Page 79 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
Motherfucker.
“What the hell?” Gunnar shouts.
The umpire takes a step closer to Gunnar, and from my spot, I can tell the ump is repeating “Safe.”
“No way,” Gunnar says, and I trot over to third, setting a hand on his arm.
“Let it go, bud. If it’s an issue, let it go to instant replay.”
Gunnar huffs through his nostrils.
The guy is chill and cool most of the time, a jokester with his teammates and even when the opposing players end up on his base. But wind him up? Cross him? There is indeed a dragon underneath.
Tonight’s not the night, though, to unleash the fury.
Gunnar breathes out heavily. “Fine. It’s gone,” he says, and we go on to win the game.
In my second at bat in the last game, the pitcher fires off some chin music.
In a split second, I jump away from the plate, getting as far out of the way of the ninety-five-mile-an-hour bowling ball as I can.
Gritting my teeth, I step out of the box, adjust my glove, adjust my bat, take a few practice swings, and return, digging in.
In baseball, you can’t be afraid of the ball. The difference between major leaguers and everyone else is that we aren’t afraid of a six-ounce ball whipping by us in less than 0.4 seconds.
That also means you’ve got the blink of an eye to get out of the way of a pitch coming at you.
When the pitcher lets loose a slider, I pivot, turning away from the ball coming at me.
I curse as the ball slams into my ass, sending shockwaves of pain up and down my body. Hell, my teeth rattle.
But it hits a soft spot rather than bone, and that’s all that matters.
I drop the bat and trot down to first base. Getting hit by a pitch is literally my least favorite way of getting on base, but here I am, though my body is shouting, You fucking son of a bitch.
I shake off the pain—the last thing I’ll let a pitcher think is that his stuff hurts. I want the Storm Chasers to think the opposite.
That it didn’t hurt.
That I’m unfazed.
When I spot an opening, I steal second, then move to third when I tag up on a deep fly to right field. Home plate comes my way on a clean single to left.
When I head into the dugout, I don’t let on that my ass is screaming. I just high-five the guys then lean against the dugout fence as the pain radiates.
In the seventh inning, the game turns messier. As Gunnar slides into second to break up a double play, the Storm Chasers shortstop loses his shit, accusing Gunnar of a dirty slide.
In seconds, the two men are shouting, then fists fly.
I run straight for Gunnar, pulling him off the shortstop, breaking up the fight.
“It’s not about you, man. It’s not about you,” I say.
“Seems like it is,” he growls, and there’s the dragon. There is the chip on his shoulder.
“Buddy, just let it go.”
“Don’t want to . . .” he grunts, but his anger cools a few degrees.
“You got it now?”
“Fine,” he grits out.
He breathes hard and heavy, and I walk him off the field, where he’s promptly ejected for the rest of the game, along with the shortstop.
It’s a tense few innings, but we eke out a win.
When I find him in the locker room after the game, his face is etched with contrition. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. That just stirred up everything,” he says.
I give him a one-armed hug. “I hear ya. Just remember, I’ve got your back.”
“Means the world to me,” he says, in a rare show of vulnerability. All his usual clowning around is gone.
“Anytime. Just try to keep it off the field.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
Thompson nods at me as I head to my locker. He doesn’t acknowledge the hit pitch—unwritten code and all. Besides, the fight overshadowed it. “You’re doing great, Kingsley. Glad you’re here to lead this team.”
Am I leading these guys?
I’m just keeping my head down and playing the game.
“Thanks, sir.”
“Appreciate what you did there in the seventh. It’s easy to start a fight. Harder to break it up. That’s important.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling weird taking compliments from him, knowing what I’ll be sharing with him soon.
Part of me wishes I could tell him now.
But now sure as shit isn’t the time.
Tempers are high, and nerves are raw.
Soon, I’ll tell him.
Tonight, I just want to go home and see my woman.
In the Lyft, I FaceTime with my parents.
“Does your butt still hurt?” my father asks.
I shoot him a look. “Dad. I’m fine.”
“Oh, please. Don’t play those games with me. No need to be macho, Holden.”
I heave a sigh. “Fine. A little bit. But I’ve had worse.”
“That was some kind of retaliation pitch. A little misdirected,” my mother says.
“Yeah, you think?”
