Page 94 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Ignore him, Easton,” Tino warns.

“I see him,” I mutter as we line up on the left field line, jog a few feet, and then sprint the remaining ninety feet of baseline. We turn to jog back, and there he is, Santiago, with his arms crossed over his chest, his hips leaning against the left field railing, and that goddamn smirk I want to punch off his face. “The asshole doesn’t know how to leave good enough alone.”

“He’s just trying to fuck with your head. He knows in three days you’ll be back behind the plate and he’ll be relegated to riding pine or being bat boy.”

I laugh. It feels good to know these guys have my back. But when we hit the line again, he’s still there. Still smirking. Still goading me.

“Was that your trainer I saw you with the other night? Heading into your building with you?”

My feet stop.

“Easy, E,” Tino warns.

My blood boils.

“If that’s the type of personal PT the Aces provide, then this is one helluva club. Count me in. I’m gonna request her now for any future injuries.”

My body vibrates with anger.

“What’s her name again? I need to write it down on my request form.”

My temper snaps.

I turn to charge him, but Tino holds me back, and just as I break free, Drew is there. Then J.P.

The goddamn Santiago brigade.

Santiago’s laugh fills the air. “Was it Scout? Or Slut?”

I see red.

Fucking blood-red.

And just as I’m about to punch my own friend to get a piece of the mother fucker, I hear one of them mutter, “He’s all yours.”

Their hands are off me.

And I’m charging.

I lower my shoulder and tackle him to the ground.

All I think about is Scout.

We roll back and forth on the ground.

All I see is fury.

I fist a hand in his shirt. Yank him up.

All I feel is satisfaction.

When my fist connects—

All I feel is pain.

Then there are hands.

And shouts.