“Harding, what the fuck?” I can hear him spitting tobacco out the side of his mouth; that’s how pissed he is. “A toddler could have stopped that ball with his eyes closed.”

Coach’s arms go up then come down, slapping at his meaty thighs, face getting redder with each grounder I miss.

“Eight. Zero.” He points at me, fist shaking. “Start fucking earning it, kid.”

Way to shame me in front of the entire infield, fucker.

I pull the cap from my head, running a hand over my perspiring forehead and through my hair. My face is beginning to match Coach’s burgundy jacket.

Get your head in the game. The season opener is three weeks away—you do not have time to suck. Per my contract, if I biff it in practice, they can bench me—and if they bench me, I lose a few million bucks, and my contract could get cut short.

Still, I can’t stop Miranda’s words from running on a loop through my goddamn head: I think he liked it, but it freaked him out. Freaked him out, freaked him out.

Yeah. I did like when she wrapped her lithe body around mine for a hug. And yes, it freaked me out, too.

But damn, she didn’t need to go and psychoanalyze that shit. The timing of her crawling into my headspace and setting up camp there is awful.

Thank God she’s not actually texting Wallace; thank God it was me on the receiving end.

“Heads up!” a voice shouts, and instinctively, I raise my glove toward the fly ball. It lands in the center of my mitt with a satisfying pop and immediately gets released again—to the first baseman.

“Nice,” Coach praises because I finally did something right this morning.

Somewhere near the dugout, when another member of the coaching staff announces a 15 minute break, gloves around the field start coming off. Bowing my head, I begin the leisurely stroll toward the locker rooms, a water bottle appearing out of nowhere from one of the assistants, placed in my waiting hand.

I squirt a steady stream into my mouth, wiping the dribble hitting my chin with the hem of my blue team t-shirt.

“Earth to Harding.” A hand gets waved in my face while I chug, not realizing until now how thirsty I was. Am. “Yo, Baseman.”

My eyes snap up; three of my teammates are watching me inquisitively, and it’s then I realize I’m not walking toward the locker rooms at all—I’m walking toward the opposing team’s dugout.

Jeez. Get your head on straight, Harding.

“What’s your problem, bro? You’ve been acting weird all day.” Jose Espinoza, a teammate who happened to be at Rent with us Saturday, follows me until we reach the locker room, follows me all the way to my locker. He wants information and he’s not alone.

They all fucking followed me like a bunch of teenage girls wanting to gossip! The actual fuck?

I make a show of retying my shoe then yanking a towel from the rack above the open hooks. Drape it over my shoulders and drag it through my perspiring hair, wanting to cover my entire damn head. Then I wouldn’t have to stare into their annoying faces.

“I’m just a little distracted—since when is that a crime?”

“Since someone could get hurt, because gee, I don’t know—balls are flying toward our faces and dicks at 90 miles an hour?”

“Oh good point, Wallace.” Jose raises a dark eyebrow. “Does your bitchy attitude have anything to do with that groupie hanging all over you the other night?”

I raise my eyes. “What groupie?”

I don’t remember speaking to a single gold digger, cleat chaser, or Steam groupie at the club.

“The one we saw rubbing her tits all over you—how fucking weird was that?”

Rubbing her tits all over me?

Are they talking about Miranda hugging me?

“Wait—are you saying you thought a groupie was molesting me and you did nothing to stop her? Fuck you very much, assholes.”

“We’re not babysitters, you prick,” someone shouts.

Espinoza laughs. “We didn’t have to—you peeled her off and fled the scene, as per fucking usual.”

Is that what they thought? I had to peel her off and escape? This just gets worse.

“That was Miranda. We’re acquainted.”

“Acquainted? Is that the term kids are using these days for ‘casually fucking’?”

“No, Jesus. I bought some stuff from her and when she saw me out at the club, she came to say hi. You literally met her—what the fuck? Wallace introduced her.”

“Barely.”

Bam Blackburn removes the towel from my head and scratches his balls, propping a leg up on the locker room bench. So glad he’s not naked. “Wait…I might have been drinking, but I distinctly remember her calling him Noah.” He looks between Buzz Wallace and me, confused. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Buzz is at his locker reapplying deodorant, turning toward the conversation. “Baseman, you gonna explain?”

No.

Except, I’m going to have to, because someone else chimes in with a curious “So what’s the deal with that?”