The dugout, p.2
The Dugout, page 2
“You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to, Dennis.”
He holds up a hand where one of the gloves is on backward. The fingers are barely filled by his small hands, and the fingertips of the glove look like deflated balloons.
Oh Dennis.
“Were these your brother’s gloves?” He nods. “Well, they seem a little big, and they might get in the way rather than help you.”
“I thought so.” He takes the glove off and then smiles a toothless grin at me. “I can put them in my back pocket like the big leaguers. Like an asessory.”
“Do you mean accessory?”
“Yeah, like my mom has necklaces. I have batting gloves.” He turns around in a short circle for a moment, trying to reach his back pocket and when he does, he shoves the gloves inside, making his little butt very large on one side. “There. How do I look, Coach?”
I smile kindly at him. “Like a ballplayer.”
Chapter Two
CARSON
“Thank fuck,” I answer, placing my EarPods in my ears. “I need to hear your voice.”
“You make it sound like we’re dating,” Knox says, on the other end of the phone.
I huddle in the corner of the dining hall, waiting for my teammates to show up. Because of my show of unsportsmanlike conduct on the field yesterday, Coach Disik suspended me from practice today and is benching me for the next game as well. Just what I fucking need when I’m trying to enter into the draft at the end of the season.
I’m already behind thanks to my injury, add to it my shitty performance on the field, and now warming the wood in the dugout, I’m never going to make it to the big leagues.
“We are dating. We’ve been dating since freshman year,” I say.
“When you say shit like that, it makes our relationship seem weird.”
“Hey, I warned you I was clingy when we first met. It’s not my fault you let me into your world. How’s your mom by the way? I miss Mama G this season and watching her tits bounce up and down in the stands.”
“I will murder you.”
I laugh, feeling a small sense of relief talking to one of my best friends on the phone after the stress I’ve been carrying.
Not only did I miss out on being drafted last season, but because my two best friends, Holt and Knox, were drafted, they left me with all the underclassmen, making me the only fucking senior on the team.
If you’ve been counting, that’s number two hundred sixty-two when it comes to swift kicks to the crotch when it comes to my luck.
Luckily, there are a few guys I’ve been able to lean on this year, Jason Orson being a big one since we share a wall in the loft.
And for the record, he thinks Badcock’s story about tripping is a crock of shit. He was one of the guys in the dugout and saw the sheer force and speed he was running at. Badcock had one thing on his mind: destroy Carson Stone.
I begrudgingly allow him access to the baseball loft, as the weasel head has convinced some teammates what he did was accidental. But he’ll never make it past door duty while I’m here. Maybe he’ll consider his actions next time before he goes and snaps another man’s Achilles tendon.
Poking fun at my love for Knox’s mom is one of my favorite things to do so I say, “She sent me Oreo brownies a few weeks ago, and I pictured her while eating them.”
“I’m about to hang up.”
Laughing harder, I stop him before he hangs up—he’s done it before and refuses to answer the phone when I call him back . . . multiple times. “Coach benched me.”
Silence.
I check the screen to make sure he actually didn’t hang up on me. “What? Why?”
Slinking against the brick wall, I ask, “Do you want the real reason or the ‘for show’ reason.”
“Start with the ‘for show’ reason.”
“I struck out three times in one game yesterday, lost my cool, slammed my bat to the ground, tossed my helmet toward the dugout, and screamed ‘fuck’.”
Chuckling, Knox says, “Yeah, that will get you benched.”
“But he also benched me from practice and the next game.”
“Ouch, really? That seems harsh and unlike him. Now I’m curious. What’s the real reason?”
l observe the campus from afar, the different types of students always interesting me. There are the happy students without a worry in the world, the ones who just skate through college on their parents’ dime. Then there are the stressed and neurotic who are about to have a mental breakdown any second—love the nervous ticks in their eyes. And then there are the student athletes who have ice bags Saran-wrapped to every part of their body, looking tired and ready to pass out in their sub-par plate of spaghetti and meatballs. We’re all here for one goal: to earn an education, and yet, our lives and worries are vastly different.
My benching would probably seem menial to someone struggling with student loan debt and trying to earn a piece of the pie in academic scholarships, but like I said, we all have different worries that plague us.
Mine just happens to control the entire outcome of my career.
Biting on my bottom lip, I close my eyes briefly. “I think he’s trying to light a fire under my ass so I get my shit together and start performing.”
“Still in a slump?”
“Let’s just say Gunner’s slugging percentage is better than mine.”
“Oh fuck.” He chuckles, and I don’t blame him. When a pitcher is getting more hits than a middle infielder, there’s something seriously wrong going on. “Dude, Gunner has the ugliest swing ever.”
“Tell me about it, and yet, he’s still able to hit the ball. I might as well step in the batter’s box with a blindfold strapped across my eyes and stick my bat over the plate, hoping for any kind of contact at this point.”
“Dude, I had no idea it was this bad.”
“Because you’re in your own personal hell, trying to make a name for yourself in the minors.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t call it hell, but I will say this, the accommodation at Brentwood far exceeds anything I’m sleeping in now. Rich and privileged university to Double-A ball is a rude awakening, that’s for damn sure.”
“You won’t be there for long; you and I both know that. Triple-A is right around the corner for you.”
“If I can keep up with this schedule. I thought college was hard. I would give anything to be back at Brentwood with you right now.”
“Don’t yank my dick. You’re just saying that because you want to see Emory.”
Emory Ealson, the girl of Knox’s dreams and probably one of the chillest girls I’ve ever met. She’s pretty amazing, so I see why Knox is head over heels about her.
“Have you seen her?” he asks softly.
“Here and there, but before I can say anything to her, she gives me a curt smile and sprints in the opposite direction. Something tells me she’s avoiding me.”
“You think?” He sighs heavily. “Sorry, let’s not get off topic here. So, you suck at baseball.”
“Wow, you sure know how to make a guy feel better.” The doors to the dining hall open as Jason, Gunner, and Romeo walk in, pulling the attention of everyone in the vicinity. It’s not a secret that the baseball team runs this campus and the hot ticket in town is a seat at the baseball games on the weekends. Some of the guys soak in the limelight, while others, the grounded individuals who seem to have long-lasting careers in the big leagues, are humble about it, kind, and move on with their days.
Knox is one of them.
I used to be.
Now I’m just an old curmudgeon no one wants to touch with a ten-foot pole. It might be the splotchy facial hair, or the unkept mop on my head, or the ever-so-slight limp in my leg where I swear sometimes I can feel the staples holding my Achilles tendon together scraping my bone—a feeling the doctors quickly debunked.
“I have to take you down with me. Sorry, dude.” He lets out a huge sigh and then says, “Okay, so what do you need to do to get out of this funk?”
“Turn back time and steal Badcock’s jockstrap so he can’t go on the field that day.”
“Hmm, do you know anyone with a time machine?”
“Just murmurs here and there, no concrete promises.” At least I still have a sense of humor with my best friend.
“Yeah, same here. Since we don’t have a time machine, it looks like you might have to bust your ass. Your schedule is light this semester, right? Just easy classes since you pretty much finished your major last year, pulling double duty.” Remember what I said about being magically smart? It’s true. I’m an anomaly and earned a bachelor’s degree in architecture in three years.
“Yeah, trying to finish that minor in early childhood education, because why the hell not. Classes are a breeze.”
“Thanks for not making me feel stupid or anything.”
Knox majored in early childhood education and even though he was a good student and earned good grades, he had to work hard at it.
“Anytime. But yeah, classes are simple right now.”
“So then your ass should be in the cages, in the video room, looking over every swing you’ve made this year and every swing you’ve made last year. Put in the work because you have the time, but even if you didn’t, you would still need to put in the work.”
“Sure, yeah, that makes sense.” I pause and voice my biggest concern, the one that’s been plaguing me for the last month or so, ever since I haven’t been able to put wood on the ball. “Do you think this is a sign?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, that maybe . . . you know, I wasn’t meant to be drafted?”
“Fuck that,” Knox says quickly. “You and I both know that’s a cop-out. You drew a shitty hand from a bad cock. That doesn’t mean you give up. It means you work harder for what you want. Remember what Tom Hanks’s character says in A League of Their Own. ‘If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. It’s the hard that makes it great.’”
“Such a good fucking movie. When he takes a piss in front of all the girls. Fucking classic.”
“And when he pegs Stillwell Angel in the noggin with a glove, I cry laugh every time I watch that part.”
Yeah, A League of Their Own is our favorite baseball movie. What were you expecting? For it to be The Sandlot? Field of Dreams? For Love of the Game? Bull Durham? All greats, but A League of Their Own takes the cake every time. Sliding in skirts? Come on, that shit is real right there.
“Shit, I need to go back to the loft and watch that now.”
“I’m praying it’s on Netflix,” Knox says.
“Good luck.” Jason waves me down and I give him the international sign for one second. “Listen, the boys are here for dinner. I have to go.”
“Sure, just remember what Old Tommy boy said, okay? The hard is what makes it great. Put in the work.”
“I will, thanks, bud.”
“Any time and hey . . . uh, if you happen to see Emory around campus, tell her I said hi.”
“You have her number, dipshit, tell her hi yourself.” With that, I hang up and push off the wall. I’m fucking starving.
* * *
Without a doubt, Lakeview is the best dining hall, not just because of its almost 360º view of Lake Michigan, but because of its drop-everything-you’re-doing paninis. They are so fucking good, and I’ve been craving one all day.
The only problem? Everyone knows Lakeview makes the best paninis, therefore, at dinnertime, everyone is in line for one.
This is the one time I wish I could use my “celebrity status” at school. Maybe I should offer up the idea for a line and panini press set aside just for the baseball team? That wouldn’t be asking too much, would it? I don’t think so.
Groaning, I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling, reminding myself that the secret sauce and melt-in-your mouth pastrami is worth it.
“Are you in line?”
To my side, a girl wearing glasses in a T-shirt three sizes too big stands next to me, freckles dancing across her face, and a crease between her brows.
“Yeah, I am, so get behind me,” I answer with a harsh tone. Yeah, I know, rude, right? Well listen, I’ve been waiting in this line for five minutes already and it doesn’t feel like it’s moved at all, so I’m slightly agitated.
“Okay. S-sorry.” She ducks her head, clearly reading my tone, and takes direction well by standing behind me.
So she stuttered, that’s totally fine. She might have hiccupped or something. It wasn’t from my tone of voice.
Definitely not.
Nope . . .
Crap.
I might be a curmudgeon, but I don’t like coming off as a dick, especially when some of the students at Brentwood absolutely despise student athletes and think they’re a pond of assholes tossing around balls and weight equipment—that’s a straight quote from an article in the school paper.
Do I turn around? Hmm . . . It would be the nice thing to do. Then again, I’m in a lousy mood and I might make it worse.
Yeah, I’m going to pass. I’m not in the mood to start a conversation with some random student. Last time that happened, some nitwit tried to give me batting advice. Let’s just say the conversation didn’t end well.
So, I’m not going to turn around.
Nope.
I’m going to accept my dickish tone and move on.
I’m going to forget about her little stutter and the way she cowered when I opened my mouth.
Forgetting it. Yup, deleted from my brain.
Think about paninis and pastrami and mustard and . . . fuck.
Is she telling her friends what an ass I am?
Is she crying?
No, I wasn’t that much of a dick. There is no way she’s—did I just hear a sniffle?
Now I’m imaging things. All I said was “yeah, I am, so get behind me.” That’s not terrible, right? It’s practically a friendly handshake.
But then again, if I wasn’t rude, why did her face fall flat when she looked at me? Why was her voice so monotone? Is she one of those sensitive Sally’s who’s offended by everything?
Doesn’t matter. It’s over and done with. No need to harp on it.
But the longer I stand here, the more awkward I feel with her right behind me, most likely burning holes in my back through her glasses with her pissed-off laser eyes.
I already suck at baseball. I don’t need laser marks in my back as well.
Succumbing to guilt and my wandering mind, I turn around to find the girl standing directly behind me with her head buried in her phone and her brown, unkept hair falling over her fair skin.
“Uh, hey, I just wanted to—”
She holds a finger up and then laughs to herself, returning both hands to her phone where she feverously types out a response.
Ohh-kay.
Look who’s being rude now.
Maybe I should turn myself right back around and skip out on the apology. Clearly, she doesn’t need one. She’s not crying—but because I’m a nosey bastard, I lean slightly forward and glance at her screen where I spot my name before the text messages move up.
Is she texting about me?
Well, yeah, because my name was clear as day in her phone.
Peeved, I grip the straps of my backpack and say, “Hey, I’m trying—”
“I said hold on.” She spats to her side, as if I’m standing to her right rather than in front of her.
Hold on? HOLD ON?
Excuse me, but she better hold the fuck on.
She did not just give me attitude. She has no idea the kind of button she just pushed. I’m already steamed up from being suspended from practice, having to deal with Badcock stealing my position right from under me, and my horrific batting average, now this little tartlet in the frumpy shirt thinks she can give me attitude?
Ohhhh nooooo.
Not today.
Not fucking today.
“You know what they say about millennials. They’re so caught up in their phones they suffer when it comes to human interaction.”
Her brow creases and slowly, so fucking slowly, she looks up at me, then to the side, and then back to me, almost as if she’s confused that I’m looking at her. “Are you talking about me?”
“Are you ignoring me to text your friends about me?”
A stain of red covers her cheeks as she slides her phone down to her side. “I . . . I wasn’t—”
“Cut the crap. I saw my name in your texts.”
Despite her short height, she tries to act stern but just comes out a horrible nervous mess. “How d-d-dare you read my texts. That’s pr-private.”
“I’m not even sorry about it, not when you’re talking about me.” I nod to her phone at her side. “Let me see what you said.”
She clutches her phone to her chest. “No. That’s n-none of your concern.”
“It is when it has to do with me. I’m not an idiot, even though I get that everyone knows who I am. My goddamn face is plastered all over streetlight flags throughout campus. What I don’t appreciate is being talked about behind my back.”
She tugs on her long shirt and looks to the side when she says, “Well then, you must be extremely g-grumpy because I’m not the only one talking about you behind your back. I bet sixty percent of this campus mentions you at least once a day, and it isn’t about how you verbally attack people in the panini l-line.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose, her long-winded response surprising given how her knees are knocking against each other.
Geared up, I let out a roar of a response. “I am not verbally attack—” I take a calming breath, realizing that yes, I am verbally attacking her. “I was trying to apologize, but you were rudely texting on your phone and didn’t give me a chance.”
“I was texting my friends, who think you’re a god on the field, that I was standing right behind you. Sorry for exciting them,” she says in the most passive-aggressive tone I’ve ever heard.
A smile pulls at my face. “Your friends, huh? Any of them blonde?”
“Yeah, one of them. Blond hair on HIS head and chest.”
