Page 8 of Things I Wish I Said
“Out!” the umpire screams.
I turn to my coach with a fuck-all attitude, the umpire nipping at my heels as I rip my helmet off and chuck it into the dugout where it smashes against the wall and to the ground.
“Coach, I suggest you control your boys, or you’ll have to forfeit.”
“Seriously, De Leon? What the hell is wrong with you?” Coach asks, striding after me.
I shrug, avoiding eye contact as I shove my gear back into my bag with Coach Pickens buzzing in my ear because I know what the fuck is wrong with me, and it’s nothing he can fix.
“I saw your stats for your high school season. You’re losing it. And now you’re shitting up the field on my turf when we all know what you’re capable of?”
“Sorry, Coach. I’ll try not to defecate on your field again,” I deadpan before I meet his stony gaze, my face a mask of indifference.
He recoils, scrunching his nose. “Shit, Grayson. You smell like the bottom of a fucking whiskey barrel. Are you drunk?”
I laugh. He’s just now noticed?
“Is this funny to you? Is losing and getting your ass booted from the game funny?”
“No, sir. And I’m not drunk, just severely hungover.” I smirk.
Maybe.
I’m not sure.
“You have two minutes, Coach!” The umpire screams from the sidelines.
Coach’s body vibrates with anger. “You promised me—”
“I don’t make promises, Coach.” At least not ones I keep.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, ready to jet when Coach reaches a hand out and grips my forearm, his gaze softening on my face.
“If this is about your father—”
“It’s not.” My jaw clenches, the muscle flickering as I mash my molars to dust. I can’t think about him right now. “I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Everything’s fine.”
And then I rip my arm from his grip and turn to leave.
Chapter three
GRAYSON
I park my BMWi8 in the garage—a graduation gift from my mother—and enter through the mudroom at the back of the house, dropping my gear bag beside the washer and dryer before heading into the kitchen. I’m surprised to find my mom waiting for me there.
I’d hoped when she realized I wasn’t in my room, she’d retreat to her office. It’s where she spends most of her time these days. Even on the weekends, she’s unavailable until 6 p.m. To say she’s become obsessive about work since my father died is an understatement, so to find her in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon is more than a little disconcerting, even if it is for a lecture.
My brows rise as I watch her remove a tray of cookies from the oven and take them to the island where she scoops them off the pan and onto a rack to cool.
This certainly wasn’t the reception I expected. I can’t even remember the last time I saw her in the kitchen, let alone making homemade cookies. Something’s up if Ma is baking the morningafter the local law enforcement picked me up. Still, I’m not opposed to taking advantage of whatever this is. Nothing helps ease a whiskey stomach like sugar or grease.
I make a beeline for the cookies before she can stop me, scooping one up and tossing it from hand to hand as it burns my skin, before inhaling the hot chocolatey goodness while Mom shoos me with her spatula. “You’re going to burn your mouth!”
“Worth it,” I say between bites.
“You weren’t in your room this morning.”
Here we go . . .
