Hell, hate isn’t even a strong enough word.
Abhor.
Seniors in high school, I’d thought that would be the last time I had to deal with his smug face. He was off to California to pitch, and I was headed to Florida to catch. The era of Penn and Walker came to a close, and I was the first one to throw some goddamn confetti in the air when it happened.
But you should never celebrate too early. Before I knew it, we were both in the minors, then the majors, floating between teams until the Bobbies penned us both: same year, same team.
Life was fucking over.
The media ate up the reunion, and Penn, being the camera whore that he is, played it up for the flashing lights and the live mics. Arm draped over my shoulder, offering to the fans what kind of presence the dynamic duo could bring. And we did. We have. We’ve dominated.
But as Penn’s stardom rose, mine clunked and clambered down.
I accepted it. The limelight has never been my thing.
I prefer to be a hermit. I prefer to keep my distance. I prefer to do my damn job and then go home. I don’t need any of the extra fanfare that comes with being a professional baseball player.
Apparently, that’s not good enough though, because rumors are being tossed around.
Forced retirement.
The front office wants me traded or wants me out.
And I’m not ready.
The only way to get them off my back?
Clear up my image. You can imagine the monumental feat that would take, given how everyone I interact with despises me. But I took it head-on because I’m desperate to play, desperate to stay in Chicago.
And how hard could it be?
Famous last words, right? Especially when the Bobbies decide to set me up with their newest PR nightmare fixer.
To her, Penn’s the absolute golden boy—beyond reproach, charming, brilliant, and, of course, charismatic.
To her, I’m the absolute leech—beyond redemption, reprehensible, unpleasant, depraved, and, of course, demoralizing.
This girl’s compassionate, beautiful, has a heart of gold, and is everything I’m not, and she has me by the goddamn balls. I’ve never met anyone like her. I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want her.
Of course, there’s the no fraternizing with the players rule. Because what’s a story without a fucking HR nightmare ready to unfold?
But oddly enough, that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is how she sees Penn and how she sees me. And I have no clue how to change that or how to change me.
Basically, I’m screwed.
Chapter One
WALKER
“Strike three.”
“Fuck,” I scream, loud enough for not only both dugouts to hear, but for my booming voice to bounce off the eardrums of the first twenty rows in the stadium. I swing my powerful body around to the umpire, who’s taking off his mask and resetting his clicker. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I spew. “That pitch was at least a foot off the plate. Where was that call when I was standing in front of you, protecting you from ninety-five mile-per-hour fastballs?”
Not even looking me in the eye, Joe Verity, one of many umpires I’ve come to know well during my years behind the plate says, “Walk away, Rockwell, before I chuck your ass out of here.”
“Go ahead, the game’s fucking over.”
Brow lifted, he makes eye contact. “Don’t think I won’t get you suspended for the next few games. Watch yourself, Rockwell, I know you’re on thin ice already.”
Gripping my bat in both hands, I step over the plate and mumble over my shoulder as I walk toward the dugout. “Fuck. You.”
“Rockwell . . .”
I ignore the warning tone in his voice and make the walk of shame back to the dugout. I glance over my shoulder at the scoreboard.
Six to five.
Final.
I went zero for four with two strikeouts, one pop-up, and a goddamn groundout to the pitcher, a grounder my grandmother could’ve fielded. I haven’t been in a slump this bad since my first season in the minors.
Fans start to clear the stands, disappointment on their faces, accepting another loss for our barely five hundred season. We’re still in the running for the playoffs, thank you long baseball season and other teams slumping, but for a team with the potential to win the World Series, this is a pathetic showing, and it starts with me not being able to put wood to the ball.
I jog down the steps of the dugout, bypassing my teammates, who are collecting their gloves and fleeing to the locker room. They can sense what’s going to happen next—destruction.
They can see it in my face.