Page 79 of Off Limits: The Firsts

It’s not a prank.

Santiago.

Mother. Fucker.

“Tell me it’s not fucking true, Finn,” I grit the words out.

I keep my head down, the bill of my hat pulled low over my face as I weave my way against the flow of the crowd milling around the ballpark, here to catch batting practice.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I need to walk. Run. Fucking punch something. Anything to abate the rage controlling me right now.

“I’m trying to get answers.”

“That’s not fucking good enough.”

“It’s fucking bullshit is what it is,” he sneers, and thank fuck for that because I need him to be just as livid as I am. He was about to be fired if he wasn’t.

“Cory wasn’t there. The front office was the first place I went for answers.” Neither was my dad. “And no one had any answers for me other than ‘Cory will be back late tonight.’”

“It’s probably best you didn’t talk to him right now.”

“He’s a chickenshit fucker to make the trade and not give me a heads-up.”

“I’m in agreement with you there.”

“They know the history here. He’s the bastard who took me out of their starting roster, and then they go and sign the fucker?”

“I know, Easton. It’s not making sense.” I’m so angry I start to walk one way, and then start back the other way, not sure where I’m going, what to do now, or what to do next. “How bad was it?”

My laugh fills the connection but sounds anything but humorous. “I didn’t land a punch, if that’s what you’re asking. Not from a lack of trying, though.” I scrub a hand over my face, my feet eating up the squares of the sidewalk like they’re endless. “Tino and Drew were on me before I could throw it. The other guys grabbed him. It was a clusterfuck.”

“I’ve got calls in. I’m hearing it was Gonzo and two other Triple-A players plus Maddox.”

“Maddox? They traded fucking Maddox?” My head spins at the news.

“He had a big salary and isn’t having that great of a year.”

“Fucking Cory.”

“This is what he’s known for, playing moneyball—he comes in, cleans up, tightens budgets, and he wins pennants.”

“We win them. Not him.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to process how the hell Santiago is an Ace. “Please tell me I’m ironclad.”

“With that book of a contract we negotiated, you’re solid.”

“Finn . . .” I sigh as I cross the street and cut right, far enough from the stadium to breathe a bit freer, where I can talk a little less guarded, but am conscious that I’m still in the city I play for.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, answering my unspoken question: why trade for another catcher when I’m getting my clearance soon? “He’s a damn good left fielder, too. Circe’s been weak this year. Maybe they’re thinking of shifting him there when you come back. This is a business, East. You know that.”

“Bad juju, man.”

“Fucking juju,” he mutters. “Just tell me you can handle being in the same clubhouse as him and that I’m not going to get a call to come bail you out.”

“I’m not making shit for promises.”

“Good to know and glad to hear it. I’ll text you when I hear something.”

I look at the blank screen on my phone for a minute, wanting to call my dad but at the same time not wanting to. And when I look up, I realize where my feet took me.