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“Remember day one, we talked about respect? You still have some room to grow there,” I scowl, shaking my head.

Snow huffs, raises his arm, and points toward Pauly. “He calls women gorgeous all the time.” Snow’s big blue eyes appear so innocent and confused. I can’t help but laugh at his naïvete.

Pauly holds up one finger. “First of all, Dickwad. I’m not a probationary candidate. I kept it in check that first year.” He holds up two fingers. “Second of all, I’m not stupid. I know she doesn’t like those pet names, so I don’t use them. Read the fucking room.” He turns his attention toward Cam. “Do you have any trash cans overflowing that need changing? He’s an excellent garbageman.”

Cam chuckles, her cheeks flush. “I’m good, but I’ll keep that in mind.” She shoots Snow a smile. “It’s okay,” she says to him before addressing the rest of us. “I’ll be back with more of the same, then.” With a quick nod, she turns and leaves.

Deacon watches with puppy dog eyes as she retreats toward the bar. I’m happy for the guy. I was a little bitter for a minute, especially since Cam’s bar has become our new hangout—the same place I met Lexi. But I’ve realized Lexi and I weren’t meant to be.

Actually, it sounds like I dodged quite the bullet. From what Cam has shared with Deacon, Lexi was never my type. I don’t know why I thought she was.

“We need to figure out who’s playing at the CFD barbecue this weekend,” Tiny pipes up. “God knows, Fly Guy isn’t allowed to represent us again.”

“Look,” Abrams cuts in. “I never said I could play baseball. I have many talents, but that sport is definitely not one of them.”

Stokes releases a chuckle. “Right, but even people who’ve never played can usually throw a ball.”

Abrams holds up his hand, palms facing the group. “As I said, I had just eaten a chicken wing. There was barbecue sauce on my fingers. The ball slipped.”

“Once again, why were you eating a chicken wing in the outfield during a game?” Tiny asks the question we’ve been arguing over since it happened.

“Because I wanted a chicken wing!” Abrams runs his fingers through his hair and releases a sigh. “I don’t know why it’s so hard for you all to grasp that I don’t like baseball, but I do like chicken. Okay?”

I throw my head back in laughter. This conversation never gets old.

“I played in high school. We were pretty good,” Cinder speaks up. “I could play.”

“Good. Good.” Tiny nods. “What position did you play?”

“First base.”

“Great.” Tiny points toward Cinder. “Cinder’s first base. Boss, you’re outfield.”

“Fine by me. I’m not great at baseball anyway.” I whip my head toward Abrams and squint my eyes in accusation. “Though, I can throw a ball.”

“I. Had. Barbecue. Sauce. On. My. Fingers!” Abrams says each word in staccato.

“Whatever,” Tiny says. “You’re batboy.”

“You don’t need a batboy,” Abrams huffs.

Pauly places his hand on Abram’s shoulder, and in a serious tone, he says, “Are you afraid you’ll drop the bats?”

Another round of laughter follows.

Abrams pushes away from the table and raises his arms. “Fuck you all. I’m going to be sitting on the sidelines eating my chicken wings and booing.”

“So you’ll be cheering on Derek and the dicks at thirty-two, then?” I quirk my brow.

“Hell no. I hate those guys. Fine, I won’t boo. But hell if I’m going to be batboy.”

Tiny shakes his head. “Whatever. Do what you want chicken boy. So Cinder’s on first, Boss is outfield. I’ll pitch. Deacon, you did well at second last year. Does that still work?”

“Sure does.” Deacon nods. “I play where you need me.”

“Great.” Tiny grins. He finishes going over the positions until everyone is assigned one, except Abrams. “It’s important to beat thirty-two this year, guys, or we’re never going to hear the end of it. They haven’t shut up about that game for a year now. I can hardly take it.”

“Their lieutenant is a real asshat.” Stokes grimaces.

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