Page 1 of Catching Feelings

CHAPTER ONE

MILES

“That all you got, Diego?” I taunt the cocky seventeen-year-old baseball player. “I’ve seen toddlers with better accuracy than your weak-ass arm.”

The kid is going places. No doubt he gets drafted before he finishes college, if he decides to go. Even though we play different sports, I held my own on my high school baseball team over a decade ago. But football was where my heart was. Is.

I hold my long arms in front of me and pretend to inspect my nails, then rub them on my chest. The seat in the dunk booth is fuck-ass uncomfortable, but the kids are having a blast throwing baseballs at the target in front of me.

Since Diego is in the oldest age groupandon the baseball team, his marker point is the farthest away and his target is the smallest. Fair is fair. It’s the first year Boston Strong is hosting this event, a fundraiser for student athletes who come from low-income families, and the turnout is crazy.

Riley Bankes runs the organization, and ever since she married our star running back two years ago, the team has helped in a plethora of ways. Either volunteering at the 5K in the fall, raising awareness for the program on our social media accounts, or working the spring fling. It’s the first year in its conception, and a lot for Riley to take on, especially since she’s about to give birth any minute.

“You’re going down, old man,” Diego shouts as he winds up his arm, making a big show of himself in front of his friends.

I just met the kid and his buddies this morning during the first hour of meet and greet with the Boston Revolutions football team, and we hit it off instantly. Probably because he has the same immature sense of humor that I have. Yeah, we’re cool like that.

“Little League signups are next—” It happens so fast I don’t even remember Diego releasing the ball. He nails the target and I plunge into the cold water. “Little shit,” I sputter as I wipe my face.

The laughter coming from the group of teenagers banging on the other side of the glass makes it all worthwhile.

“I can’t wait for you to be inside this booth. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“I thought it was just professional athletes volunteering.”

“Exactly.” I tap my finger to the plexiglass, starting with Diego since he seems like the leader of his pack. “Get good grades, don’t fuck off, and take care of your body, and no doubt the Sox will be calling.”

Diego’s story isn’t unique. Single mom working three jobs to barely make rent while he goes to school, plays three sports, and works weekends. All these kids come from dire straits, and giving up a few hours of our time here and there, writing checks, and signing autographs doesn’t seem enough.

I was once in Diego’s shoes and know all too well the challenges he’s facing, and will continue to face.

“What if I don’t want to play for the Sox?”

“Dude! What the fuck, man?” Mark punches Diego’s shoulder. “You can’t say that in Beantown.”

Mark attends the same high school, I learned earlier today, and plays baseball with Diego, but his heart is on the basketball court.

“Keep throwing pitches like that and you’ll have your pick in the MLB. Same advice goes to all you knuckleheads.” I point at each of the four kids. The other two I haven’t met yet, but if they’re here, they’re hoping to make a future in sports and need financial assistance. “Best advice I can offer.”

“What about the chicks?” the blond soccer player asks.

“I have the same advice for theladies.”

“No. I mean, what’s your advice on the hot tail coming our way? You’re a player on and off the field. You gonna tell us to stay clear even though you don’t?” He snorts.

“All I’m gonna say is treat the ladies—everyone for that matter—with respect. Don’t let your ego get in the way of friendships, family, or relationships.”

“You’re photographed with different women all the time.” Diego smirks. “You treatin’ them with respect? What’s your secret?”

“A. Don’t believe everything you read online. B. Always. And C.” I mirror Diego’s smirk. “Some things can’t be taught. You either got it or you don’t.”

“Dude!” Mark clutches his middle and leans over laughing. “You totally don’t have it.”

Diego pounces on his friend and the four of them swagger off, following the girl they’d been ogling.

I’m dunked over and over again, and I may go overboard with the dramatics when an adorable twelve-year-old hopeful gymnast hits the target after five tries.

Declan, the Rev’s quarterback, comes and relieves me, and I drag my soaking wet body from the booth. I bend down to get my shoes, and when I stand, I scrape my ribs against a piece of the metal frame of the tank.

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