24. Boston

TWENTY-FOUR

boston

The locker room echoed with laughter. Metal lockers slammed shut as we strapped on our cleats. I leaned back against my locker, shaking my head in disbelief at the locker-room talk. The events from last night's game of truth or dare had spiraled completely out of control.

"Man, you should've seen that girl's face when she had to suck Bailey's toe!" one of the guys hooted, slapping his knee.

"Hey, it wasn’t so bad," Bailey shrugged.

Reese, leaning casually against the row of lockers, chimed in with a smirk. "Let's not forget how Bailey's dare was a complete failure."

The group snickered, but all eyes turned to Reese, anticipation hanging in the air.

"Apparently, she gave him Jim's Grocery's phone number instead of hers," Reese continued, trying his best to keep a straight face, but it was evident he was enjoying every second of it.

"Shut up, dude, she was probably just busy working and gave me the wrong number," Bailey retorted, trying to save face, but his cheeks were a telltale shade of red.

"Sure, Bailey," Crew chimed in, sarcastically. "She just wanted to get rid of you."

"Get rid of me?" Bailey scoffed. "No way. I'm irresistible."

"Speaking of irresistible," Parker said, nudging Crew with his elbow, "didn't you go home with the entire table of girls who you showed your ass to?"

"Hey, there's enough love to spread around," Crew boasted, puffing out his chest as if he were already a legend in his own mind.

"Wait a minute..." I cut in, trying to keep a straight face. "One of those women had to be in her eighties."

Crew shrugged, a wicked twinkle in his eye. "I don't discriminate."

Reese snickered, shaking his head. "Well, you fucking should."

The locker room filled with laughter again as everyone finished getting ready for the game.

"Alright, enough," Coach barked suddenly. "If you don't shut up and get to the dugout, I'm going to bench all of you. Get the hell out there."

The locker-room talk died instantly, each of us straightening under his tone. We knew the look in his eyes meant business with no room for delay.

"Let's move it!" he added, with a pointed glance at the clock hanging above the doorway to the field.

We filed out of the locker room, our cleats clacking against the concrete corridor that led to the bright open stadium. Once we ran onto the field, the noise of the crowd swelled around us—a living entity of cheers and anticipation. My gaze wandered over the bleachers, scanning faces until they landed on Chandler. Her wavy hair fell over her shoulders as she laughed at something said by the person next to her.

"Your mom's here," Parker whispered, tilting his chin toward where Chandler sat.

And there she was, right next to Chandler and Parker's parents. Mom's presence always brought a sense of calm over me.

Reese didn’t mess around while on the mound. He was throwing fire today, each pitch more lethal than the last, his eyes fiercely locked onto Parker’s signals. "Come on, Reese! Let’s get this W, baby!" A voice from the crowd cheered.

Reese nodded once before winding up. The smack of the ball into Parker's mitt was almost simultaneous with the umpire’s call. "Strike three!"

"Nice work!" Parker bellowed, clapping him on the shoulder as we jogged off the field.

We were down by one, last inning, with the weight of the game resting on our shoulders. The first two batters stepped up and were retired just as quickly—two up, two down. The pressure was on.

"Time to shine, Carrington," Coach yelled, his intense eyes shining beneath the brim of his cap.

"Always do," Reese said, swaggering up to the plate. With a crack that echoed through the stadium, he sent the ball whistling past the second baseman and into the outfield. The outfielder retrieved it quickly, holding Reese to a single.

"Keep it going, Riley!" Coach called out, reminding me this was it—my moment to keep us in the game.

I tried to shut out everything but the pitcher and the ball as I dug my cleats into the dirt of the batter’s box. The pitch came in right down the middle. I swung with everything I had. The sound of the bat connecting with the ball rang in my ears, and I watched as the line drive soared straight to left field.

"Go, go, go!" Coach yelled.

I bolted for first, eyes locked on the left fielder who dove for the ball, missing by inches. The center fielder backed him up, holding me to first. Reese stopped at second. I turned to see Parker step up to the plate.

"Knock it out of the park!" Willow jumped up, her cheer unmistakable.

Parker paused, glanced back, and I swear I saw it—a wink aimed right at Willow. Then he turned his head back toward the pitcher.

The pitcher wound up, delivered, and Parker connected. I heard that unmistakable crack, and I knew without a doubt—it was gone.

Reese touched home, and I was right behind him, the roar of the crowd ringing in my ears. Rounding third, I saw Parker trotting the bases after me.

"Outta the park, Parker!" someone shouted, and I couldn't help but join in the chant as I crossed home plate.

"Home run, my boy!” I said, my voice nearly lost as the team swarmed us, celebrating the win. And just like that, it was over.

The crowd erupted with postgame chaos, and I followed suit as we lined up for the postgame handshake. When we were finished, my attention was snagged by Coach who had been pulled off to the side, engaged in a tense exchange with Reese's dad.

I couldn't make out the words, but the tight squint of Coach's eyes told me he wasn’t happy about the conversation. Reese's dad exuded the same cocky confidence as Reese. He clapped a hand onto Coach's shoulder—and I watched as anger simmered on Coach's face when he turned away, jaw clenched.

I was packing up my bat, and helmet when his yell caught me off guard.

"Riley! Meet me in my office when you’re packed up." His tone was gruff, lacking any hint of the joy from the win. No trace of a smile creased his stern features.

I gave a short nod, my fingers tightening around the strap of my equipment bag. Something was up, something stirred by that conversation with Reese's dad, and it left a taste more bitter than defeat in my mouth.

Coach’s office door was open, and he was already inside. He was leaning on his desk with arms crossed—lost in thought. "Have a seat," he said, not quite meeting my eyes.

"There's something I need to talk to you about," he began, as he scratched the back of his neck. "You didn't do anything wrong this week..."

But even before he continued, I knew this wasn’t going to be good.

"...but I need to give Smith a shot at shortstop next week." The words hung there, incongruous and unsettling.

Allan Smith was alright, no doubt, but shortstop was where I dominated. Everyone knew he couldn't play that position like I could. My pulse quickened, blood drumming in my ears as I fought to keep my expression neutral. It made no sense. Why sideline me now?

"Tomorrow at practice, he'll be on starting drills," Coach continued. And he'd be starting at the game this week—the very thought sent a surge of anger coursing through me.

"Then we’ll plan to have you start normally next week." A temporary reassurance, perhaps, but missing the game next week was a big deal.

I wondered what he wasn’t telling me as his gaze finally met mine. But he had already made his decision, and I wasn't sure anymore who was on my side.

"This week?" My voice cracked. "Everyone knows most of the scouts will be at our next game. Was that what Reese's dad was talking to you about?" I asked, the question slipping out, raw and unfiltered before I could stop myself. The image of Coach’s red face after the pat on the back played back in my mind.

Coach's gaze, heavy with something unreadable, didn't waver. "I'm sorry, son," he said, but there was an undertone that suggested things were more complicated than he could explain. "Smith has been working hard at every practice. Let's give him this shot and see how he does."

Every fiber within me wanted to rebel, but there was nothing to do but nod, a silent acceptance of a decision that felt like a betrayal.

"Alright, Coach," I managed to say, though the words tasted like ash. I knew better than to let it consume me here, under Coach's scrutinizing gaze.

"Keep working hard at practice this week," he finally said, with a lighter tone. "And if Smith can't handle it, I will take his opportunity away without a second thought."

That small assurance did little to soothe my seething resentment. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again, afraid that my voice would reveal the emotions swirling inside me—anger, determination, and the fact that this was completely unfair.

The door clicked shut behind me with finality, and the frustration was overwhelming. Hot and potent rage was a fiery companion to the cold confusion making my fingers tremble. I was pissed beyond reason, beyond the capacity to swallow back the bitter taste of injustice. It wasn't just about being replaced; it was the whispers between coach and Reese’s dad, the sharp glances, the feeling that something more sinister was at play with Reese's dad and his smug assurance and influence.

I pushed through the double doors leading outside and made my way to the parking lot to see if Reese was still there. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. Confusion wrapped around me like a thick fog, clouding my judgment, making it hard to see the path forward. Why now? Why the most important week of the season?

Across the parking lot, Reese and Bailey’s laughter was the last thing I wanted to hear. Reese lounged against his truck, his tailgate down.

"You knew, didn’t you?" I shouted, tossing my duffle bag with a thud into the bed of my own truck. His smile was wide and untroubled. "Why coach just pulled me," I continued, “I'm guessing you know all about it."

Reese's laughter faltered, his eyes narrowing as he straightened up. "What are you talking about, Riley?"

I could feel the muscles in my jaw clench, the bitter taste of the accusation on my tongue. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Your dad has a little chat with Coach, and suddenly I'm benched for next week's game?"

Reese's expression hardened, and he stepped closer—his gaze sharp and piercing. "If he's not playing you next week, it's because you suck. It doesn't have anything to do with my dad."

He knew how to push my buttons, what to say to make me snap. But I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me unravel. I could play this game if that’s what he wanted.

"You're just like him, you know." I stepped closer. "Lying, manipulative, using your last name to control whoever you want." I meant every word, and I know he felt it.

His jaw was set tight as if he was grinding down on the truth of my words. "And you're just like your mom," he shot back. "You need to take responsibility for your own shit. Quit playing the fucking victim."

I knew neither of us would ever budge on our stance, on defending the parent we grew up with. For a moment, it was just Reese and me, the two of us locked in a battle that might never end.

"Whatever makes you feel better for being a piece of shit, Reese," I spat.

"Be careful, Riley," he warned. "I should have never helped you. We all know you wouldn't even have a chance with Chandler if I hadn't stepped out of the way."

"Fuck you, Reese," I shot back. "I never asked for your help. And trust me, it would've only been a matter of time before Chandler really saw who you are and walked away on her own."

As I spoke, I clung to the truth. Chandler and I had shared something inexplicable from the very first moment our paths crossed—a connection, something special, inevitable. But still, a sliver of doubt wormed its way into my thoughts. Would they still be together right now if he hadn't bowed out? Did she still want to be with him?

That's when Bailey wedged between us, his hands pushing against our chests. "Stop it! Both of you!"

"Get out of the way, Bailey," Reese warned.

"We’re done here, Riley," Bailey shot back at me, his gaze sharp.

With one last glare, we turned away. Doors slammed, engines roared to life as if echoing the tumultuous emotions that had just played out.