Page 6 of Double Play

Things didn’t get much better after the boys left. Mom kept up with her old habits, disappearing without a word for days at a time while I drove around looking for her before dragging my ass to school and practice on no sleep. I begged her to get help before I graduated, but she refused every time. Until she was forced into rehab by a judge after multiple DUIs. To this day, she remains in a halfway house she’ll likely never get out of. While she’s sober, we all know it isn’t by choice. I eventually had to step away from our relationship because it was causing more harm than good with me worrying about her relapsing twenty-four-seven. It wasn’t any easier than losing my brothers, and I think a lot about what could’ve been if she had just chosen us over her addiction. That shit still plagues me when it comes to trusting others or believing I’ll ever be good enough to be a priority to anyone.

Except for Jackson. From the moment we became roommates in the minors, I latched onto him. I can’t explain why, but I just felt it—he was the real deal when it came to friendship. In the last seven years, I’ve shown him the parts of me that I’ve kept hidden from everyone else, and he’s never judged. He’s always accepted me with all my hang-ups and flaws, never expecting me to water myself down to fit in with him. He made room for me, and I love the fuck out of him for that. He’s the closest thing I have to a brother right now—at least until my own turn eighteen and decide whether or not they still want me out of their lives. Which is exactly why I need to stay in my lane when it comes to Arden. As beautiful and kind as she is, I can’t act on my urges to be near her. It wouldn’t be right, and I refuse to put my friendship with Jacks in jeopardy.

Because absolutely nothing is more important to me than that.

FIVE

JACKSON

“You’ve got this, Val!”I yell from my spot at the edge of the infield near second base. We’re playing a home game against San Francisco, and we’re struggling. It’s the bottom of the seventh; we’re trailing by three runs with one out, and our defense is racking up errors like it’s our job. We’re coming off back-to-back series without a single day off, and it’s showing. We’re fucking exhausted. Riggs winds up, pitching a low fastball right into Ace’s mitt as the batter lets it go by.

“Strike!” the umpire yells, causing the crowd to clap and cheer in response. I watch as the batter gets in his stance again, trying my best to keep an eye on the runner at first while he takes a few lead-off steps.

The next pitch is thrown, and the bat makes contact, sending a grounder between first and second base. My body moves before I even have time to think, leaping to the left and catching the ball in my glove, landing on my stomach after it takes a lucky bounce. Despite the wind being knocked out of me, I know we have a runner advancing to second, and if I move quick enough, we can try for the double play. I shoot up to one knee, firing the ball as fast as I can to our shortstop, Dante Cole, who’s already on the bag. He stretches, catching it easily and getting the out. Like lightning, he sends it to first, and it lands in Kaflin’s glove just as the batter’s foot slaps against the base.

“You’re out!” the ump yells, balling his hand into a fist above his head and throwing it forward animatedly as the crowd goes wild. I jump to my feet, a sharp pain radiating up the inside of my thigh and making me rethink my celebration. It’s not awful, but I can tell I must’ve tweaked my hamstring when I made the play. I’m certainly no stranger to injuries on the field, but the last thing I want is for our manager, Clyde, to pull me because I’m hurt. So I steel my expression, doing my best to look perfectly fine as we head to the dugout for our turn at bat.

“You okay?” Hawk mumbles as I take a seat on the bench, tossing my glove aside. Lowering myself onto the hard pine makes me wince, so I quickly look around to make sure nobody saw. I take my injuries seriously, but I can’t tell if this one is bad enough to make a fuss about—at least not until I try to walk it off a little.

“I’m fine,” I reply quietly. I don’t know why I’m even trying to lie to him. He always knows. Right now isn’t the time to discuss it out loud, though. It’s likely just a pulled muscle, but I’ll swing by the trainer’s office on my way out of here today and get it checked. I’m sure a little rest and ice will fix me up. We have the next couple of days off, and I’ll take it easy. It’s looking like we’re going to secure a spot in the postseason, so I have to be in top shape in order to make a push for the World Series with my team.

“Right,” he grunts, pulling on his batting gloves and securing them around his wrists. I roll my eyes, leaning back against the brick wall behind me as I bring my hands up to the gold chain hanging around my neck and grip it tightly in my fists. The warm metal rope bites into my palms, grounding and calming me as Hawk steps up to bat.

The first ball is high and outside, so he waits, letting it by. He may look like a wild card with his black hair and tattoo-covered body, but Hawk Mason is one of the most intuitive and patient baseball players I’ve ever met. I swear, he can see the pitch before it’s thrown half the time. It rattles the fuck out of even the most self-assured pitchers, making them second guess their own plans. Between him and Ace, we have two of the best power hitters in the league on the Fury.

The next one is sent his way, and he’s locked in, waiting until the perfect time to bring his bat around. It connects loudly, and he takes off like a bullet, already knowing it doesn’t have quite enough distance to go over the wall. The placement is fucking perfect, landing just short of where the center fielder stands and bouncing off the grass as Hawk rounds first base. He hits the ground, sliding into the bag with seconds to spare before he’s tagged, standing and dusting himself off like hitting a double is easy work. Because it is for him. He has a top-five batting average in the entire league, and if he’s standing on first base, there’s a very high chance that it’s because he was intentionally walked.

Ace is up next, finding that same gap in the outfield and sending Hawk home. Those two are a lethal pair, and I’m definitely happy they’re on my team. I’d hate to have to defend either of them.

We end up winning the game by two runs, my final at-bat resulting in a strikeout, which sucks, but also—no running. Hitting the showers, I wash and dry myself quickly, tossing on a white t-shirt and black basketball shorts before making my way to see the trainer. Thankfully, I wasn’t set to do any post-game interviews, so I step through the door to the sterile-smelling room, hoping the wait is short. I rode here with Hawk but told him I’d call for a car so he didn’t have to stick around. They almost never arrange for him to speak with the media since he doesn’t give them much to work with. At home, he’s not as quiet, although hehasbeen making himself a little more scarce now that Arden is living with us. I’m sure he’ll warm up to her eventually. At least, I hope so.

“Hey, Jacks!” the assistant trainer, Reese, says when she notices me, a bright smile blooming across her face. She’s cute, probably in her late twenties, with golden blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. Her curves go on for days, and she’s exactly the kind of girl I’d go nuts over. All the single guys on the team do, even though we have a very strict No Fraternization policy here—not that anyone follows it. I’m about ninety-eight percent sure our Public Relations manager, Taylor, is fucking our mascot, Friggle. Well, the guy who wears the costume. His real name is Brent, and up until earlier this year, he was just some tall, lanky kid who did his job and went home. But lately, I’ve been noticing the way he’s putting more effort into looking good, even spending some time in the team gym, which I have no idea how he gets access to. Pair that with the eyebrow-raising amount of times I’ve seen the two of them come in and out of the equipment closet together, and I’d bet money they’re banging.

I wonder if he keeps the costume on.

I cringe internally, looking up to see Reese staring at me with a confused look on her face. I shake my head rapidly, trying to rid it of the mascot porn that’s now flashing through my mind before I reply.

“Hey.” I step closer, trying to mask my slight limp. If I don’t, she may call the team physician, and I’d prefer not to get him involved yet. “So, I think I tweaked my right hamstring or something. It isn’t awful, and I’ll rest it while we’re off, but I wanted to get your opinion on what else I could do to make sure I’m feeling one hundred percent as fast as possible.”

“Want to hop up and let me take a look?” she asks, patting the padded exam table before turning to the sink and washing her hands. I lie down, the cold pleather making me shiver as it seeps through the thin material of my shirt. Reese rubs her hands together, creating enough friction to warm them before she reaches out and runs them up my thigh. I tense at first, waiting for her to press into the muscle, but when she kneads it with her thumbs gently, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as I expected it to. Relief washes over me, and I let out a steady breath as she gently massages the area before pulling away.

“It’s a little swollen and tender, but I think you’ll be okay. Take it easy at home for the next two days, keep it elevated, ice it for twenty to thirty minutes every four hours, and you can take some Tylenol for the pain if you need it. I’d like to see you before you leave for Milwaukee, so how about you swing by that morning so I can make sure you’re good?”

I sit up, turning myself so my legs are hanging off the side of the table and adjusting my shorts before finding the floor. I’m thankful that she validated my thoughts about it not being too serious. It probably could be if we were playing again tomorrow, but the time off will help me heal. I’ll do everything she said to get ready for the Lynx this weekend. They beat us the last time we played, so the stakes are even higher for me to be at my best.

“Thanks, Reese,” I say with a wave, heading toward the door. She returns the gesture, and I slip into the hallway, expecting it to be nearly cleared out. So, I’m shocked when I see Hawk leaning up against the wall in front of me.

“Why didn’t you leave?” I ask, my brows knitting tightly. “I told you I’d be a while.”

He shrugs, and we walk down the corridor that leads to the elevators. There’s a special parking lot for players and staff, but it’s a bit of a trek since it’s on the opposite side of the stadium. Our steps fall in sync with one another, and he shoves his hands into his pockets like he’s trying to decide if he wants to talk or not. He’s normally like this around other people, but not when we’re alone, so it’s raising some red flags.

“What?” I ask. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not,” he grunts, pausing for a moment. “It’s just that Arden is probably home, and I didn’t want it to be awkward if we were the only two in the house.”

I stop, throwing my head back in annoyance. “She’s been here for three weeks, and I haven’t seen you speak to her once. If it’s awkward, it’s because you’re making it that way. She has an outgoing personality, but she’s holding it back because she’s afraid she’s disrupting our lives.”

“Did she say that?” he says, concern blanketing his expression.

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