Page 64 of Off Limits: The Firsts

I pull my shirt over my head and chew over the idea I’ve considered more times than I’d like to admit. “Probably not. Last thing I need to do is run into him in the hallway. A few months isn’t long enough for me to not want to rip his goddamn throat out.” The guys around me laugh. “Besides, if I did, I’d probably just fuck my arm up further . . . so, nah, I’m gonna watch from home.”

“Gonna meet us after?”

I glance over to the empty training room. The one Scout ran out of earlier. She’s the one person I’d rather hang with tonight, but fuck it, going out is probably just what I need to feel like my old self again instead of this overthinking, whiny bitch I’m feeling like right now. “Got nothing better to do than hang with my boys.”

And then I see him. The rookie who was just called up from the Triple-A team outta Bum-fuck, Nowhere. He’s sitting on his stool, staring in awe at the locker with his name placard on it, much the same way I did my first time here, all those years ago.

“Hey, Gonzo!”

The kid startles as he turns around and sees me across the room. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for filling in for me. You’ll do great. Knock ’em dead tonight.” I smile at him and nod. A little something to ease the pressure of his first time in the big leagues, and a subtle reminder not to get too comfortable in the gear because I’ll be back.

I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince more, him or me.

“Thanks,” he stutters, eyes as big as saucers.

“We’ll see you at Sluggers after the game. The guys’ll show you where to go. It’s not every night you make your major league debut.”

His smile widens, and he nods. And I’m left sitting, staring at my own locker, contemplating what it would be like to have that feeling back—the awe of walking into the stadium for the first time, the nerves that roll your stomach, the jog of your knee as you sit in the dugout for the first time, and the knowledge that when you hop over that chalk baseline there are thousands of people in the stands who would kill to take your place.

All of it is a reaffirmation of how damn lucky I am, when I’ve been sitting here feeling goddamn sorry for myself.

The chatter begins to die down as the guys head for the dugout. Some slap me on the back as they leave, some give a fist-bump. Good lucks are given. Shit-talking is required.

And when I’m the only one left in the locker room, I head out, hating the feeling that I’m missing all of this with them. That they’re moving on—the next game, the next play, the next city in this long season—while I’m still sidelined and going fucking stir crazy over a game I love but can’t play and a woman I want but can’t seem to get.

Talk about being majorly fucked.

I laugh at myself as I stand in the tunnel and decide if I want to go to the right and past all the VIP fan events happening, where I’ll get wrangled into PR, or asked to head up to the announcer’s booth for a bit and add some color commentary, as I’ve done a few times over the past few months, or if I want to veer left and take the long route.

Left. Definitely left.

I’m not in the mood to deal with fans right now. Not when I’m pissed and just want the hell out of this stadium that suddenly feels like a prison I can’t escape from fast enough.

My shoes echo against the concrete as I make my way through the maze of tunnels. My thoughts are all over the place. On my shoulder. On Scout. On watching the game today, the first time Santiago has been in the starting line-up against us since he fucked me over.

“Don’t you go anywhere near him.”

The voice comes from the next hall up, and the threat in it resonates down to where I am. By the time I wrap my head around the notion that it sounds like my dad, I’m standing in the opening of the passageway, staring at him and Santiago.

Standing side by side.

My dad’s hand fisted in my enemy’s shirt.

There’s a tense second where it takes everything I have not to close the distance and smash my fist into his smarmy fucking smirk that has never said anything near an apology.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

He’s suited up to play. Just like I should be, but can’t.

Because of him.

“Dad?” I address my dad, yet I can’t help but stare at Santiago and try to figure out what in the hell his deal is.

Santiago turns to look back to my dad, eyebrows raised. “Thanks for the chat, Cal, but I’ve got a game to play. See you on the field, Wylder?” he says as he looks toward me. “Oh. Wait. My bad. You won’t be there.”

And with a fucking chuckle that is like acid in my gut, he pats my dad on the back and jogs the other way down the tunnel. We both stare after him without saying a word.