They don’t want anything long-term with me any more than I want it with them. Their objective is to say they slept with a professional athlete, and mine is to blow my load all over their tits.

Simple. Fun. Uncomplicated.

“Oh,” Taylor says with wide eyes. “I wasn’t aware that you were in a serious relationship.”

I swallow roughly. “It’s…new, but when you know, you know. Right?” I ask.

What. Theeeee. Fuck.

The only thing I know when it comes to women is that if you curl your fingers just right when they’re buried inside their pussies, it makes them go off,like that. But as far as dating them or knowing when you’ve metthe one? Yeah…no thanks. Hard pass.

Sweat gathers on my temples as she relaxes back into her chair, steepling her fingers in front of her pursed lips. Maybe my excuse is working, and she understands thepretend pain I’m going through. With any luck, I’ll be back on the field tomorrow for game two of the series.

“As you know, Mr. Durst is a family man,” she says, speaking of the team’s owner and one of the wealthiest men in the state of Florida. “If we can get your girlfriend here and prove that your priorities are changing, that might just be your saving grace.”

Well, fuck me sideways. That backfired.

“I don’t—” I say on a nervous laugh, but Clyde cuts me off.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Valentine. You have a two-point-seven ERA. You have a hundred and one mile-an-hour fastball. If you fuck me out of another World Series this year, you won’t have to worry about the fans because I’ll cut your fucking brake lines myself.”

Yikes. Can we get someone from HR in here, just in case?

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