“Again,” he demands. Rolling my eyes, I grab another ball and throw it back to Wyatt. I signal for the same pitch and he shakes me off. I try the signal again and he smirks back at me.
“You saw that right?” I ask Hart.
“Yeah. I’m ready for it.”
Wyatt releases a nasty curveball but Hart tracks it efficiently and swings with everything he has. I laugh as Wyatt spins and watches the ball sail out of the stadium.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Hart jokes.
“You got lucky with that one. I practically gave it to you,” Wyatt shouts as Hart heads out to the field to trade places with Scott, our backup shortstop.
“Do you want to give it to me again?” Hart pushes back, pointing towards me at home plate.
“Nah, I’d rather wrap this practice up and give something to Birdie.” Wyatt turns his attention back to me. Thomas—Wyatt’s least favorite teammate—is up at bat. Thomas said something about Wyatt’s girlfriend before they got together and he still hasn’t let it go.
Wyatt’s first pitch is just outside and Thomas reaches for it. I shake my head. He should know better. “You’re gettingtoo cocky. You can’t hit every ball. Wait for your pitch,” I advise him.
“Every pitch is my pitch,” he says, before swinging and missing again.
“Is that so? You can’t touch his slider and you know it. No one can. That’s why he’s the best pitcher in our division.”
“Then tell him to throw me something I can hit.” He digs his cleats into the dirt and tightens his grip on his bat.
“I’d rather not,” I say, as I slide on one knee to catch another ball low and on the outside from Wyatt.
“This is bullshit. I’m going to the cages.” Thomas storms off the field. Wyatt gives him a goodbye salute and waits for his next victim.
“When are you going to let that shit with Thomas go? It’s not good for team morale,” I say to Wyatt once we’re back in the locker room. After another hour of running drills, I am more than ready to get out of here.
“If he had said something about your girl, it doesn’t matter if it was something insignificant, you wouldn’t let it go either.”
“Sydney would never wear another man’s jersey to one of my games in the first place,” I say.
Wyatt raises an eyebrow. “Interesting. Very interesting.”
“What?” I ask. Hart joins, tossing his bag over his shoulder.
“You said Sydney,” Hart states.
“And?”
“Wyatt saidyour girl. He didn’t specify who. You did though,” Hart explains, smirking.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I mutter back, stepping into my locker more so to hide my face than to get my stuff together.
Fuck, I can’t believe I let that slip. I know my actions speak louder than my words most days. It’s been fairly easy to mask my true intentions behind my actions the last few years but it’s starting to become a chore.
I wasn’t kidding when I told Sydney I was emotionally exhausted from all of this pretending. Every day it becomes harder to fight against exposing every raw emotion Sydney draws out of me.
“Sure it doesn’t,” Wyatt jokes, laughing with Hart.
“You weren’t even with Wren when she wore his jersey.” It’s a weak comeback but I’ve got to try something to get the heat off of me.
“We were together in my heart,” he says, dramatically placing a hand over his chest.
“Didn’t she still hate you?” Hart asks.
“Birdie never really hated me. It was all an act,” he claims, waving a dismissive hand toward Hart.
