2. Family Matters

Nour

Walking out on the field,I mentally go over my gameday checklist.

1 - Loaded omelet.

2 - Two pieces of toast; one with butter, one with strawberry jam.

3 - Showered and jerked off.

To the image of GTO's curvy as fuck body and pierced nips. Not just in my head, either; I propped the phone up in the shower. Also did that last night. Let's see what happens there.

5 - Watched Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

6 - Napped liked champ.

7 - Yoga.

Amias and Locke joined me, which was interesting since Locke hated yoga just a couple months ago. Another deviation, but it's gotta be worth something that Locke wanted to do yoga.

8 - Played a game of chess.

It was against two of the gen three, Archer and Cooper, Jase and Carly Steel's grandsons.

9 - I'm wearing a new jock since I've yet to hit for shit this season. It's tie-dyed.

Tereira thinks it's a rainbow and gave me a fist-bump for being an LGBTQ ally. I mean, I'll be an ally to anyone who needs one, so yeah, it's cool.

10 - I'm wearing the gold chain I bought in Turkey the first and only time I visited.

11 - The bracelets the kids from the center gave me when I got pulled up to the majors are on my wrist.

Stepping out of the tunnel and onto the field, I look up at the sun, seeking its warmth and repeat my mantra in my head, It's a good day to win.

And then … the crowd notices us and immediately starts booing.

Chuck Turner, who is our designated hitter, once catcher, cups his ear and smiles. "That's Angels fans accepting they're getting an ass kicking today, Jags!"

Smirking, I look up, scan the crowd, and spot her immediately. Even knowing she's going to be here, it's shocking. It's one thing for me to turn away from our family, but Amira taking the stand that she has, by simply being here, is making a statement to the family, and it doesn't sit right with me.

She's beautiful, educated, and successful. She'll have a wonderful life, but it could have been much easier had she not said fuck the patriarchy in the way she did when moving to Trenton.

"Who's the hot at fuck brunette with the Wags?" AJ asks loudly, knowing damn well it's my sister.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joesph," Rudy Galleon says then bites his fist.

"That's Dr. Uyar." Amias Steel, our short stop, says, smacking him in the stomach with his glove.

Rudy narrows his eyes at AJ as he takes the glove and accuses, "You knew?"

"Damn right, I did." He laughs his ass off as he takes off toward centerfield.

I watch all of this from the corner of my eye.

"Nour, I was?—"

I cut him off with, "Nope."

Roman Hart, second base, chuckles. "Galleon, he says no more than ten words to anyone, other than Bennett, until he catches the first warmup pitch." It's eight, but he's clearly caught on to my superstition. "After that, I'm sure he'll give you the ass chewing you deserve for disrespecting his sister."

"How the fuck did I disrespect her? Said she was hot," Galleon defends himself. "Didn't say I wanted to add her to the rotation."

"She's a decade under your preferred demographic," Cody Vanders, our left fieldsman, states as he passes by.

Following him out, Galleon gives him shit right back, "Vanders, you really wanna open that door and grant me access to talk about your?—"

"Don't go there, G," Vander warns.

He and Locke "played as a team" before Locke got the only girl he ever wanted to call his and his alone. To each their own.

I watch as Bennett walks away from whatever pearls of wisdom he and his pitching coach—a.k.a. his father, Blaze Bennett Sr.—has just instilled in him, and just like always, he looks pissed.

I glance at our manager, Josè Evans, and wonder when he's gonna clue into the fact Jr. despises his old man. He's an amazing pitcher, and the minute he's not under his old man's thumb, he'll be one of the best, if not the best, in the entire league.

"Kid's gonna be okay," Pope says, nodding toward the stands.

I look up and see a few of the owners—Justice, Truth, Brisa, Tris, Bella, Kiki, Max, and Patrick—all staring toward Bennett. Behind them, the team's property owners—their parents—are doing the same.

Patrick Steel sees me looking at them and nods to me. I lift my chin, hoping he sees what I do.

I then shift my line of vision to Amira. She's laughing at something being said, and so is everyone sitting in that area. Jillian Hart isn't, though. She lifts a shoulder, rolls her big doe eyes, and then bats lashes that are no doubt false. I'm pretty sure her tits are, too. No woman, no human, is that naturally sexy. I'm honestly shocked her brothers allow that. Not that I'd say that to her or them, but it's a safe assumption that they paid for it so, clearly, they support her choice to put Ds on a five-foot-three, maybe four, frame. Safer yet to assume it was Hudson—Rome's the more conservative of the two.

"You good, man?"

Remembering the first time the two women walked into the bar, both incredibly stunning, and how any man with a pulse, even those who prefer men, took a second look, and then AJ asked in a way that showed obvious interest, "What have we here?"

Roman glared at him, and Hudson laid it right out there.

"What we have is the mother and sister of two protective, give-no-fucks men, especially when it comes to them. Jail? Sure, I'll do time. Stitches? Line 'em up. Take on the whole bar? Been there, done that."

So, I turned to avoid eye contact with Rome since I had been one hundred percent just checking out his sister's rack and simply nodded.

"Bennett's heading out to the hill."

"Thanks."

I glance up at my sister again, and she points a finger toward her open mouth then acts as if she's spitting something into her hands.

I blow a big-ass bubble and wink at her before pulling down my facemask and heading out to home plate, making damn sure to step over all the foul lines on my way.

Even if I couldn't see his face, from the first pitch, I can feel it against my palm that Bennett's pissed. I don't know his and his old man's story, but I can relate. I can't imagine having to work with mine which, ironically, is what led me to playing in the minors and now here.

After warming up, we head in.

Coach T yells, "Listen up; the batting order's different tonight. They're starting their rookie, so we're going with Steel, Pope, Galleon, Turner, Uyar, Locke, Vander, Hart, and Tereira."

"The fuck?" Bennett mumbles.

"You're tight," comes from behind us.

"Fuck I am," he replies without looking back at his old man.

"Let's get you loosened up," Bennett Senior says, ignoring the fact that his son clearly wants nothing to do with him.

Sucks not being able to tell his old man to fuck off because he's a coach, but that doesn't mean I don't let him know I think he's a dick.

"Nothing here changes a thing you and I do out there."

His jaw tightens, and he gives a firm nod before heading toward "Coach Bennett."

After taking my gear off, I stand outside the dugout with the guys, watching the pitcher warm up, when the song "Talk Dirty to Me" by Jason Derula starts.

Laughing to myself, I glance at Amias, who's looking up at his family, shaking his head.

AJ Tereira nudges me and nods to Bennett, who's looking at us, no doubt remembering the night we were all drinking and the four Steel brothers were busting on Patrick and showing us his TikToks. This song came up on his feed with people all over the damn world doing a dance. All of us learned that damn dance, and yeah, we posted it. That video went viral.

"Fuck it." I wave him over, knowing it will lift his spirits.

"Hell yes!" Tereira cheers.

AJ, Rudy G, myself, and Blaze fall in line. We all slap hands and wait for the chorus to begin.

"Been around the world, don't speak the language …"

Once we've sufficiently shaken our asses, made fools of ourselves, and have Bennett smiling, I look around. The owners and WAGs who are in the stands are all on their feet, cheering like we just won the fucking series, and the Angels fans are no longer booing the Jersey Jags but fully engaged and whistling, clapping and having a good damn time. And I feel damn good. Then I remember Amira is up there, too. I force myself to look up, half-expecting her to be hiding under her seat, but she's not. She's beaming from ear-to-ear.

When she notices me looking at her, she does the whole spit your gum out routine again.

I turn and look at the sun. It's coming down, but it's still in the sky. Then I glance back and shake my head, which causes her to smile in a way that I remember my older sister smiling at me before everything went to shit.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Anaheim Stadium! It's a perfect day for baseball as the Angels take on the Jersey Jaguars. We are moments away from the first pitch, so grab your snacks, find your seats, and get ready for an exciting game. Let's … play ball!"

Steel steps up to the plate, swings at the first pitch, and connects, sending a rocket into the outfield for a double. The crowd roars as he stands proudly on second base.

Next up is Pope. He connects with a solid hit just over the shortstop's head and races to first base while Steel holds his ground on second.

Rudy G is now up. With two strikes and two balls, he swings and delivers a powerful hit to right field. But he's thrown out one step from first base.

We're all on our feet, cheering on Steel and Pope, who seize the opportunity to advance to third and second respectively.

Turner heads to bat, and Coach T looks at me. "Keep it on the ground, and you're all good."

I nod as I watch Turner approaches the plate. The second pitch, he smashes a single. The crowd is on their feet, but Steel and Pope stay put.

No pressure, I think as I head to home, holding the barrel of my favorite bat, flipping it, catching the knob, and tapping it on the ground four times—once for each base I want to make it to. After three swings, I step into the box, grind my left toe into the dirt, and then nod to the pitcher.

Eyes locked on his, I then watch as the ball leaves his hand and grip the bat tighter, seeing as I watch the fastball heading straight for my sweet spot, just above my knees. I exhale the tension from my body as I step forward and swing.

The moment leather and wood connect, I feel an energy course through me that is stronger than anything I've ever felt. I don't even need to watch the ball to know it's soaring between center and right, and I'm not sure where it will drop, but I am sure at least two of my teammates will make it home.

I watch our first base coach motioning me on as I approach. Then I hit first and head to second, making it seconds before the second baseman has it in his hand.

"Fuck!" he roars, hurling the ball to the rookie pitcher, who misses it.

Our third base coach waves me on as it flies past the first baseline.

Their first base man grabs the ball and throws it to the catcher as Turner slides into home.

"Safe!" the ump yells.

"One hell of a hit, Uyar!" Our third base coach smiles as he claps his hands. "One hell of a fucking hit."

"You wanna come home or hang on third for a while?" Locke yells to me as he heads to bat.

"Bring me home," I answer.

"You got it."

Truth be told, it shouldn't matter either way, but my focus right now is leaning heavily toward going through the list of every fucking thing I did today to make damn sure it's repeated next game.

When I got pulled up, my ultimate goal was completed. I just wanted my shot. But now I want more than anything to play for this team for as long as I possibly can.

Inside the visitor locker room,we're celebrating our second win, when the men of the Steel family walk in.

"You made us proud tonight, Jaguars," Jase Steel says.

Xavier adds, "Had fuck not to do with the two out of three wins you delivered here in Anaheim, and everything to do with the fact you played like brothers, and you had fun from beginning to end."

He's not wrong. Tonight was the first away game we've really engaged with the crowd. Those months of lockdown and learning TikTok dances to pass time, paid off.

"Had a little to do with the win," Cyrus adds.

"To celebrate, we're giving you all two straight days with no games," Max Steel jokes, because it's not a gift; it's scheduled.

Justice Steel shakes his head. "Shower up, and then let's get home, kiss our mothers, then it's back to business in Trenton against the Tigers."

Walkingout of the visitor locker room, I hit the Flingshot app, send a message to GTO, and see she's sent me one.

GoodTimesOnly: Slept on it. Looking forward to meeting up, sooner than later. *hourglass emoji*

I tap out a reply.

SportsManSam: You going to be around in about an hour? If so, hit me up. Let's nail *hammer emoji* this down.

When I round the corner in the corridor, I see Amira standing with Roman Hart's crew—CeCe, her sister, Cora, Hudson, Linda, and Jillian Hart—and shove my phone in my pocket.

"MVP of the game right here," Hudson yells to me. "Killed it out there tonight, Uyar."

"It was a good night." I try not to smile too damn big, and it's not easy.

"Six RBIs in one game," Roman says from behind me. "Twelve's the record."

Hitching my duffle over my shoulder, I ask, "Wanna place a bet on which of us breaks it first?"

We fist-bump, and then Amira steps forward. "You played like a pro."

"That's because I am one."

"You certainly are." She smiles. "I'm so proud of you, Nour."

"Just doing my job." I wink.

"I was able to change my flight home. I hope you don't mind, Dr. Shaw. Cora?—"

"Please, call me CeCe." CeCe laughs.

"I'll try." Amira smiles at her then looks back at me. "They're all flying to New York for Mother's Day. I thought you and I could possibly do something after catching up on our sleep?"