Page 3 of Bad Ball Hitter
“Okay, I promise,” I whisper, my voice trembling. We head out, and as the adrenaline fades, I’m left with an undeniable truth: Drake Gunner is no trouble at all—he’s my hero.
CHAPTER ONE
Drake
“What a win, Les! This Boston Bears team is looking like the best we’ve seen in years.”
“Absolutely, Joe. Heading into the All-Star break with a four-game lead shows that adding Drake ‘Bad Ball Hitter’ to our powerhouse roster was a masterstroke by management.”
“I couldn’t agree more. There's a lot of baseball left in the season, but we’re in for an exciting ride.”
“No doubt about it. Well, folks, that’s it for today. This is Les…”
“And Joe.”
“Signing off from Fenway. We’ll catch you after the break.”
With my fourth drink—no, fifth—I slump against the doorframe, cold bottle in hand, watching a rocket streak across the night sky before exploding into a shower of red, white, and blue. California’s skyline lights up, and my chest tightens with each pop and whistle as I’m pulled deeper into the past. The party buzzes around me with perfectly timed oohs and ahs, but not from me. I’m trapped in a bubble of regret and longing, watching the sky catch fire.
Maybe I should’ve stayed in Boston.
At least there, I wouldn’t have to relive this night, wouldn’t have these memories flickering through my mind—Cara laughing in the summer heat, her hair catching the sunlight, much like the sparks above now catch the night.
Yet, it’s not Cara who’s messing with my head. Buried memories are clawing their way back and pulling me to another time.
Back to her.
To the first time we watched the fireworks together, her hand finding mine in the dark, her eyes wide with wonder. It was so easy then, as natural as breathing, to be with her, to love her.
But like these fireworks, our time together had been too brief, too intense, ending in a blaze of sparks that left nothing but smoke and lingering burn.
“Going a bit heavy on those, aren’t you, slugger?” AJ’s voice breaks through the noise as a particularly loud kaboom thunders above.
Not as heavy as my thoughts.
I lift my bottle in a mock salute before stepping into the warm night air, shaking off the nostalgia. Or trying to, at least. “It’s the All-Star break. Remember those days, old man?”
AJ Gonzales—a former Phillies catcher, my ex-teammate, and yes, my brother-in-law—raises an eyebrow but says nothing. It took years, but we’re finally friends. One could call it a slow burn, but he came around to Team Drake.
I sip my beer, but my gaze involuntarily drifts to Cara’s laughter under the shower of green and gold lighting up the sky. Her head rests on her husband, Braxton’s, shoulder, his arm securely wrapped around her. And did he just kiss the top of her head?
Jesus.
Their wedding was six months ago, and they still act like newlyweds. Sickening, or maybe a painful reminder of what I lost. Of what I pushed away with my own hands.
“You know she’s happily married, right?”
“Yeah.” My response is automatic, but AJ’s stare deepens, his voice sharpening with an edge of protectiveness I’ve grown all too familiar with.
“Then why the fuck are you looking at my sister as if you’ve lost your best friend? You treated Cara like shit when you were together.”
I let out a resonated sigh. No amount of festive light can brighten the shadow that hangs between the past and the present. Team Drake is indeed a lonely island.
My eyes draw back to the fireworks as another burst of color explodes. But it’s not the brunette in the arms of another guy occupying my thoughts. It’s the echoes of what could have been with a five-foot-five blond that fit against me perfectly.
I treated her like shit near the end, too. At least with her, I can blame my youth. Given our age, I doubt we would’ve gone the distance. Who marries their high school sweetheart, anyway?
“Just enjoying the show,” I mutter, but AJ’s smirk tells me he doesn’t buy it for a second.