Page 28 of Wait For It

“Alright, my bad.” Rocky cleared his throat. “I thought because you enjoyed dishing it out, you’d have no trouble taking it. Guess I was wrong, so I’ll just leave you to it.”

It appeared as if my failed apology had reached theTrue Northrumor mill.

“Sure wish you would.” I gave him an exaggerated grin. “I’m pretty sure the team isn’t paying for your biting wit there, Rock.”

I didn’t usually mind laughing at my own expense. With Conor Bailey as a teammate, I’d learned not to take myself so seriously. That jackass was continually trying to rile me up over something.

Rocky wasn’t Bailey, though.

My teammate and best friend would have seen what I saw—another bitter fan, pissed because I hadn’t dropped everything for a goddamn autograph. To gossipmongers like Rocky, though, I was cast as the prick who’d been mean to the nice girl in the wheelchair.

Truthfully, I’d spent most of the afternoon musing over the proverbial bee in the girl’s butt. As the only available data had already proven to be inconclusive, I simply wandered aimlessly through my thoughts, confusing myself further.

She hadn’t just derailed any attempt at an apology—the girl had refused to even acknowledge I was speaking until I called her out on it.

I don’t even know you!

The anger that had been simmering most of the afternoon came to a boil again. Still, it wasn’t entirely justified, as I definitely could have handled the situation better.

In hindsight, I probably would have skipped the teasing as it hadn’t warmed her to me. If anything, it had only made things worse. There were several moments where I’d actually been convinced she was planning to run me over with the damn chair.

Something I was probably long overdue for.

Whatever. I’d tried and failed—overthinking it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

Time to focus on the team.

“Now Sanchez will walk in—”

I jerked at the sudden blast of sound coming from the television speakers before waving a middle finger at Rocky.

“Oh, sorry! Let me fix that for ya!” he shouted over the dull roar of the game highlights before lowering the volume and walking away with a satisfied smirk.

Time to charge the mound, motherfucker.

If he wanted to play, we’d play. I just hoped he knew who he was going up against.

“—and it’s driven deep to left-centerfield!” the announcer screamed. “Crawford is going for it… but it’s gone! It’s over! With Garrett Sanchez’s walk-off home run, the Bears are returning to the World Series for the second year in a row!”

A half-second later, the rectangular closed-captioning box flashed across the screen, confirming the news. Each black and white letter a stark reminder of how I’d let my team down.

The screen cut back to the studio, and I dropped onto the treatment table with a muffled growl. Rage clouded my vision, and I pressed my fingers against my eyelids, stemming the urge to destroy something.

It should have been us.

The Hurricanes were supposed to make history. Instead, a subpar team would be taking our place all because I’d thought I could make it to second base.

Fucking Sanchez.

“The rib fractures don’t seem to slow her down. Have you looked at incorporating more walking into her plan?”

Rib fractures?

My pulse slowed, and I lowered my hands before cutting my eyes over to the corner of the room. Rocky was deep in discussion with the dark-haired therapist, Natalie.

They were discussing the girl—I’d bet my paycheck on it. And hearing another person’s take was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. Ol’ emerald eyes couldn’t have fooled everyone, which meant vindication was about to be mine.

Again, it didn’t matter.

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