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

cocksucker on second base is going to determine the pitch selection, not Jackson. I turn my head back and sure as shit he has three fingers on his leg again. Wrong move.
    I shake my head at him and come set. I grip a four seam fastball, kick my leg and fire the goddamn thing right at their batter. He flips around and takes it right between the numbers, arches his back, and hits the deck.
    "You motherfucker!" The runner on second is halfway to the mound when I step off and start toward him.
    "Oh, goddamn." I can hear coach's voice from the dugout. It doesn't faze me. I can feel my face turning tomato red as I sling my glove off and ball my hands into fists at my sides.
    "Fuck you. I told your ass to quit bein' a bitch." The umpire tries to get to us, but he's too late. This son of a bitch sticks his finger in my face and I grab it and twist as hard as I can. I hear the bone in his index finger snap as I throw a right cross and hit him so hard his helmet flies out by our shortstop.
    The benches clear on both sides. It's like a sea of red and blue in the middle of the diamond. Both sides in each other's faces, bowed up, just waiting for someone to make a move. The field umpire grabs me by the shirt and I grip his collar and squeeze tight before I know what I'm doing. His eyes get big before I come to my senses and let go.
    "You're out of here, Markoff!" He slings his arm around and points to the parking lot out beyond right field.
    Fuck! Coach is going to go ballistic. I walk off the field and into the dugout. Some fans are cheering, some booing. Before I walk down the steps I look up and see a boy who couldn't be older than six. He has tears in his eyes and his parents are glaring at me. I drop my head and walk down the steps. I pummel the water cooler as hard as I can when I storm past. Water explodes everywhere. It's not enough. I need the rage out of my system and I need to milk this situation for all it's worth. I pick up the cooler, knowing cameras are on me, and hurl it into the concrete wall. It rattles around the dugout as I walk to the door that leads down to the clubhouse. I'll never hear the end of this. But rest assured the country will see this on Sportscenter, and hitters will fear me.

GAVIN
     
    I've managed to calm myself a little and my knuckles are swollen and red. I should've used my left hand. I hit that son of a bitch pretty hard. Lesson learned.
    A roar rings out above me and I can practically feel people stomping on the ceiling as the walls shake around me. Must've pulled it out.
    Jackson comes through the clubhouse first, a giant smile plastered on his face until he sees me. I start to say something and he shakes his head. I find out why two seconds later.
    "Markoff! In my goddamn office, now!" Coach looks like a fireball as his short pudgy frame barrels through the locker room and into his office. I follow behind at his heels, ducking through the door. "Shut the fucking door."
    I do as he says and he turns around, staring daggers into my eyes.
    " Coach—"
    He holds up his right hand and wipes his brow with his left. "Just save it, okay? Look son, you are the most remarkable, dominating goddamned pitcher I have ever coached—"
    "Coach—"
    "I said save it, goddamn it!"
    I can't stop thinking about how many times he says goddamn in one day. It has to be at least five an hour, meaning one hundred and twenty give or take ten either way. I think about adjusting for while he sleeps, but he probably says it in his dreams so I count those too. It makes me chuckle on the inside before I snap out of it.
    "Son," he flashes a smile, "look, I get it. It's tough to get mad at you. I admire your intensity. Fuck. You would have fit in perfectly on my team when I played. You play old school, and it makes me nostalgic. But shit fucking shit, you cannot do that nowadays. You can't lay a motherfucker out in the infield. You can't throw at people the way we did back then. The sport has become pussified."
    Is pussified a