Page 78 of Off Limits: The Firsts

I’m on fucking cloud nine.

Dr. Kimble gave me his clearance.

The Literacy Project just got approval for a huge grant that’s going to help us expand our reach to more inner-city schools.

Scout and I practiced throwing down to second base yesterday and not a single fucking thing hurt.

Then, of course, Scout rewarded me for my progress. Surprised me with a little takeout on a picnic blanket on the private field, gave me a full body massage to work out any muscles that may be tight, and then let me work her out.

And Christ did we work out.

So, I add a few extra reps in while I’m down here putting my time in and take advantage of all the things that are falling in line for me.

“You should be activated by the end of the month.”

Kimble’s words echo in my head as I scrub a towel over my face and head toward the locker room.

Three weeks.

Looks like my stint in hell—the disabled list—might be coming to an end.

“I thought you’d already put your time in?” Miguel says as he passes me in the tunnel, an odd expression on his face that I chalk up to surprise.

“Yeah. I did. But Mathers told me I could come in and catch bullpen if I want to warm the pitchers up and help get my reflexes up to speed.”

“Nice. That close, huh?”

“I want back on the field so bad I can taste it. I might even give up sex at this point.” He looks at me like I’m crazy and we both laugh. “Nah. I’ll never give that up.” I laugh as we pass each other.

“Hey, Wylder?”

“Yeah?” I turn around to face him. He’s standing in the middle of the tunnel, the daylight from the field at his back as he just stares at me.

“Nah. Nothing. We’ll be glad to have you back.”

“Thanks. Me, too.”

Pumped to be getting my gear on and be part of the game in some way, I head into the locker room, ready to shower and check my phone to see if Scout’s going to swing by.

“Hey.” I lift my chin in greeting as I pass Drew. He startles when he sees me and flicks a glance over to J.P. across the locker room, a concerned look on his face when he meets my gaze again.

What the fuck is going on?

Is this the prank I’ve been waiting for? Are they finally going to man up and get me back for that stunt in Cleveland? Bring it on, boys.

But when I meet J.P.’s eyes and he glances across the room, I start to doubt it. I follow his line of sight and see a group of guys, some with towels wrapped around their hips, others with just their jock on, some in sliders and their jersey shirt.

Something’s up.

Gonzo’s locker is empty and the placard with his name is gone. Poor kid. He had a good run but has probably been sent back to Triple-A. Dr. Kimble was quick with filing his report if they already sent him back.

But then who’s behind the plate for now?

Just as the thought crosses my mind, I notice the bag on the floor in front of the locker, about the same time the entire room falls silent. Fucking bad juju. I can feel it instantly but have no clue why . . . until a man strolls through the center of the square room. His head is down, he’s using one white towel to shake the water out of his hair, and another towel is around his waist.

But I’d know that tattoo on his bicep from anywhere.

And as if he can sense the whole locker room is staring at him, he lowers the towel from his head and looks up and straight into my eyes.