Free Bad Boy Prospect (Alpha Bad Boy Book 2) by Sloane Howell

GAVIN
    Coach walks out of the dugout and heads toward the mound. He taps his right arm as he glances out to us in the bullpen beyond right field. It's the bottom of the ninth and there's one out. This is the shit I live for.
    The outfield wall swings open and I jog out onto the field. The smell of stale beer and hotdogs cuts through the dirt kicked up all along the warning track. I make my way through the outfield, scanning the stadium from left to right as it grows larger in my vision and the faint cheers slowly turn to a roar.
    Coach and Jackson — our catcher — are standing on the mound waiting for me, most likely discussing scouting reports and how to approach the next batter. It doesn't really matter. He's not going to touch a fucking thing I throw. This is my opportunity to shine. This is my shot at getting called up to the show. The only thing that can fuck this up is me.
    My feet pound the grass in right field as I near, my cleats ripping up the bermuda as the wind rushes over my face. Some loud screams pierce through the din of the crowd. I'm dumb enough to glance over to two girls who couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty as they turn and flip their shirts up, revealing my name on the ass of their shorts.
    My cock tries to grow against my cup, an impossibility that's bound to have me walking like a goddamned cripple. Focus motherfucker! Think of something to take your mind off fucking those girls. Aspertame. Dung Beetles. Marla Hooch. Robert Plant.
    Fortunately, my dick gets some relief. I want to look back at them, but it will only end in a dick disaster. I'll fuck both of them after the game, so I'm not too worried about depriving them of my attention.
    I finally reach the mound and Coach looks like he is trying to explode my brain with his stare.
    "Done admiring your goddamn hooker harem? Can you give us a few minutes of your time, superstar?" He folds his arms across his chest, and I realize he's still holding the ball. It pisses me off. This mound is my domain and he's intruding on it. He's not welcome here. I lean down — way down — and stare him in the eye.
    "Give me my fucking ball, and go to the dugout while I make you look good." It's more of a growling order than a simple request. I can see Jackson eyeing me with caution. Coach eyeballs me long and hard. It's an admirable play on his part, and I respect him for it. But he needs me way more than I fucking need his ass. I flip my glove out and he slaps the ball into it, but he doesn't let go.
    "This guy crowds the plate. You need to work him off of it. Then bring the slider and make him chase."
    "We got runners on first and second. I'm not trying to work his ass in. What if he decides to lean into one? Then we got bases loaded."
    Coach chuckles and releases the ball in my glove. "He ain't leaning into a goddamn thing you throw, son. Not if he wants to survive."
    This is why I love baseball. Two seconds ago we were at each other's throats. But Coach always says something, in some backhanded way, that gives me a dose of confidence. Not that I need it, but it probably works great on the other guys.
    I belt out a laugh that probably has the other team's hitter pissed off. I make sure to turn and look at him while I finish chortling at his expense. "Touché coach."
    I hear the familiar footsteps coming toward us, letting me know it's time to go to work. The three of us turn to face the home plate umpire.
    "Let's go fellas. Break it up," says the ump.
    "No worries, blue." Coach turns back to me. "Go get 'em, son." I get a thumbs up and then he walks back to the dugout, hands in his back pockets. I don't know why every coach on the planet does that shit. It looks ridiculous.
    Jackson is standing there seemingly catatonic and staring before he snaps out of his daze and looks up at me. A moment passes and his face still holds a blank stare. It baffles me that he always does this. He knows how Coach and I operate.
    "You're gonna need to go behind the plate if