Page 111 of Baseball and Shifters
“Speak for yourself,” Bas laughs, flexing his muscles for effect. “She said my glutes are way better than Stans.”
A round of snickers bounce around the room. Ever since Trent was benched the vibe has been all adrenaline, no drama. The locker-room door bumps open and Coach Mace strides in, clipboard under one arm. His buzzed hair and sun-weathered face make him look more like a soldier than a coach.
“Nightclaws, eyes on me.” The chatter instantly dies. “First night of the tournament. Opening game. Our house. Know what that means?”
“We set the standard,” Bas answers for all of us, voice strong and sure.
“Exactly. Arcane Ridge walked in here thinking it’s just another tournament. You’re about to teach ’em otherwise,” he pauses, gaze sweeping our new digs. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “New uniforms look sharp. Play sharper. Now move.”
As he heads for the tunnel, someone farther down the row mutters, “Crazy that Trent’s not here to see this.”
Silence flickers, then Elliott shrugs. “Team chemistry’s better without him.”
“Agreed,” Derrick growls.
I slap my glove against the palm of my hand, feeling my nervous energy reverberate through my bond with Rachel. She sends back a sense of pride and anticipation.
“Let’s win it for her,” I say.
Bas gives me a fist bump. “Let’s win it for us.”
We fall into the familiar pre-game cadence, stretching and warming up. I imagine Rachel’s jaw on the floor when she sees us out here in her uniform design and it spurs me on. The energy in the stands promises a good game.
The place is packed.
Bas jogs past me with a bat on his shoulder. “Stadium’s drooling over her designs.”
“Yeah, so is our girl,” I flash him my phone, opened to the group chat. On the screen is a picture she took of us stretching followed by like a dozen green and blue hearts.
“Damn, we could be on the cover of a sports magazine,” Bas says, wagging his brows.
“I must admit, my ass does look fantastic in these pants.”
Bas scoffs at my assessment.
“Barker! Rana! Dugout!” Coach barks from across the field, ending our conversation.
We make our way to the dugout and moments later the announcer comes over the speakers signaling the beginning of the game.
Coach Mace meets us at the top step, eyes flaring that familiar lion-gold, telling me he’s as fired up as we are. “Lock in, Nightclaws. Play your game. Make every moment count, every pitch, every swing. Nothing fancy, just ruthless execution of what we've practiced.”
Liam cracks his knuckles. Derrick rolls his shoulders until they pop. Bas punches the inside of his glove, and I bounce on my toes, swinging my arms, getting hyped up.
Dun-dun-duuun… The bass of the stadium's hype track rattles through the concrete as the PA system booms:
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 142nd annual Pacific North-West Shifter Collegiate Tournament! Opening on their home turf—yourrrr Eldergrove Nightclaws!”
The crowd detonates. Green and navy towels whirl like a storm.
“First up, on the mound— number forty-six, Liam Barker!”
Liam jogs out, cap low, jaw set. Wolf whistles rain from the student section.
“At first base— number eleven, Bas Rana!”
Bas waves a gloved hand, throwing in a gratuitous bicep flex, and a group of girls in row three practically faint. Rachel's laughter shoots down the bond filling me with a warm glowing feeling. Having her here watching, reacting in real time is like a shot of adrenaline.
“Behind the plate— lucky number seven, Derrick Ashford!”
