Page 10 of Stetson
I clicked on it, leg bouncing while the browser loaded. The article was long, but I skimmed the important parts.
Levi had been Barrett’s agent at the start of his career. Then, five years ago, one of his teammates caught them together in the locker room. He planted a camera and when Barrett refused to step down from the team, he leaked the images. Barrett and Levi were given the option to either end their relationship or end their contract. Barrett broke the contract, signing with another agent. From a quick glance at Levi’s social media—which also came up on the first page; I’m not a total creep—they were happy.
So why did Levi wantme? He hadn’t mentioned a partner at all. But why didn’t I see it? If they lived together, I should have noticed the signs of someone else calling that place home. I squeezed my phone in my hands until the cheap plastic case cracked under the pressure. I flipped it over and stared at the screen. Everything could be solved with a simple phone call, a text message even.
Instead, I slipped my phone back into my bag and tried to tamp down my anger. But the only thing I really wanted to do was march onto that field, step up on the fence exactly like Barrett did, and demand that Levi explain himself.
There was no time for that.
The clubhouse door opened and Coach stepped in. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “Let’s go! You’re batting first as soon as Harrison strikes out those Hellbenders.”
I didn’t even have time to calm myself down. Coach didn’t move until I took a step forward, and he gestured for me to go ahead of him. I watched the beginning of the game from the dugout, feeling multiple sets of eyes on me and ignoring all of them.
“Strike one!”
Harrison had one hell of an arm. He refocused, and waited for the catcher’s call.
“Strike two!”
The cycle repeated itself and this time, the batter settled on his feet. Even from where I sat, I could see the determination on his face. He wasn’t letting this one get past him.
Harrison wound up, then pitched. The ball ricocheted off the bat and soared into the outfield. Matt locked in on the ball, and a weird sense of déjà vu washed over me. Matt scurried backward.
The ball started to drop.
Like he had a magnet in his palm, he reached up and the ball fell into his glove, and the home crowd went wild.
Out.
One step closer to my first hit.
Two more of those later, it was time for the teams to switch. My heart pounded in my ears.
I strapped on my gloves and my batting helmet. Hands patted my shoulders as I walked out.
“All eyes are on number twelve, rookie player Stetson Holloway as he steps up to the plate.”
I stepped onto the field, my trusty wooden bat thrust into my hands.
Off to the side, I took a couple of practice swings while the starting catcher took the field.
Of fucking course.
Barrett Swindon smirked, mouthing “good luck,” before tipping his face guard down and taking position.
“My House” burst through the speakers, and the home crowd roared.
It was then that I gave myself the time to close my eyes and take a deep breath.
This was it. This was the moment I’d waited for my entire life, everything I’d worked for. I wasn’t going to let being played by a crush take it away from me.
Stepping up to home plate, I readied my bat and locked eyes with the pitcher. The music cut. Show time.
I was going to own this fucking field.
7
BARRETT
