Page 9 of Totally Ducked

“Brendan, are you in, too?”

“Huh?”

“Drinks, tonight, are you in?”

“Sure. Hey, Rob, we should invite the others, too. Make it a whole writers’ night. We’ll be on this tour for weeks together, let’s scope out the competition.”

“Sounds good to me.”

And now I’m having drinks with all the writers instead of going out to get laid. I want to be accepted by this group of writers and be seen as a true sportswriter, not just a gossip columnist, so tonight might give me that chance. They looked pretty angry about this morning, maybe I can smooth things over. They didn’t seem to have an issue with Brendan being here, though, so maybe it was more about me than the morning early access? Fuck.

I try to shake it off and focus on the training session. The players are out there giving it their all, and the crack of the ball on the bat becomes a steady rhythm. The wind picks up, and the smell of grass and sweat tickles my nose in the best kind of way. This is everything I want, and I’ll do everything I have to to prove I belong here. I’m a real sportswriter.

The teams head inside to start working on choreography, and I jog to the side of the field to get a shot that I might be able to use later. I crouch down beside the fence and click a few times. Then something yellow grabs my eye on the screen and I clickto change the focus from the legs of the players walking off the pitch to what I can now see is a tiny yellow duck painted to look like it’s wearing a baseball costume. I quickly click a shot and then head over to where it sits nestled in the red dirt by the fence. This is where Brendan was before.

He left this here. It had to be him leaving the duck back in the press room, too. But why? I contemplate putting it back, but this thing is just too cute, I can’t leave it here. I pop it into my pocket and then head in after the others, suddenly wondering how many of them he has and how many I can find before he catches me.

Chapter five

Duckie

I know I shouldn’tcare what buzz other writers are getting, but I can’t help but check the latest numbers while we wait to be allowed into the conference room where the teams are working on choreography. My article forLacedhas thirty-one thousand two hundred and forty-three hits. I click over toTotal Sports,knowing that my view will only add to Ian’s score, but I can’t not know. Twenty-seven thousand. Yes. I check the others and, though I’m not top of the rank, knowing I’m beating Ian gives me a small sense of pride. I know he said he hated writing that shit, but he still did it and he’s still the reason I’m here.

I want to have fun with this whole thing, but right there above my article is another about the Pullson twins both scoring hat tricks in last night’s game against Boston, and all I want to do is scream.

The door opens and music floods the hallway before a tall, thin man in black tights and no shirt walks out grinning.

“I’m Dennis, lead choreographer for the tour. Now, you all signed agreements to keep what you see in here out of yourarticles, so drop your phones in the basket on the way in, and get ready to work,” he instructs, stepping aside to let us pass.

“What do you mean work?” I ask.

Dennis smirks. “We’ve decided you all will play a slightly bigger role in game one’s introduction.”

I drop my phone into the basket by the door and follow the others inside. The teams are both scattered around the room and the two mascots are sitting in chairs by the side with their large foam heads beside them on the floor.

The music stops, and Dennis claps his hands at the front of the room.

“Okay, new plan, boys. We’re roping our reporting crew in to night one, so step up and let’s show these pen pushers what we have so far.”

A few of the other reporters look terrified, not Ian, though. He’s practically bouncing on his toes.

The teams take to the sides of the room, and when the song starts over, The Funky Monkeys start moving into the middle of the room with a sort of skip to their step. They sing along to the track as they move to the beat and form a circle in the center before starting a well-timed dance. They’re almost all in perfect time as they go through each step, and when the beat of the music changes, the song morphs into something else and Animal Control rushes the team. The Funky Monkeys back away; scared off they huddle to one side. All except for one player, that is. Nate Buxton has taken his place where a piece of white tape sits on the floor, bat in hand. The catcher, Harrison Roe, takes his place crouched behind him, ass out, wriggling to the beat of the song.

It’s hard not to get into it. My head is nodding to the rhythm, and they start to circle number five. Gordon James, with his flame-red hair hidden mostly under a cap, spins in the middle of the group and then, without any warning, sends the ball right down the line and into the pitcher’s mitt.

The music stops.

“Okay, you’re up pen pushers.”

Some of the older guys start to protest, but I slap a hand down on Rob’s shoulder.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” I tell him, and though he nods, I’m pretty certain he would rather be doing anything else right now.

Dennis’s idea is to have us surrounding the entry, holding a microphone and notepads like in the old days of reporting before the teams come out, he wants us to have a mini clash of sorts, a dance battle, he called it, to help hype up the crowd.

We take our places and start to practice the basic moves Dennis gives us, and then it’s time for a practice run. I plant my feet opposite Ian, and a hum vibrates through me, spreading across my skin. I almost hate to admit it, but thisiskind of fun. Ian’s side does their thing, and as instructed, my side leans forward, claps three times, then gives them a hair flick as we spin, then do some three-beat thing with our arms and a body roll. That move I have down pat.

Someone wolf whistles from the players watching and I throw in a cross-leg spin and dip just for fun.

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