Page 27 of Bad Ball Hitter
“The guy is a dick,” I manage to grunt out, drink in hand.
We just got off a brutal five-game loss with Kaplan in the rotation. Once again, he blamed me for his wild pitches. I took the blame for the passed ball last time, but the errors were all on him this time. I’m not a fucking acrobat behind the plate.
“Yeah, that’s been established.” Rappel takes a drink and pops his bottle on the table. “I’m pretty sure the day he was born, the planets aligned to spell the word dickhead.”
I chuckle, but it dies rather quickly. Something feels off. It’s like my planets aren’t aligned. Truthfully, I haven’t been right since seeing Lila. There’s no denying it.
“The girl in the tight skirt is checking you out.” Rappel cocks his head toward the redhead. She’s beautiful. Big tits. Smoking curves. Hot. I would’ve been all over that tight piece of ass in my younger days. Funny how a year or two can change your perspective.
“Pass.”
“You didn’t even look.”
I checked her out when I ordered my drink. Not that I wanted to or had any choice in the matter. She unapologetically reached across the counter before me while I waited for the bartender. Those seductive eyes and half tilt to her lips said more than any words could.
“Still not interested.” She’s not Lila. Fuck. I mean Miranda. It’s Miranda I’m supposed to be thinking about. I have to delete Lila from my mind. “So this thing with the woman you were with the other night is serious, huh? I thought you were a fuckboy like the rest of us.”
“Does my reputation proceed me?”
“Nah, though, it made it around the bases when you took off with your teammate’s sister.”
Jesus. I’m never living that shit down.
I knew hooking up with Cara would haunt me at family get-togethers but in a hotel bar with a different team years later? No.
“I was wilder back in the day. And in my defense, Cara was hot. Still is, but she’s my sister-in-law and happily married now.”
“Jesus. So you’re serious with this new girl?”
“Miranda?” I shrug and drag a hand down my face, scratching at my stubble. “I’m trying with her.”
“I didn’t realize it was that serious.”
I make a noncommittal sound. I’m so fucking in my head right now I can’t even admit what we have.
Rappel studies me for a moment before responding, “Why do I get the impression there’s more going on?”
“Fuck.” I exhale and grip my beer tighter. “I thought we were trying to relax, not be psychoanalyzed.”
Rappel raises his hands in surrender. “I’m trying to figure out what’s putting you on edge.”
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but he stops me.
“You’re distracted. Something’s off. If this new woman is causing you stress, you can cut her off until after the postseason.”
I raise my eyebrows. My game may have been off today, but I gave a solid performance. Jesus. They have talented players on the team, like Rick Bosley and Vince Russo. It’s not up to me to carry them. What the fuck?
“It’s not as if I didn’t add to my RBIs.” However, I didn’t do any favors for my batting average. I missed a lot more than I hit.
“No,” he drags out the word. He cocks his head, his eyes holding caution. “But you were distracted. You’re not that ambiguous, my friend.”
Friend. The word hits and lands like a sucker punch to the gut. Friends don’t sugarcoat things, do they? They tell it as it is, even if it hurts. Is that what he is? A friend?
Of all the teams I’ve played on, I never made any. I stayed clear of getting close to anyone ever since my supposed best friend stabbed me in the back. In college, I focused on the ball and keeping the parade of females happy. With the Phillies, I slipped into AJ, Zach, and Jax’s group, but that was by default. They tolerated me rather than liked me. I haven’t known Rappel for long, so I don’t know if I can trust him. But my head is about to burst if I don’t share this fucked up situation with someone.
“Hell, maybe you’re right. I’m in my head too much.”
“The big question is why?”