Page 1 of Sliding Into Love
Worn black leather slid over scarred knuckles, and Ethan Ford snapped his fist into the pocket of his glove as he paced in the bullpen. Once it was flexible, he eased it off and dropped it in his bag, fishing around again until he found a pack of gum and a dingy tube of eyeblack. Through his headphones, a man’s raspy voice sang about hiding his face.A little too appropriate, he thought as he slid the stick of black paint along his cheekbones, dragging his fingertips down to smear it into a grotesque mask. It was a psych-out tactic as much as a practical solution to block rays of sun and glaring stadium lights. He went through the ritual before every game the way some players had good luck routines.
Not that it ever gave him luck, but the practice remained, ingrained after years of playing.
The singer in his headphones growled about war with no home to call his own, about never finding someone new. Ethan tore the headphones off and shoved a piece of gum in his mouth, not needing to hear a musical reminder of his life.
Playing against his former coach’s team was bad enough, worse when his former coach also happened to be his uncle. A complex series of emotions buzzed in his chest when he glimpsed his uncle’s greying sandy hair heading toward the other team’s dugout.
Ethan snapped the gum between his teeth, and the loud pop in his head was enough to break him out of the dark spiral he needed to avoid during the game.
After Ethan and his warmup partner, an outfielder named Jen, were sufficiently loosened up, he headed back to the bullpen to wait. When the announcer announced the National Anthem, the entire stadium stood and sang while fireworks exploded, but Ethan was itching for the game to end before it began. On the mound, he smacked his fist into his glove, adjusting his hat and dark glasses before setting up for the first pitch.
The first half of the first inning went quickly, with Ethan striking out two of the Tornadoes and the final one out on a pop fly that flew right at his face. Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as he jogged to the dugout, Ethan saw a couple of kids leaning against the rails and calling for Derek. When he saw the catcher give them a quick wave before ducking down the dugout steps, Ethan wondered if he knew them. Ethan stiffly tossed the ball in his hand to the nearest child, a boy about ten, who promptly handed it to a tiny girl beside him. The girl screamed and wrapped her arms around the boy. Ethan grinned up at the girl and winked, drawing a huge, dramatic gasp from Jen.
“Shut the hell up,Jennifer,” he griped, knowing how much she hated her full name, and she smacked him in the arm in protest.
Derek joined them, looking unusually serious. “Hey, man, I know you probably don’t care, but you just made his day. He’s in foster care with my—”
It stung, realizing his teammate thought he didn’t care about making a kid smile, but it was what came with keeping your team at arm’s length to rise through the leagues.
“It’s just a ball.” Ethan cut him off and made a show of rolling his eyes and shrugging before pushing past Derek to grab his batting helmet and gloves, tugging them on before stepping out of the dugout.
Derek followed, remaining on the steps, his face still solemn, his heavy gaze lingering as Ethan spun the bat and gave a few practice swings to loosen his shoulders.
As usual, he didn’t pay much attention to his teammates’ at-bats while he waited for his turn, running through his ritual of tapping the bat against the instep of each cleat three times. Then his name rang out through the stadium, and the sound of wailing guitar tore through the air again.
It was only once his cleats were set and he’d given the bat a practice swing that Ethan looked up at the pitcher and recognized Isaac Reyes.
Shit. He’d known running into Isaac was inevitable, hell, he was surprised they hadn’t so far. But seeing his old friend, no matter how he’d tried to prepare himself, was a jolt to his system.
They’d played Little League together and been best friends through high school. Back then, Isaac witnessed the final blow-up between Ethan and his parents when they first tried to talk their son out of taking a deal before graduation, then threatened to disown him when Ethan wanted to leave. Ethan and his old man threw punches, and Isaac tried to get between them and ended up with a black eye for his efforts. Seeing Isaac’s face after half a decade brought back too many memories he’d tried to forget.
“Strike,” the umpire yelled in his ear.
Fuck.
Breathing in as deeply as his rattled nerves allowed, Ethan channeled all his pent-up frustration into the ball Isaac pitched straight into the sweet spot of his bat.
A crack echoed across the stadium and a roar erupted from the fans when they saw he’d knocked it out of the park.
Ethan didn’t care about the score, he just wanted to get away from Isaac Reyes’s too-familiar face. He rounded the bases methodically, imagining he heard his footsteps over the crowd.
The bases weren’t loaded, but they’d scored enough to secure a lead. His teammates whooped as he neared home, and Ethan did the obligatory hand slap with the few of them who bothered to try. Jen, who’d been on third for his hit, banged her helmet into his, grinning broadly at him as the team filed back down into the dugout for the next batter. Ethan shoved through them to find his usual seat: the one farthest away from everyone else.
“Could’ve hit harder.” The voice came from high above Ethan’s head. Marshall was taller than Ethan’s six feet three inches, and he glared down his crooked nose.
“I hit it out.”
“You missed the first pitch. Your father would’ve done better.”
Keeping his flinch internal, Ethan also managed not to roll his eyes. Reacting to the manager’s needling would earn him extra running or weight training tomorrow. And he was too fuckingtiredto deal with Marshall’s shit.
The rest of the game went by in a blur, with Ethan paying just enough attention to Derek that they made it through the next innings holding a two-point lead. Not his best game, but not his worst, either. When it was finally over, he jogged off the mound, squeezing the ball until his knuckles whitened around it. He needed to get the fuck out of here before Isaac cornered him. Or worse, Marshall.
Or worse still, his uncle.
Without thinking, he tossed the ball over the rail to the waiting kids but stopped when he heard his name.
“Mister Ford?” It was the same little girl who’d gotten the first ball he’d thrown into the stands. Her round face was so earnest and sweet that Ethan forgot to scowl and ignore her. “Will you sign my ball, please?” By now, most of the fans knew Ethan Ford was an asshole who didn’t sign things, so they didn’t bother trying.
