Page 84 of Bad Ball Hitter
Turning to face Rappel, I slap him on the back. “Yeah, you’ll be the first one I call Rapp. You take care of yourself,” I say, managing a tight smile. The unspoken promise hangs heavy in the locker room’s shadows.
Rappel nods, clapping me on the shoulder in return. His features are stoic, but his eyes mirror my own disappointment. I wonder if he’s reflecting on his future with the Bears or just caught up in the collective sorrow of our season’s premature end.
I finish packing up my locker, feeling an odd sense of finality as I toss the last of my gear into my bag. The worn wooden paneling has been my home away from home for a season now, and it’s strange to think this might be the last time I see it.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and start towards the door when a familiar figure steps into my path. Kaplan Dior. Something about him set my teeth on edge right from day one, not helped by our constant battles for dominance on the field. But he’s been all right ever since his confession. He stands there now, blocking my exit with a smug smirk.
“Good luck finding a new team, Gunner,” he drawls sarcastically but with an underlying tease. “Wherever you go, I hope it’s far from Boston.”
His words roll off me like water off a duck’s back. Dior never missed a chance to belittle me, but it didn’t faze me anymore. I give him a smirk. “Who knows? You may not be getting rid of me that easily.”
He nods and stalks off, leaving me wearing a smile. He’s still an asshole. But he’s not my asshole anymore. I almost asked if he ever made up with Miranda, but I let it go. It’s none of my business.
I head towards the exit when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and stare at the screen. It’s an email notification. The results are in.
I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen. I decide to slide my phone back into my pocket. When I discover if Jake is genetically mine, I want Lila by my side. From now on, we’re a team. Every decision we make will benefit both of us.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Lila
The collective groans heard throughout the stadium, the low grumbles of disappointment, and the clap on the backs to “get them next year” mean nothing while I stand beside Drake in his apartment with his email pulled up.
He grips the phone tightly, his knuckles white with tension. His gaze fixes on the screen, his expression a mixture of apprehension and caution.
Every piece of me screams to stop. Don’t open that email. We’ve suffered enough disappointment with today’s devastating loss. But as much as I don’t want to know, the weight of not knowing is slowly killing me.
“You know. This won’t change the way I feel about him.” His eyes rise to meet mine. “Regardless of the results. I love that kid more than I ever thought possible.”
My heart skips a beat. I need to stop letting him pull me back in. But his words and honesty are a hook that’s snagged me deep. And that’s extremely dangerous for my heart, especially with his contract still in question.
“What if he’s not yours, Drake?” I ask, the words hurting more than I thought they would. The fear in his eyes is raw and honest; the stakes for him are high. He’s been through enough. We both have.
He swallows hard and looks down, the silence between us stretching on until it’s deafening.
“Then,” his voice cracks with emotion, “I’ll still be there for him. He won’t lose me.” His gaze sweeps up to mine, determination set in them. “Nor will you.”
Tears prick the back of my eyes as I take a step closer to him. This man, this complicated yet selfless man, had wormed his way into my heart. And as much as I vow to guard myself against him, moments like this remind me why I fell for Drake Gunner in the first place.
I glance down at the phone, its screen still displaying the unopened email. A knot forms in my stomach, twisting into a tight ball of anxiety. The uncertainty is debilitating—the unknown monster lurking in the shadows.
Drake’s hand shakes slightly as he hands me the phone. “Open it.”
I take a deep breath, steadying myself; my fingers tremble over the screen. My heart races so fast I feel dizzy. It’s not just about what’s in that email. It’s about everything else it represents. If Drake gets traded and leaves Boston, then what? He says Jake’s his regardless, but will he mean it?
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to meet his gaze, and then I swipe to open to the word negative.
One word can destroy or ignite your entire world.
Drake swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat. He seems to want to say something, but nothing comes out.
“Drake?” His name a question. Though, I don’t expect an answer.
Without uttering a word, he walks away to stand by the window and looks out at the city with an unreadable expression.
His shoulders are taut, the muscles under his shirt straining as he fights whatever storm is brewing in his mind. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, the only sign of his internal turmoil. The distance between us suddenly feels insurmountable.
“Drake,” I say again, closing the distance between us. He had always been multifaceted, a myriad of contradictions like rough edges polished by time and adversities. Loyal yet volatile; gentle yet intense.