Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Dawson

“McDuffy.”

I jerk my head around to see Coach Bryers standing in the doorway, his metal clipboard pressed firmly to his chest.

Well that didn’t take long. Fuck!

I grab my belt from the hook inside my locker and begin to thread it through the loops. “What’s up?” I mutter under my breath without meeting his gaze.

Two days ago, while heading home after practice, I pulled up alongside this punk—because that’s exactly what he was—just as we were getting ready to enter the freeway. He revved his engine and well, I revved mine too. As soon as the light changed to green, he got a head start and quickly shot in front of me. Thank goodness the interstate was clear because I slammed my foot against the accelerator.

Back and forth, we took turns gaining speed on one another. I don’t know what he was trying to prove, but I was willing to play along. Until I looked up in my rearview mirror.

The cop wasted no time getting an attitude with me, especially when he realized who he’d pulled over. I wanted to point out that at least I’d stopped, unlike the other guy who kept going, but I held my tongue. The days of being able to offer a signed baseball or free tickets to a game no longer existed—this cop was dead set on putting me through the wringer. When I asked if I could sit in my car rather than stand on the side of the interstate, he immediately called for back-up. I don’t know if he thought I would try to take off or what.

I’ve had a few speeding tickets in my life—some made it to my record and some didn’t—so I didn’t think much about it until I noticed the speed he’d recorded on the computer print-out.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me?”

Twenty-nine miles over the posted speed limit. Surely it was a typo and he’d meant nineteen.

“You’re lucky I don’t haul you in. Let’s just say…you caught me on a good day.” The officer pulled his shoulder-mic towards his jaw and mumbled something into it.

Good day? Well, I’d hate to know what he considered a bad day. Whatever happened to a warning or a simple slap on the wrist?

“But this…I wasn’t driving recklessly,” I exclaimed, taking a step closer to him.

“According to state law—”

It took everything I had not to crumple the piece of paper and throw it to the ground.

On the drive home, the words of my high school English instructor replayed in my head. “You are responsible for your own actions.” Those words had never been truer. Coach was going to kill me.

“Can you spend about fifteen minutes over by the dugout? It’s Baker’s turn to sign autographs, but they’re still looking at his shoulder.”

I look up, uncertain if I’d heard him correctly. He wants me to sign autographs? What about the ticket? I’d already gotten a few texts from several undisclosed news sources inquiring if it was me, so if they know about it, Coach Bryers did too. When I say nothing slips by this man, I mean nothing.

“Uh, sure. I can do that.”

I hurry past him out the door and head to the dugout. Just because he didn’t bring it up now doesn’t mean anything.

A dozen or so kids line the wall behind the dugout, balls and pens clenched tightly in their hands. This bunch is calm compared to the group we had last weekend. Until they look up and see me.

The boys begin to jump up and down excitedly. Hearing my name chanted never gets old. I tuck my glove underneath my arm and join the others.

“Did you want to get a picture together?” I ask the kid with wheat-colored hair when I’m done signing his ball. He either spends a lot of time in the sun or he gets it from someone in his family. He holds the ball in his hand for a moment then turns and looks behind him as though he needs to ask for permission.

I try not to stare, but it’s hard not to notice how attractive the young woman is as she makes her way down to where we’re standing. Long, slender legs…a gorgeous set of…oh yeah, just the way I like ‘em.

“Jacoby, is everything okay?” she asks, her face quickly revealing concern.

I push my shades up to rest on the bill of my cap so I’m able to get a better view. Nothing like a little eye contact, right?

“Mom, Dawson wants to know if we can have a picture taken. Can we, mom? Please?”

“Of course, honey. Let me get my phone set up,” she says and nervously fumbles with the front flap of her bag.

I lower my hand to the young man’s shoulder then work on getting my smile ready.

“One more, mom.” I encourage her to take an extra shot and quickly shift to a different pose. The kid seems to really be enjoying himself, which is what this whole experience is all about.

“This is too cool,” the youngster says, the grin on his face stretching from one ear to the other.

“Excuse me?” I extend my hand to the man standing beside us. “Would you mind taking a photo for us?”

I don’t typically ask for ‘mom shots,’ but how can I not? I notice her cheeks redden, but she passes her phone over without hesitation.

With my hand resting against the back of her shoulder, the photographer begins to count.

One.

Two.

At the count of three, I pull her close and put on my best smile.