Page 30 of The Shake Off

“That I was shit in bed!” he snapped, like saying it as quickly as possible made it not so real.

I pursed my lips, wondering how much longer I was going to have to entertain this ridiculous middle-of-the-night interruption.

“I never said that,” I enunciated very slowly. “I said I didn’t orgasm.”

“Same difference,” he huffed with a deep eye roll.

“Jesus Christ, the size of your ego is insane! If you’re so bothered about a woman not orgasming, then maybe you should make more of an effort in the future to ensure she does!”

“The fucking President of the United States was there. The President, Payton. She saw me choke. It’s your fault,” he repeated like he hadn’t heard a word I said, which was likely, seeing as he was clearly the most self-obsessed human being that walked the streets of New York, and that was coming from someone who was raised by my parents.

“Okay, we’re done here.” I opened the door and shoved him back out into the hallway, easier than I expected, which says something for the level of annoyance I was feeling. “And don’t bother coming back.”

I slammed the door in his face before he could say another word.

As I bolted the lock, I glanced down at my feet;Essie Licoricehad smudged everywhere.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

SIX

ACE

Do you know what it feels like to get booed by twenty-five thousand fans? No? How about cheered by twenty-five thousand, but by the team youdon’tplay for?

You’re probably unfamiliar with that feeling also.

I wish I could say I was.

Let me describe it to you. It’s like someone is jumping up and down on your chest, each time flattening it a little bit more. Your stomach is rolling back and forth like you’ve been on one too many rides at the state fairground, and your head is pounding because you’re trying your hardest to block out the volume of chants reminding you that you suck, and you’re fucking up so badly that your lack of ability to do a job you’re paid millions for means the other team wins.

The other team wins purely because you couldn’t do your job; not because they did theirs well.

Let me spell it out again. You lost. They didn’t win.

All you need to do is tune into your brain and focus on the job in hand.

All you need to do is throw the ball and get it in the strike zone without your opponent hitting it, or, if he does hit it, make sure it’s not very far. Not enough for a home run, barely enough to reach first base.

You just need to throw, something I no longer seemed capable of.

“Fuck! Fuck. Fuuuck!”

The bucket of balls went flying as soon as my foot made contact. As I watched each one soar through the air, it dawned on me that I was almost better at kicking a baseball than I was at pitching one, at least this week anyway. I’d been out in the pitching cages for the past two hours, and out of the seventy-five balls I’d pitched at the make-shift strike zone and cardboard cut-out of Jupiter Reeves someone had left, I’d hit the mark six times. Six fucking times out of seventy-five balls.

I didn’t know what percentage that was, but it wasn’t very fucking many.

I couldn’t even bring myself to laugh at the fact one of the balls from the flying bucket had hit the red dot in the middle of the wall; the center of the strike zone.

Rolling my shoulder back, I squeezed the tendons and muscles along my arm in an attempt to ease the tension which had been gradually building since Opening Day, or the day before Opening Day. Six days ago, to be precise.

I couldn’t even blame it on the rigor of pitching for the majority of a game, because I hadn’t done that since Spring Training. No, because all I’d pitched during Opening Day was three disastrous innings, before I’d suffered the humiliation of being pulled off the field.

Three fucking innings.

Riley Rivers, a new relief pitcher Penn Shepherd had brought up from the minors for this season, had stepped into my place and managed to get us through the next four innings without the Phillies scoring, while we hit three home runs.

It had been announced this morning that Riley would be the starting pitcher in tonight’s game, and all the ones I should be starting in. Everyone knew what that meant – Riley Rivers would take my place until I’d sorted myself out.

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