Page 47 of Pitcher

“Dude.”

Someone knocks into me from behind.

“What’s up your ass?”

I couldnotturn around.

I could grab my stomach and heave. No one would be the wiser. No one would know I was faking sick. Especially not Toby.

“McCallister is up his ass… Fucking up all those pretty little thoughts of his.”

Ugh. But Brody would know. You don’t have a catcher you’ve been friends with all four years of college and he not pick up on your lies. And since he’s already talking shit today, I know I won’t be able to blow off this practice without him causing a scene. Who gives a fuck that he’s sort of correct about Anniston fucking up my thoughts?

With a deep, exaggerated sigh, I toss my phone in my locker and slowly turn around, raising my middle finger so it presses directly into Brody’s chest.

“Aww, don’t be mean, Von Bremen. I can’t help it if McCallister leaves you with blue balls every day.”

I could punch Brody in the face to get out of this practice. Not only is it unsportsmanlike conduct, but it will bruise my pitching hand. Problem solved.

My gaze drags up Brody’s increasing gut, and I make a face. “At least I’m not eating my feelings, dick.”

Brody, never one to take my shit, barks out a hearty laugh and shoves me into Toby, who quickly rights us both.

Shame.

Falling could have sent me home too.

“Come on, man, what’s your deal? I can’t have you throwing like shit out on the field and running extra laps.”

I cut him a look. I’veneverthrown like shit. Ever. Not since Anniston’s grandfather helped me hone my craft. And definitely not since Anniston took his place and runs my training schedule like a major league pitching coach.

Shit is never a term associated with my pitching.

I sigh, taking a seat on the bench. With my head in my hands, I admit to the floor, “It’s Anniston’s birthday today, and I’m not sure what to do.”

Brody howls like a woodland animal. “The playboy has been played,” he crows. “Tell me, Von Bremen, does she have you by the balls with one hand or two?”

Who needs friends really? They are such a pain in the ass.

I spit on Brody’s bare feet under me, and I feel pleasantly vindictive when he jumps back and hushes that atrocious howling.

Toby chuckles under his breath at our exchange and says, “What did you have in mind for her?”

See, Toby, I don’t fucking know because the last time we really had a quiet night together, I nearly came in my sheets that smelled like her goddamned perfume.

I groan. “I don’t know. It’s the last birthday I’ll get to spend with her for a while.”

“Well, well, he has a heart after all,” chimes in Brody who apparently found a paper towel and cleaned his foot.

“Don’t be a dick.” Seriously, I’ve had a bad couple of days. “You know her birthday is a big deal to her.”

When Brody’s smug smile turns into something solemn, I imagine him remembering Anniston’s birthday is also the day her mom died. She doesn’t shy away from celebrating her birthday, but she never bothers with a party.

My stomach cramps thinking of me being across the country playing a game and not being able to celebrate with her. What if she doesn’t celebrate? What if she does? What if she celebrates with Thad?

Oh God.

“Look, dude,” says Brody, clasping me on the shoulder, “why don’t you bring her over to the house, grab a cake, and we’ll play some poker. She likes that, right?”

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