Page 2 of False Start

Based on the shared looks, more than a few of them had. They’d seen the pictures of me red-faced and glassy-eyed as I stumbled out of the clubs at four A.M. The photos of my coach screaming at me on the sidelines when I bumbled a hand off the next morning. The thinly veiled blind items about my exes and my partying and my possibly failed drug tests.

“Well, we’re glad to have you,” Derek pounded my back with an easy, vacant smile. The type of smile of a man who barely knew my name and definitely hadn’t heard about my reputation. But even with raised eyebrows, he wanted to be my friend, anyway.

But the mousy woman in the back of the crowd just didn’t like me. She pursed her lips, eyes flitting back to the empty field. Annoyed.

“So, how much experience are we working with?” Derek asked.

“Athletically? A lot.” I flexed an arm, muscles still bulging from a barely completed season on the gridiron. “But, in the sport of kickball? Nothing.”

“Well, let’s get you on the mound and check if you’re a pitcher,” Derek said enthusiastically. “Kit, give him the ball.”

The surly woman frowned, a red ball tucked under her arm. “He’s not a pitcher.”

It’d been a while since I played a new sport. I joined a flag football team as soon as I could walk and played tackle before I hit puberty. My academic life consisted of football in the fall and track in the spring until the Norwalk Breakers drafted me in the first round.

Still, I didn’t like the way she assumed I couldn’t pitch. Like I wasn’t capable. Not enough.

Derek laughed, unfazed. “He’s not anything, yet. We need to try him out and see where he slots in best.”

She rested a fist on her hip. “Send him to the outfield. Isn’t he a wide receiver? Let him chase kicks.”

“I thought you didn’t want to coach?” Derek countered. For the first time since I met him, the humor dropped away from his voice, his face stern.

The look shared between my newest teammates assured me that their bickering wasn’t a one-time occurrence. A guy with facial tattoos threw up his hands. “I’m getting water while mom and dad fight.”

Kit’s eyes didn’t stray from Derek. “I don’t want to coach, but this is a waste of time.”

“Well, you’re not a coach. I am. And I say, he tries out as a pitcher,” he countered.

I stayed frozen in the field as more people peeled off toward the benches. Amused and only slightly concerned that this argument would end in me getting kicked off the team. “Should I hang out while you hash this out or…”

Derek winced, cheeks turning pink as he ripped his gaze away from Kit, realizing most of the team had wandered off. “No, you’re good, man. Kit used to be my co-captain. We’re just going through some growing pains.”

“You make it sound like I got fired,” she shot back.

“Keep second guessing me and I might tell everyone you got fired,” he snapped and then turned to me. “She’s too busy to captain and now she’s pissy that I get to decide who plays where.”

Kit pursed her lips, chest heaving with an inhalation that she blew out. “Fine. You’re wrong, but we’ll do it your way.”

I held out my hand. She withdrew the ball from under her arm, eyes hardening before setting it on the mound.

“Seriously, Kit?” Derek blustered.

“Got any tips for me?” I asked with an affable grin.

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

Maybe I’d dated one of her friends. She didn’t look like the type to frequent the clubs and bars of Norwalk, but based on how much she didn’t really give a shit about making a good first impression on the kickball team, maybe she already had a bunch of friends.

“Alright, get your water and stop loafing. Pastry is on the field, bread is kicking,” Derek yelled toward the benches before turning to me. “Just roll it over the plate. The umps aren’t picky.”

The pastry team took their places on the field. The bald bread maker, Gavin, squared up behind home plate.

I didn’t get paid to throw a ball at my day job, but “in the vicinity”? I could handle that.

The rubber ball felt clunky in my hand, too big and bulky. Instinctively, I wanted to pull my arms up over my shoulder and pitch it like a football rather than roll it. The ball bobbled as I pulled my arm back, and I released it a fraction of a second too early. Rather than roll, it bounced, veering off toward first base rather than home plate.

Ignoring the low snicker of laughter from second base, I jogged after the ball. “My bad. I’ll get it this time.”

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