4. Baylor

CHAPTER FOUR

BAYLOR

Well, hell, I thought I’d seen it all until now. A giant muskrat dancing the Macarena with a feathered toucan. The muskrat tripped, taking the toucan down with it. The toucan began humping the muskrat, preventing it from getting up. They just rolled around in a flurry of feathers and baseball jerseys until their handlers rode out in a golf cart to break them up. College ball was wild .

While the teams’ mascots shook their tail feathers, I swiveled in a full circle, taking in the massive crowd filling the stadium. I’d been to minor-league games that weren’t this packed. This was a whole different ball game than the high school baseball I used to umpire.

I stood on home plate with my hand over my heart and sang the national anthem. After that, the giant muskrat took to the pitcher’s mound to throw out the first ball of the season while another umpire motioned for me to join him. He was in conversation with both head coaches and probably wanted to introduce me, since I was the new guy.

“Baylor Buchanan, this is Bill Asher, head coach of the University of Washington Tacoma Toucans.” I shook the man’s hand and smiled. “And this is Casey Collins, head coach for the University of Oregon Mapleview Muskrats.”

When my eyes landed on his face, everything inside of me, including my heart and my breath, seized up. Sandy hair combed back neatly from his handsome face, blue eyes the color of the deep sea—yeah, I knew that face. It belonged to the man who fucked me last month, the only man who’d ever fucked me.

The one that I couldn’t stop thinking about.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

He gripped my hand to shake it, nearly crushing my bones to dust. It felt like a warning to keep my mouth shut.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I greeted, emphasizing the word sir with a nasty sneer.

“Let’s play ball,” the umpire suggested. Casey let go of my hand and briefly shook the hand of the other head coach—nowhere near with the same strength he used with me—and called loudly, “Play ball!” With narrowed eyes, he turned away from me and jogged back to his dugout.

I slid my headset over my ears and cracked my knuckles, resuming my position behind home plate. It was gonna be a long season.

The game was well underway, and my head was completely in it. There was a lot more action in this league than high school ball. Austin, my best friend Marcus’s partner, was up to bat.

“Good luck, Ball Boy,” I murmured loud enough for only him to hear. He snorted and shook his head before raising his bat. Austin and I had gotten off to a rocky start last year when he started dating Marcus. I encouraged him, glad that my best friend had found someone who made him happy, but Austin was jealous and suspicious of my friendship with Marcus. In time, he realized he could trust me, and we formed a playfully antagonistic friendship.

On his first pitch, he knocked the ball into the outfield, but the fly ball was caught before he made it to first base. I raised my arm and held up one finger, signaling the first out. The first base coach patted him on the back and sent him back to the dugout.

“Better luck next time,” I teased as he passed me. Austin smirked and discreetly shot me the bird while pretending to adjust his ball cap.

The first time I called Casey’s player out—a runner trying to steal third—he remained silent.

The second time I called his player out in the fourth inning—a runner sliding home—he glared at me like I was marked for death.

The third time I called his player out in the seventh inning—a run to first base—he hollered, “Are you fucking blind?” Ignoring him, I pasted on a smile and nodded at the pitcher to resume play.

The fourth time I called his runner out, he threw his hat on the ground. “You fucking fucker!” Yeah, he was good and pissed. At me .

In the end, the Muskrats won by two. The stadium went wild for the home team, shooting off confetti cannons and cans of silly string. The loudspeaker blared, ‘ Take Me Out To The Ball Game ’ and ‘ We Are The Champions ,’ and the players lined up on the field to shake hands. I shot the shit with Marcus, while Austin was no doubt getting a pep talk in the locker room from his coach.

“Your first game,” he smiled. “How’d it feel?”

“Amazing. Moving here and switching leagues was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

Marcus clapped me on the back. “Damn right. But you better hope your tires aren’t popped on your truck or you’ll be begging me for a ride home.”

Fuck. “Is that a thing here?”

“These kids take their championship title real seriously. It’s a thing,” he warned.

When the team emerged, Austin ran right up to Marcus and planted a messy kiss on his lips. His team cat-called to him as they passed him, and Marcus called over his shoulder, “Catch you later, Baylor.”

He obviously had better things to do, like Austin , and was in a hurry to get home. I couldn’t blame him. I pushed off from the wall, intending to head to my truck when Casey stopped me.

He stepped directly into my path, crossing his arms over his broad chest. I licked that chest .

“Baylor Buck Buchanan.” He narrowed his eyes again like he was thinking terrible thoughts about me in his head.

“Casey Colin Collins.” Two could play the name game.

“Funny running into you here,” he said, although his voice held no trace of humor. “The last place I thought I would see you again is on the ball field.”

“It’s a small world,” I mused with satisfaction. “And an even smaller town.” I bet he thought he would never see me again. And now we would work together all season long. Well, not together, really. As an umpire, I could be his worst enemy or his best friend.

“What was that bullshit call you made on my runner?”

“Which one?” I asked in all seriousness.

Casey snorted. “All of them. Was that some sort of juvenile revenge for not calling you?”

The fucking nerve of this guy! “You expect me to kiss your ass because I let you fuck me?”

“No,” he huffed. “That would be biased. But so is letting revenge get the best of your judgment.”

“Revenge is such a dirty word. I prefer to call it getting even.” If he kept narrowing his eyes at me, they would eventually freeze like that. At least, that’s what my mother used to say.

“Incredible. You look like a grown man, and yet, you act like you’re age-appropriate to play in little league. Grow the fuck up, Buchanan. Or is it ‘ Buck ?’ ”

“You can call me whatever you want, Collins. Looks like I’ll be having the last word this season.” Before I walked away and left him standing there, fuming, I gave him the sweetest, most pleasant smile, grinning for all I was worth.