Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Drake

Nothing beats the lights burning down on the diamond during a night game at Fenway. Well, other than having the lead instead of being behind in the ninth.

I take my last practice swing and soak in the crowd's roar. This is our first home game since the All-Star break, and I scored VIP tickets for Miranda. Thrilled doesn't even cover her reaction when I asked her to come.

My gaze strays to the stands where she's sitting. That smothering feeling, like hatched cicadas scouring the landscaping every seventeen years, doesn't hit. I'm surprisingly chill about her being here. Actually, I enjoy knowing she's in the stands for me. Sure, she likes baseball, but that's not why I like her here. She showed up for me. Few people come to watch me play.

Not since high school, anyway.

Wiping the sweat off my brow, I glance toward the dugout and lock eyes with tonight's starting pitcher, Kaplan. Guilt gnaws at me from letting his pitch slip through my glove. Kap's face is a mask of rage, with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw giving him away. My error cost us the lead and his chance at registering a win.

He isn't my biggest fan. He's been giving me shit since spring training like he's got a personal vendetta. The look he shot my way after Coach pulled him from the game confirmed my suspicions.

I shake loose the thought just as Rappel connects with the ball. Rick, on first, slides to third, and Rappel lands on second base with a double.

The stadium erupts, and fans rise to their feet. Their cheers fade into the background as I step into the batter's box. The scoreboard glares back at me: bottom of the ninth, two outs, runners on second and third. A single to tie. A double to win.

This is it—the moment that defines heroes.

Or big paychecks.

I tap the plate with my bat and settle into my stance. The pitcher, a tall, lanky guy known for his curveballs, eyes me with a smirk that seems to taunt, "Let's see what you've got."

Bring it, big boy. I've never been more ready.

My grip tightens around the bat. The smooth, worn wood feels comforting against my palms. Power surges through my muscles, raw energy coursing through my veins. Every nerve ending is alive, every synapse firing. I'm ready for this. I'm prepared to bring it all home.

The pitcher winds up, his arm a blur of motion. The ball hurtles toward me like a bullet, straight down the middle.

I fucking swing and miss.

"Come on, Drake. You gotta swing faster than that!" someone jeers from behind me.

I shake off the mockery and step back to the plate. There's a reason Coach hasn't replaced me with a pinch hitter. I may be a catcher, but I am also known for my batting average. If the pitcher messes up, I'm on it.

That edge got me in with the Phillies, and it's why they traded my brother-in-law to the Dodgers and put me in his spot. I didn't realize I'd be next. With one year left in my contract, I got traded to the Boston Bears to win the World Series. They fell short last year, losing in the championship game, but they're not holding back this year.

It's a crapshoot where I'll end up when the season ends, though. I want to end up on the West Coast, where my sister lives. It makes the most sense. I don't have any ties here.

The second pitch curves and dips at the last second.

"Strike two."

The crowd's cheers turn to groans, the tension palpable.

Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I glance toward the VIP section where Miranda sits. I can't see her, but I imagine her cheering me on. That's a nice feeling. Our relationship may be new, but it has a lot of potential.

The pitcher winds up and releases another curveball. This one is sloppy, hanging in the air long enough for me to lock on. I swing with everything I've got, the crack of the bat meeting the ball, echoing around the stadium like thunder.

The ball soars high, arcing into right field.

"Run!" the coach screams from the sidelines as the runners take off like startled hares. I sprint to first, eyes glued to the outfielders scrambling back. The right fielder leaps, his glove stretching into the night sky, but the ball bounces off the wall, just out of reach.

"Go for two!" The voice is distant but clear. I round first and head for second, my legs pumping, lungs burning. My foot crosses second base just as Rappel slides into home and beats the throw by a good three seconds.

"Safe!" the umpire calls and the crowd erupts.

I toss my arms up, sprinting toward home plate. The next few minutes blur in a rush of back slaps, pats, and body bumps. Our divisional lead holds, and while there are a lot of baseball games left to play, I like our chances.

As the cheers die down, Rappel wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Hell of a hit, Gunner. You're a force to be reckoned with out there."

His praise knocks me back for a second. No one on the team has given me props like that. But Kaplan's stern glare cuts my moment short as he approaches.

"You've got potential, Gunner, but you've got a long way to go. If you want to be my catcher, you need to learn to read me better."

His words echo the criticisms of my old teammate Roy, my supposed best friend from high school, who always hinted I was selfish. Maybe I am, but I refuse to let this prick—or anyone—crush my spirit. Never again. I spent four years thinking Roy had my back until the day he drove a knife through it.

All over a girl.

I shake my head, trying to banish the thoughts of my old high school girlfriend.

Fuck, get it together, Drake.

I square my shoulders and meet Kaplan's gaze head-on, determined to prove myself to him and the team.

"The passed ball was a mistake. I know I cost you a W."

"You almost cost us the game."

"But he also won it," Rappel interjects, smacking my chest. He grins at me. "You best be hitting the town with us tonight. We're gonna paint it red and celebrate this win in style."

The tension eases as I nod, a cocky grin spreading across my face. "We have a game tomorrow."

"It's just for a few hours. You need to chill." Rappel flashes an easy smile. "It'll do you good to mingle. It's halfway through the season, and you still don't know anyone."

"I know you."

"The most important person I know. But come out with us."

Rappel and his crew are still single, like me. Or like I was. Wow, that's going to take some time getting used to. Me being taken. But tonight, I wanted to spend time alone with my girl to get to know her. It's hard to connect when you're constantly traveling for away games. Starting a relationship mid-season isn't the smartest move, but I'm giving it my best shot.

"Come on, Gunner," Rappel prods, his eyes gleaming under the stadium lights. "We're celebrating the win, not mourning it."

"I don't know, guys," I hesitate, wiping the sweat off my face with my jersey. "Miranda's expecting me."

"Bring her along," Rappel suggests nonchalantly. I consider it for a moment. I've done the drunken bar scene more times than I can count. I wanted to close that chapter, but Miranda might enjoy a night out celebrating. Plus, it might be a good chance to get to know everyone properly. She fits into this world effortlessly, and I can't ignore how it makes my life easier.

"It'll be good to make some allies," he coos.

"Fine, but I'll have to ask and see if she's up for it."

Rappel shoots me another million-dollar grin. "See, this city is doing you well."

"Gunner, you had a good night going three for five, plus some good saves behind the plate. What would you contribute…" The reporter shoves her microphone in my face, cutting off Rappel. I give him a salute and turn to the reporter. After the postgame rituals, I'll meet up with Miranda and officially show her off. If I'm going to commit, then I'm going full force. It's time to make Boston my bitch.

At least for the season.

Then I'll see where I end up.

As for Miranda, she'll know exactly where she stands with me after tonight.

Because I'm all in.