Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Dawson

“Heard anything on that kid that got hit by the ball earlier?” I ask Alec Rodgers, today’s game-winning pitcher, as we’re getting ready to leave the stadium.

“They took him to the hospital but that’s all I know,” Alec replies. “That’s some lick he took. I caught a replay of it and man, he’s lucky it didn’t knock him out.”

“Hopefully, he’s okay. I’m glad Kingston got a homerun, it just sucks a kid had to get hurt. See ya in the morning at practice.”

I call in an order for take-out and swing by to pick it up on the way home. By the time I’m finished eating, I can barely keep my eyes open—playing in the heat today was pretty exhausting.

I haven’t been out on a Saturday night in ages—my friends back home would give me hell if they knew—and I hate that I’m missing out on so much living here in Love Beach. When the Sunrays drafted me, I envisioned going down to the beach, maybe even doing a little fishing. Unfortunately, the only time I’ve been able to visit the Boardwalk, it’s been cold and rainy. Between practice and being on the road for out-of-town games, my free time is almost non-existent between the months of February and October. In the month of April alone, I literally had three days off.

Don’t get me wrong, playing for the ‘Rays is my dream come true, but at twenty-four, I’m getting a little jealous of my teammates. How they have time for a wife and kids truly baffles me.

The next morning, I discover a text on my phone from Coach Bryers. “I need to see you before practice.”

Now what? That unsettling feeling returns all over again.

I toss my bag into the backseat since we’re flying out to the west coast directly after the game tonight for a two-game series with the Cranes starting on Tuesday. Thank goodness the next time we have to play them will be at back at Passion Park. Going from one coast to the other can be draining, not to mention the effects it can have on your sleep.

I pull into the gated lot reserved for players and staff and switch my car off. Looking out over the hood, I hope to God this isn’t about my latest ticket. I haven’t had time to call my guy about helping me out, but it’s on my list of things to take care of. One of these days, racing alongside someone on the freeway won’t be such a big ordeal and I won’t have to deal with forking over this kind of money.

Coach Bryers’s door is partially shut, so I knock first before barging inside. He’s had to put me in my place more than once and there’s a good chance he’s going to give me a stern talking to again. I take a deep breath then walk in.

With his glasses resting on the end of his nose and his eyes glued to something on his computer screen, he looks more like a professor instead of a baseball coach. Until he stands up and adjusts the warm-up pants he’s wearing. He’s been known to go for a jog around the field with us, but I don’t get the feeling he’s going to be doing that today.

“McDuffy,” he says and motions for me to take the chair across from him.

“Do you want me to leave this open?” I keep my hand on the door until he tells me one way or the other.

He shrugs his shoulders. “That’s up to you. If you want everyone to hear about your latest dumb-ass stunt, by all means, leave it open.”

I know it was a stupid move on my part and if I can keep this between the two of us, that’s what I’d prefer. So, I push it shut and slump down into the chair across from him.

“What in the world were you thinking?” he asks after staring at me for almost a full minute.

“I wasn’t.” There’s no reason to try and bullshit my way through this.

“I can’t promise you that the owner isn’t going to find out—”

“Can I just pay for the ticket and we forget it ever happened?”

“It doesn’t work that way, son. Are you aware of how many tickets you’ve had? And do you know what you’re being charged with? Reckless driving is pretty serious in case you haven’t realized it.”

I’d tried to explain to the officer that I wasn’t driving recklessly , but maybe I was.

“What happened to speeding?” I lean up in the chair and rest both elbows against my knees.

“Son, that’s between you and the judge. In the meantime, here’s what I want you to do.”

I sit back and listen to him go over community service and what he feels will benefit me most. Except who has time for this extra stuff? I certainly don’t.

“So, you’re saying he could drop the charge if I’m doing some kind of volunteer work?”

“There’s no guarantee, but there’s a strong possibility.”

I really don’t like where this is going. I’d rather be in the spotlight for hitting a grand slam so many feet out of Passion Park rather than someone sneak a photo of me working in some soup kitchen and plaster it all over social media.

“The choice is yours to make. Think about and when we get back on Wednesday, you can let me know what you decide.”