6
CARTER
Staring at the phone screen, I read the text again before clicking the power button and tossing the phone in my locker. I don’t have to read the message because the words have been on repeat every moment since I received the message from my father yesterday. The two simple words were waiting on my phone when I stepped off the field yesterday. Great game. That’s it. But that’s all it took for him to get into my head. I knew he’d watch the game. But I didn’t think he’d acknowledge it, or me.
Spinning the leather chair around from my locker, I lean back and look around the clubhouse. Why are my nerves worse today than when I pitched yesterday? Today’s workout was great. My arm is good. My mind, not so much. And I don’t know why. I’ve had plenty of experience putting him out of my head. He won’t screw with me now.
“Hey, Lowe,” Gunner says as he approaches his locker. “Think I can borrow your fan club president today since you’re not gonna need the support?”
The question rubs me the wrong way. I don’t mind the shit everyone keeps giving me. That I can handle, but I don’t like him insinuating Avery would be up for grabs. “Nobody wants to see more oversized posters of your mug in the crowd.”
“Speak for yourself.” Gunner tilts his head to the side, pretending to check himself out in a nonexistent mirror in his locker. “You can’t have too much of this perfection.”
Brooks steps between us, thankfully adding some levity. “He probably jerks off at night to one of them.”
I can’t help but chuckle and agree with Brooks’s assessment of the shortstop who has no problem boosting his own ego.
“You probably do it too. Don’t ya?” Gunner winks at Brooks as he shakes his head. There’s no point trying to jab at the guy who makes an ass of himself voluntarily, just for kicks. He can be a tool, but he definitely keeps the clubhouse on the livelier side.
“But for real, I require an audience with Ms. Barlowe Fan Club.” Gunner points my way, giving me a look that hits me in my gut. I don’t want him anywhere near Avery. Shit. I want an audience with her but seeing as I don’t know anything other than her first name and the fact that she hates baseball—and seemingly, baseball players—there’s jack shit to be done.
“You good?” Brooks asks without a look my way as he buttons his jersey.
“Yeah. Just ready to get out there again.” Because I feel like it wasn’t real, or maybe a lucky break. Surely it wasn’t a one-time fluke. There’s no way I’m only going to have one great game all season, right? Damn Cash Barlowe and his poisonous existence.
“You can have my spot,” Brooks mumbles jokingly, but I get the feeling that he’d willingly give it up to me today if he could, or least I think it’s only for today.
“Are you good?” I ask.
He stops situating his uniform for a few seconds before resuming. “Yeah. Just an off day.”
“We all have them.”
“Yep.” Brooks remains silent as I make a mental note to keep an eye on him. I don’t know much about the rookie third baseman, but I know he seems to be having a lot more off days than normal, especially considering how well he’d performed in spring training.
I call his name as he walks away, then he turns to look over his shoulder at me. “You’ve got my number. Feel free to use it if you need to.” He nods, tension in his posture, but I also clock the grateful expression on his face.
Grabbing my phone, I erase the text from my dad. Outta sight, outta mind? Here’s hoping. Then, I pull up the article with the picture of me staring at Avery—I don’t care to admit how much I’ve focused on that snapshot. In reality, I’d only stood there a few seconds, but the photographer captured the moment between us forever; it’s now frozen in my mind for eternity. The fact that I’m the ass of the joke should make me loathe the picture, but all I see is her. Damn it. All I’ve seen since she ran off were those damn hazel eyes.
Closing out the picture, I dial my agent. Joe’s always been more of a friend than “my agent,” but he still has to do damage control when things go the wrong way （i.e., not the way he wants them to go）。 He says my image sells more than my playing, and we’ve never seen eye to eye on that. I detest that my father is attached to my image whether I like it or not.
“It’s about time,” Joe bitches.
“Been a little busy.” A little busy avoiding your phone calls and texts because I knew you’d bawl me out.