Page 20 of Endgame

Bodhi:Go away.

Cal:You know he’s grumpy in the morning if he doesn’t have his chamomile tea first thing. Isn’t that right, Kingston baby?

King:I’m very in tune with my manhood. My legs hurt, and I didn’t sleep a lick. Gus’s side piece was fake moaning like a dying cat all night.

Gus:Rumor has it there’s a new girl in the mix. No idea who, but I overheard Tenley going off on someone in the bullpen over the new girl’s office being trashed. No idea why Leggins would care tho.

Gus:Wait, bro. That’s creepy.

King:hahahahahahaha

Bodhi:Children.That makes no sense. What’s with the early wake-up? And what are you doing spying on Tenley, Gus?

Mack:It’s Friday, ladies. Clean up your vaginas and hit the weights in thirty.

Gus:I was gonna ask her to rate my dimples on a scale of 1-10. Making her blush gets my dick hard.

Bodhi:Eating a brick sounds better than this conversation.

Bodhi has left the chat.

King:In that case, I can’t wait to see what Navy’s got on today. Happy Friday, boys.

Cal:Better swing with both eyes open, King.

You’d thinkthey’d save the dick whipping for the clubhouse, but trash talk knows no limits in baseball. Family is a hard limit. You don’t shit where you eat. There’s plenty of fish in the sea and all that.

Kingston must be ready to meet his maker.

Without a doubt, that was the most random way to wake up. Their actions are usually questionable, but they’re the best dudes I know. After being drafted to the Major Leagues at twenty-four—still young in most cases to be drafted, it was the first time in my life I had a sense of community other than the three who helped piece me back together. We’re a tight-knit team, the Atlanta Boys. A fan created the name for my guys and me, and it’s stuck ever since. They've been my constant Day Ones. We stay out late, train, celebrate, and rage together. We're teammates always. But we couldn’t be more different if we tried.

Today was actual hell.

We’re all strung out, reeling from the brutality of practice. After King’s early morning wake-up call, thirty minutes was all we had before hitting two hours of weight training and a three-hour practice—all fielding drills.

And, lucky for me, an extra hour of pitching to end the day.

I can’t forget to stop at the grocery store sometime this week. The guys sent over the most random list of things they need. That’s one of the unfortunate disadvantages of havingroommates. My only need is a bag of ice to soothe my sore elbow.

King was spot on about Leggins’s mood lately.

Something is going on with him, and it’s not something as simple as a new hire. I know that much is true.

My gut is telling me to check on him. His wife, Taylor, is at the front of my worrying thoughts.

This is the moment after practice when the team is beaten down and ready for hot showers. Except it almost feels similar to when you get home after a long drive, your legs need to be stretched, and you’ve got to piss really bad, but you can’t get yourself to get out of the car because it feels like too much effort. That’s this moment right now.

Our bodies are dragging like dead weights.

One glance over at Mack, and I roll my eyes.

The dude is beyond predictable. He’s got his nose shoved in our stats spreadsheets, doing what I know to be his after-practice ritual. Mack Manning is our team captain and first baseman. He’s carefully constructed and always wears an angry face that only enhances the veins straining against his forehead. He’s known for saving face, yet we all know he loves big.

My eyes drift over to Bodhi.

He’s seated on the wooden bench of his locker with his All-Star jersey displayed above his head. He’s sheltering himself with his head hanging between his legs, thick headphones over his ears and a fidget spinner circling his thumbs. Bodhi thrives on constant motion. It’s evident his mind demonizes his thoughts. He’s been in the game as long as I have and is probably the closest thing to a brother I’ve got. He’s also the best damn catcher Atlanta has ever contracted.

Heavy grunting steals my attention when I find Gus plowing through muscle-ups on the pull-up bar. His nameserves him well because August Graves should probably be knee-deep in the grave by now. As our team's third baseman, “Gus” is a dedicated machine. The cannon that is his arm is incredibly impressive, and the cocky fucker knows it.

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