Page 22 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
“The Merchant of Venice,” Shane says. “‘Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whispering humbleness.’”
Antonio blinks, then a wicked glint crosses his eyes. He whips his gaze to me. “I do believe we have a nickname.”
I grin, clapping Shane on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club, Shakespeare.”
Shane laughs, then shrugs. “I could do worse. Thanks. . . mates,” he says, then takes off.
After a shower, I change into jeans and a Henley, then make my way out of the locker room, when Antonio stops me, hand on my arm. “We’re hitting a bar on Capitol Hill. Should be a good time. Carson has a bunch of friends who are bringing some friends, if you know what I mean.”
He winks, but I know exactly what he means without it—babes will abound.
“Nah,” I say, tipping my forehead to the exit. “The ’rents are here.”
He rolls his eyes. “Always an excuse with you.”
He’s not wrong.
I don’t party. I don’t cruise the bars. I do like to go out with my teammates, but I’m usually the guy nursing an iced tea, making sure the others don’t make stupid decisions.
Well, as much as I can control that, which is not much. Success at an early age often means you make a lot of stupid decisions.
Besides, that scene can lead to distractions.
I don’t need any.
This last year has been all about baseball. The focus has paid off.
My batting average plus on-base percentage is a thing of beauty. I’m racking up RBIs. And our team has a winning record.
One more year like this at the major league minimum, and I can lock in a hefty raise in arbitration next year—a raise that’ll likely go a long way to making my family secure for life.
I glance down at the ink on my forearm as I leave.
Taking care of my family—that’s how I keep my eye on the prize.
My parents wait for me in the ballpark corridor, my dad looking every bit the teacher with his horn-rimmed glasses, trim beard, and cardigan. My mom, on the other hand, dresses like a fangirl in her Holden Kingsley jersey, an LA Bandits ball cap, and a foam finger. It’s embarrassingly adorable.
She waves the giant blue finger at me.
“Be careful with that weapon,” I tease. I hug my mom, then my dad, then my sixteen-year-old brothers.
“I see you brought these two troublemakers along.” I pat the twins on their blond heads because it drives them batty, and I believe in driving my brothers batty, especially because both of them are five inches shorter than my six foot two.
“Kids. You can’t leave them behind all the time,” my dad quips.
“Hey, what happened to you in the first inning when you struck out looking?” Cody asks.
“Aww, did I ruin your fantasy baseball stats, sparky?”
He scoffs. “As if I play fantasy baseball.” Sports aren’t his thing. He prefers building skyscrapers out of toothpicks. A good habit to have if you want to be an architect, and he does.
“But I do,” Mason chimes in. “And I like good players. Ergo, you’re not on my team.”
“Good to see you too.” I catch Cody’s brown-eyed gaze. “And to answer your oh-so-sweet question, did you not see the game-winning homer I hit? Why are you giving me a hard time about my first at bat? Also, in my second at bat, I did get to first base,” I point out.
Cody’s about to answer when another voice cuts in. “Ah, glory over consistency. The age-old dilemma.”
The comment echoes from down the hall, coming from a clear and confident voice.
It’s Edward Thompson, striding toward us in his crisp button-down and charcoal slacks. He was a minor league manager, a major league utility player, then a hitting coach for Seattle. Now he’s the play-by-play analyst for The Sports Network, and he has the experience to back up every opinion.
I straighten my spine before I reply. Edward Thompson is that kind of man. “Which do you think is best, sir?”
He scratches his jaw, considering the question. “Both. I look for both in a player.”
“But how many have that?” my mom asks. She’s never met a question she’s afraid to ask or a person she won’t strike up a conversation with.
“Depends on the player,” Edward says, in that calm, centered voice he’s known for on-air and, reportedly, in the dugout. “Sometimes you need someone who plays for glory. Most of the time, you need someone consistent.”
My dad points to me. “And what about Holden? Has he got both?”
I roll my eyes at my father. “Dad . . .” Now is not the time to suck up to the man.
“Seriously. It’s a legitimate question.” My dad is a lot like my mom in this—inquisitive until the end of the world but likely to kill me with embarrassment long before that.
