Page 25 of The Third Baseman

I jolted slightly though I didn’t know why, because the other thing about The Laurens is they kneweverything. There was no unturned stone they weren’t aware of. Usain Bolt is a snail compared to the speed they gossip.

“Not officially.”

“You’ll get it,” she continued with a smile, “and then The Dodgers will be waiting for you. You know loads of the major league players still have the same girlfriends from when they were at school. So romantic, don’t you think?”

I didn’t think it was romantic, but thankfully a swift yank to the left as Jenson grabbed my backpack meant I didn’t have a chance to respond.

“End of the line, ladies. See you around never,” he called behind us as he pulled me into the training facility.

The Laurens all stopped at the door – only school sports teams and serious athletes were admitted into the hallowed building. Everyone else had to use the older facility on the other side of the school. This was a place to concentrate, not fuck about, and mostly everyone respected that. Through the glass doors I could see Reggie, the guard on entry duty today, and they knew better than to push past him. He’d been an NFL hopeful in his day, but he’d suffered a serious knee ligament injury during the Combine that year, and struggled to play again.

“Jeez, they’re getting worse. They’re like sharks after fresh blood,” Jenson snarled.

“Yeah, it’ll get worse once the season starts and football finishes. Talk to the new junior squad again, will you? They won’t know any better, and The Laurens will sense weakness on anyone playing well.”

We stopped as we crossed the threshold, both of us soaking in the energy of the building for the briefest moment before heading in the direction of the locker room to dump our backpacks, and leave for our run.

An hour later we walked back into the building, our legs more Jell-O like than they had been this morning, given the pace we pushed ourselves. There wasn’t a dry patch left on my shirt. I had enough time to towel-dry and change into a spare one before I had to go again.

Jenson plopped down on one of the benches and passed me a clean towel from the shelf. “I’ll wait here for you.”

I peeled my shirt off and took it, rubbing it over my torso just as a split second of nerves sliced through my belly. “Thanks, man. I’m hoping this won’t take long. It’s not going to be about anything else, right?”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, dude, you got this.”

“Cool, okay. Cool. Yeah, ‘course. It’s in the bag.” The confidence I usually carried with me filled my chest once more, and I dropped the towel in the laundry hamper. “Guess I’ll see you soon.”

I took off down the wide hallway, still pulling a fresh shirt over my head, and made my way to Coach’s office, located on the second floor in the coaching wing.

“Hey, Reeves, wait up,” a deep voice called as I reached the stairs.

I turned to find Mason Jones, the hockey captain, running toward me, and watched a couple of girls move quickly out of the way. Mason Jones was not someone you wanted knocking into you, even if it was an accident. At eighteen he was already a giant, like a wrecking ball, and one of the reasons the hockey team was having such a successful season.

“Hey, man, are you heading up to the second floor?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Cool, I’ll walk with you. What you going for?”

The sports, fitness, and training department wasn’t split up into separate teams like most people assumed, though we did all have priority schedules for when we could work out. Coach Barr’s office and department was right across the hall from Coach Johnson and the football team; hockey was slightly further down next to basketball, along with swimming, wrestling, soccer, volleyball, and the individual division one sports.

“Coach called me in.”

“Oh really, what for?”

I shrugged and ignored the slicing nerves again. “To officially make me captain, I hope.”

“Oh, yeah? Cool! Although I thought you already were.”

“Yeah, so does everyone,” I laughed. “Hey, great game the other night. Nice goal!”

“Thanks, man. It’s great to have another win. We have some good guys on the team this year and we’re still holding the top spot, but Mission Pines is closing in,” he replied, mentioning the high school every single team wanted to beat.

Located about thirty miles away from Santa Monica, we’d yet to meet a student there who wasn’t a total dick. And more often than not, whenever we played against them, whatever the sports, someone came away with a black eye. Unfortunately, a lot of talented athletes attended Mission Pines, and they were always the school to beat every year.

“Another couple of goals like that and you’ll take it.” We reached the second floor where a handful of guys were hanging around, and began walking down to the coaching departments. “What are you doing up here anyway?”

Mason stepped to the side to let someone pass. “Got a meeting with the Athletic Director. Coach wants to assign me a tutor because my math is slipping.”

---