Page 276 of Vegas Heat

Baseball used to be fun, but that was before my manager caught me kissing his daughter and decided to make my life a living hell.

“Thatcher, get on the mound,” Troy yells from the dugout.

Thatcher?

We discussed Rush Ross pitching first, not Holden Thatcher.

It’s practice, I remind myself. He’s just seeing what everyone on the team has.

“Cade, take right,” Troy yells next, and our starting right fielder—Duke—runs off the field and into the dugout.

What the hell is Troy doing?

My notes to him last night explicitly agreed with his practice plan to have the boys bringing up the back of our forty-man roster hit to the starters so we could practice our team dynamic.

Instead, he’s changing everything up.

Does this mean he’s changing up the starting roster?

I run toward the bench he’s calling the shots from. “What’s going on?” I ask.

He’s wearing sunglasses, but I swear I still see him glare at me. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“I didn’t ask you to, Troy. I’d just like to know what your plan is.”

“Get back on the field, player,” he says snidely.

My brows dip together as I’m almost unsure whether I heard him correctly. I freeze for a beat, and then he repeats himself.

“I said get back on the field. I’m the manager, and I will manage. You get back to your spot on third unless you’d prefer a seat on the bench.”

I blow out a breath as anger ices my veins, but I know better than to talk back to my manager.

Still…if that’s how he’s going to play it, I’m not sure I’ll be sticking around to take the brunt of his anger.

A small crowd of maybe a hundred or so fans watches our practice, and I focus on making sure my elbow is ready to play. It feels good being out here, but I can’t seem to walk out from the cloud that’s pressing down on me.

I sign a few autographs as I walk off the field toward the team bus that will carry us to some classrooms at a local university where we’ll have a team meeting. I sit and stare out the windowon the way. I’m quiet as we make our way to a lecture hall. I listen during the meeting without opening my mouth even once despite the fact that Troy once expressed to me how I’m supposed to be the leader of this team.

And when it’s all over, I spot Nick in the back of the room.

He’s not a player.

He’s not a coach.

He’s a trainer. He’s a neutral party who can listen to my concerns and potentially give me advice since he knows everyone involved.

It’s either him or Mike, and if I go to Mike, I’m as good as gone.

I head over toward Nick and ask, “Can we talk?”

He nods once, and I follow him out of the room and to an empty classroom next to the lecture hall.

“What’s going on?” He perches on a student desk.

I lean on one across the room from him and fold my arms across my chest. “I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks.

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