Page 48 of Stetson
We were at the stadium.
The Thrashers and the Hellbenders had the best stats of the season. So while other teams battled it out for a spot in the playoffs, we were automatically through to the second round. Which meant we had a few days until the wildcards were chosen and the Division Series began.
“I thought we were going to the gym.”
“We’re not.”
I could typically run circles around Barrett, but my hangover left me struggling to keep up with his long strides. “How did you get access this early?” I asked as we pushed through the gate.
For the first time that morning, he smirked, and it sent a shiver down my spine. “Oh, Rookie; don’t you know a name can get you whatever you want?”
We emerged onto the field, and frost-covered grass crunched underfoot. I shivered. The sticky, humid air let me know that the day would quickly warm up, but even Atlanta fell victim to the early-morning autumn chill. The sun barely crept over the horizon, illuminating the stadium in a faint, golden light. I’d never seen the place so quiet. It was almost creepy.
Barrett’s voice cut through the silence as we walked across the field. “Do you have to use the bathroom?”
“What?”
“Answer me, Stetson.”
Skeptical, I did. “No, I’m good.”
Barrett came to a stop behind home plate. “All right. Laps. Let’s go.”
“How many?”
“Until I say ‘stop.’” Barrett stepped back and leaned against the fence, propping one foot up against the links. I chose to ignore how gorgeous he looked bathed in that warm light that seemed to highlight every aspect of his perfect body.
“Okay,” I agreed, stepping up to home plate. I ran five miles a day without breaking a sweat. Laps around a field? I could do that in my sleep. So what if Barrett wanted to be a bit sadistic? I could easily prove him wrong.
Five laps around the field was a little over a mile. Keeping at a light jog, the first passed effortlessly. Barrett stayed in his spot, watching me. Every time I risked a glance, our eyes met. He stayed silent, for the most part. When I closed on the second mile, my stomach lurched, slowing me around home plate.
“Keep going,” he commanded.
Not one to back down without a fight, I swallowed against the nausea and pushed through.
Despite wearing shorts and a tank, the thick, humid air quickly had me working up a sweat. Halfway through mile two, my clothes were drenched and sticking to my skin. I swore I couldsmellthe vodka seeping out of my pores, which only made my stomach roil. Barrett watched with a smug grin on his face. I knew what he was doing. Or,tryingto do. He wanted to teach me a lesson about getting drunk. If for no other reason than to prove him wrong, I kept going.
Mile three had my legs burning. Approaching four, my chest ached. That time when I hit home plate, my mouth started to water in the ominous way it did right before I started spewing my guts. I’d hit my limit. I slowed to a stop, clutching my midsection.
“Did I say you could stop?”
I shook my head, less in response to Barrett’s question and more as a warning. Still, he approached me. “What’s the matter? You’re Stetson Holloway, remember? You’re invincible. Keep running.”
“Can’t,” I strained.
Barrett moved in closer, his chest brushing my arm. “What was that?”
Bile rose in my throat. “I can’t.”
“Why? Because you spent the night getting wasted?”
My eyes burned, but I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Getting wasted,” I gagged.
Barrettlaughed.“No, that’s not what you’re sorry for. You acted out so I’d notice you. You want my attention? You’ve got it!”
