Free Switch Hitter by Roz Lee Page B

asked her. I don’t know if it was stupid or brilliant of her, but she said yes.”
    “Stupid.” A chorus of voices sounded around them, followed by laughter interspersed with some good-natured ribbing.
    Sean sat back, keeping his mouth shut. Bent went along with the teasing—his nickname seemed to have more meaning to this bunch than just a shortened version of his name.
    “Yeah, yeah. I know. But I’m through playing around. I want kids, the SUV, the whole thing.” He made the statement to the whole group, but his gaze locked on Sean when he got to the part about kids.
    You fuckin’ had to twist the knife in my gut, didn’t you, asshole?
    He forced a thin-lipped smile to his face.
    “What do you think, Flannery? Aren’t you going to congratulate me, too?”
    All of a sudden, the room grew quiet. Sean sensed dozens of pairs of eyes watching him. Heat blossomed on the back of his neck, making him sweat all over. Their gazes locked across the table laden with rolls of paper towels, bottles of sauces, and galvanized buckets filled with peanuts.
    In his head, he heard the words he should say, Congratulations, Bent. I wish you all the happiness in the world .
    But, he couldn’t bring himself to say it, because it wasn’t true. He didn’t wish him happiness—not with some woman he could never love the way she deserved to be loved. Why should the ass be happy when he was denying Sean the same opportunity? So he smiled then said what he felt, instead.
    “Congratulations. I’ve never seen a more deserving asshole.” Then he winked.
    In less time than it takes a one hundred mile an hour pitch to travel from the mound to home plate, it was clear Bent comprehended his meaning. His face turned purple. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
    “You fuckin’ son of a bitch.” The left fielder stood, placed his knuckles on the tabletop then leaned across. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you, Flannery? But you’re nothing but a second-rate, washed-up, wanna-be baseball player. I don’t know why the Mustangs traded for you in the first place. You run like an old man. Only an idiot gets caught in a fuckin’ run-down between bases.”
    Everyone was standing now. Those nearest to Bent had their hands on his shoulders, urging him to back away. Sean sat, unable to move as Bentley unloaded on him. The worst was, most of what he said was true. He couldn’t run, not like he used to. Second rate? Yeah, it fit. Washed up? Most likely.
    Clenching his hands into fists beneath the table, he absorbed the wrath coming his way.
    “Why don’t you get out of the game while you can still walk, huh? Because you’re a coward. A fuckin’ coward.”
    Sean blinked. Bentley Randolph was calling him a coward? No fucking way. A red haze clouded his vision. He stood. Before he could flatten his nemesis, several sets of hands were on his arms, his shoulders, yanking him back from the table. A scuffle was taking place on the other side, too.
    “Enough, Randolph.” Doyle Walker’s voice. “Get him out of here.”
    He must have been talking about him, not Bent, because the hands holding him tight tugged and pushed. Chairs scraped across the painted concrete floor then he was being marched toward the door. Over his shoulder, he saw the man he both hated and loved being shoved back into his chair.
    They were in the parking lot, headed toward the bus, when he dug his heels in. He shrugged them off. “Let me go.”
    They let him go, forming a loose but ominous circle around him. He straightened his suit coat and tie then sucked in a lungful of air.
    “I’m okay. Thanks guys for getting me out of there before I broke him into little pieces.” He had no doubt he would have done it, too, given the chance. He wasn’t going to tell them, but the option was still on the table, he just wasn’t going to do it in public.
    “What gives between you two, anyway?” Todd asked.
    “Nothing.”
    “ That wasn’t nothing,” Tony said.
    “Trust me,