Page 28 of Commander in Briefs

“Von Bremen! Get your ass in the shower!” Coach Bellamy screams at me from the doorway, breaking through my mental meltdown.

“You played like shit today! Go get laid and get your fucking head together, boy!”

What the fuck ever. I did not play like shit today. I might not have played up to par, but not like shit. Coach Bellamy is an asshole of the highest degree. He makes the whole pitching staff miserable on a daily basis. It’s almost like he hates his job, much like me.

I’m done with this shit for today. My shoulder is sore from lobbing balls at Brody with sorry technique, and now my legs ache, all because Ans blew me off. Coach is right, I do need to get my head on straight. I need to see her. Yeah. That’s it.

Before I can change my mind, I yell, catching Coach right before his back disappears out the door, “Coach!” I make it sound whiney. “My shoulder hurts. I need to see my trainer.”

His head, very slowly, appears back in the doorframe, his eyes squinted to slits. He’s pissed but too late to take it back now. He moves toward me, meaning to intimidate me, but it won’t work. I know I’m the biggest pain in his ass. The problem is, I am the best he has, so he’s stuck with my outrageous requests. He barrels toward the treadmill, his angry, labored steps have him reaching me in seconds, his chest rising and falling in a dramatic flair. I don’t so much as flinch.

Bellamy does not scare me. The thing is, I don’t care if I get fined or suspended. Hell, they can fire me for all I give a fuck. Thad invested my money and if I never work another day, I will be fine. The only reason I even play professional ball is because: (A) I’m great at it. (B) It scores me pussy. (Okay, so I don’t really get that much use out of that one but I could if I wanted to.) And (C) I didn’t want to take over my father’s insurance empire. That boring shit is not for a person like me who can’t sit still in a movie theater. No, I couldn’t do insurance every day.

Coach Bellamy’s beady eyes stare daggers at me and I give him my trademark smile, but they don’t waver. Hard ass.

I take a long breath and rub my shoulder, faking a little wince to make the story believable. “It hurt earlier, Coach. That’s why I played like shit.”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate before barking, “See our trainer here. No reason you have to fly home to see your personal trainer.” He spits that last part, obviously disgusted that my contract is ironclad, enforcing that I use my own trainer (at my own expense).

I shrug like I can’t help that my shoulder hurts and I have to fly hundreds of miles to get it looked at by my hot little blonde. He’s onto my bullshit but his hands are tied. Thank you, Thad, for negotiating that contract like a mofo. I need to give him a raise.

Bellamy is still giving me the stink eye like he’s plotting my death.

“That’s not going to be a problem, is it, Coach?” I lay on that southern charm with a half-ass smile.

He growls. Literally growls at me. Removing his hat, he runs his hands over his scruffy hair. “Fucking prick,” he mutters before turning back toward the door.

I chuckle, unable to help it and not offended in the least. I am a prick. I would hate to coach some punk with God-given talent who pisses it away when the mood strikes.

I have no drive to play. I do it because I am supposed to be a responsible adult. I don’t love it—I’m good at it. That’s all. It’s just a job for me. A way to make money. I can play hooky just like anyone else. And I plan on playing it all the way back home to Georgia to see my girl.

“Fine,” he answers me coldly, pivoting back around to meet my eyes. “I want a conference with Dr. McCallister after you are examined. Today.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

I nod, knowing she’ll do it. She’ll make me suffer for it no doubt, but she’ll do it. For me.

My flight was a total mood killer. After listening to the couple behind me argue the whole fucking flight, I’m as pissed off as the dude getting bitched at. His girlfriend was a complete twat. One second more, I think I would have turned around and told him as much.

Irritation consumes me as I bob and weave through the airport with stealth, keeping my head low in an effort to go unnoticed. A douchey move, I know. The fans are what makes the world go round but I’m not in the mood to plaster on a fake smile and sign a bunch of shit. It would only piss me off further and at this point—one comment away from an assault charge—I don’t think that’s a smart idea.

A car waits for me outside and like the ninja I am, I hop in, completely unnoticed. Score one for Von Bremen! I instruct the driver to Ans’, barely acknowledging his professional smile, my mood already looking up.

Anniston’s house is about an hour away from the airport. It’s been two days since I had more than four hours of solid rest. My anxiety and ADHD have been off the charts today, worrying about Anniston’s cool brush off. That kind of bullshit hasn’t happened to me in months. Usually, I can sleep for at least six hours with all the exertion I exhibit out on the field. Not this time, though. This time, I have been up pacing every couple of hours, thinking up crazy scenarios as to why her calls have become less and less. It has to stop. Seeing Anniston will be good. I’ll get my answers. I need answers.

Using the opportunity to catch up on some much-needed sleep, I recline back as much as possible in the back seat, and shove one hand down my pants. What? It’s comfortable. My eyes flutter closed as I will sleep to take me.

It doesn’t. One annoying hour later, the car pulls up to the plantation. I’m hungry, tired, and now a little hostile. The plantation hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. Its worn white paint is weathered, the porch a little shoddy, but it’s home to me. More so than my own Atlanta penthouse.

After paying the driver, I bound up the stairs, intent on barreling into the house and giving Miss-I-Can’t-Come-To-Your-Game a lesson in friendship that ends with her bent over my knees, and run right into a locked door. That’s odd. Anniston never locks the door. Yes, she is a complete idiot with no regards for her own safety. But she’s hot, so I bitch at her, and let it go.

I fish around for my keys, but pause when I hear footsteps. “Ans! Open the door!” I shout, hoping to be saved from setting my bag down to figure out which key it is. I haven’t used it in… well, forever.

Silence. What the fuck is she doing in there? I bang on the door. “What the fuck, Ans! Open the damn door!” Footsteps again. Okay, she’s really starting to piss me off now.

“Anniston!” I shout as I give a couple more bangs to the antique door.

The door opens abruptly just as I throw down my bag, preparing to get out my keys.

“Theo?” My kryptonite stands wedged in the crack of the door looking oddly nervous. “What are you doing here?”

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