This is what I live for.

Pulling my helmet down on my head, I grab my bat and step out of the dugout. The crowd roars when they see me emerge. By the time I reach the plate, almost everyone in attendance is on their feet, my name a chant on their lips as they wait for what they know is coming.

It’s our first home game of the season, and to say I’ve missed these people would be putting it lightly. I might not know them individually, and the people in the seats might change from game to game, but they each have one thing in common.

They fucking love the Rampage. And I fucking love them for it.

I take a few practice swings before I step into the batter’s box, tapping the bat against the heel of my left cleat, as I always do. The crowd goes wild at my signature move, and I can’t help the feeling of pride that fills my chest, knowing it’s all for me.

Tag often gets the bill of top player on the team. And my buddy is damn good. Defensively, there’s nobody better.

But, as far as offense goes…

I run the show.

I can see the nerves on the opposing pitcher’s face as he watches his catcher for the signal. Doesn’t matter what it is though. I can hit it.

They always pitch me a curve ball to start. Like, somehow, even after all these years, they’ll be the one who finally fools me into swinging, only to change it up at the last second.

Fucking amateurs.

I watch as the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, my eye following it all the way to the catcher’s mitt.

“Strike one.” The umpire’s voice surprises me, and it takes a second for me to catch up to what just happened.

This son of a bitch just threw me one right down the middle.

On the first pitch.

I lift my gaze back to his, my eyes narrowing as I take him in. He’s new. Or at least, newer. I don’t think I’ve ever played against him before. He looks too old to be a rookie, but then again, I’ve never been the best at placing people’s ages. But the smooth confidence that’s replaced the nerves I saw earlier tells me this isn’t his first rodeo.

Who the hell is he?

I step back out of the box and take a few more swings, never dropping my eyes from his as I do so. He might have gotten the drop on me once. But it definitely won’t be happening again.

He nods at the catcher almost as soon as I step back up to the plate, giving me just enough time to square my shoulders before the ball leaves his grip.

It starts off outside, but I know it’s going to turn. Just before it reaches the plate, I step into it and swing like hell, waiting for the satisfying crack of the bat as it belts that sucker right out of the park.

“Strike two!” the ump bellows.

My head swings around to stare at both him and the catcher.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I’m pretty sure I haven’t had two strikes in a row since my second season in the league.

This fucker is going down.

I can feel the tension and apprehension rolling off the crowd behind me. We’re down one, and there are still two more outs, so it’s not like this will necessarily make or break this game for us.

But it does for me. I’ve never let these people down before. And I don’t intend to start now.

I smack the bat against my cleat again, spitting down at the dirt surrounding my feet before leveling my glare on the pitcher once more.

Give it your best shot, you son of a bitch.

The determination in my face must be evident because I see a brief flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, and I know I have him right where I want him.

Another nod to the catcher, another windup, and…

CRACK.

The crowd erupts as my bat connects, and their collective gasp of air as they wait to see if it’s gone makes me smile. I take off at a slow jog for first base, not bothering to follow the path of my ball. That hit was solid. There’s no way in hell it will end up on the inside of the wall.

Sure enough, just as I reach first, the fans go crazy, and Singer – my teammate on second – shouts my name as he takes off for third. I raise my hand as I run, pumping my fist in the air as Singer crosses home plate and jumps into the rushing crowd of our teammates spilling out onto the field. They all wait together as I round third, and as soon as my foot hits home, I’m enveloped by a sweaty mess of grown-ass men as they lift me up over their shoulders in celebration.

It isn’t the first time it’s happened.

But I can tell you one thing; it’s a feeling that will never get old.

We spend a few minutes celebrating our first home win of the year before getting down to business and greeting our opponents.

I head toward the pitcher, extending my hand to him as I approach.

Up close, he looks a lot younger than he did when I was across the field.

Hmm, might be a rookie after all.

The kid slowly places his hand in mine, all traces of the cocky arrogance I saw earlier gone completely.

“What’s your name, kid?” I ask, realizing too late it’s probably the wrong thing to say. I should know all the names of my opponents.

But, like I said, I’ve never seen this kid before. It’s not often you see a rookie as a starting pitcher—our rookie, Carter, being the only exception I’ve seen in all my years on the field. So, I didn’t bother to even look at the roster, stupidly assuming I’d know everyone I saw out on the diamond today.

Lucky for me, the kid doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he seems a little starstruck to be talking to me.

Maybe I like this kid after all.

“J-Johnson, sir. Miles Johnson.”

I quirk a brow at him. “You’re pretty good, Johnson.”

He gives me a crooked smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Cut it with the sir shit. I know I’m old, but I’m not that old.”

Truth is, I’m only twenty-eight. But, in the life of a professional athlete, that pretty much equates to fifty. I’ve watched friend after friend blow out their knees or shoulders and have to give up the game before the age of twenty-five. Making it to thirty in this biz is hard work.

And I intend to last much, much longer than that.

“Why don’t you and your buddies come out with us tonight?” I ask the kid, knowing I’m breaking an unspoken rule.

We always go out as a team after a home victory and have a drink to celebrate. But we don’t invite the enemy.

The kid intrigues me though. Like I said, it’s not often you see a rook come up this early in his career. I wonder if Carter has met him yet. They might hit it off, being the two youngest guys in the league and starting pitchers at that.

As if sensing my thought process, Johnson’s eyes flick from mine over to where Carter is standing with the rest of my team.

“I appreciate the offer,” he says, his eyes falling down to the ground below him, “but I think I’ll have to take a rain check on that.”

I look over to Carter, finding his gaze narrowed in on where Johnson and I are standing. I’m surprised to see his lips pulled back in a sneer.

Huh. Seems as if my normally calm, cool, and collected Carter knows my new friend after all. And, from the looks of it, I’d say there’s no love lost between them.

“Another time then,” I say, giving Johnson another brief handshake before jogging over to my team.

I immediately seek Carter out, throwing my arm around his shoulders and pulling him down to my height. I’m not short by any means, but Carter is a fucking giant. Dude should’ve played basketball, I’m telling you.

“So, I take it you know my new friend?”

Carter scoffs, shaking his head. “He isn’t your friend. Trust me. First chance he gets, he’ll stab you right in the back.”

“Ohh,” I squeal like a sorority girl waiting to get the dirty details. “Do tell.”

Carter just shakes his head again. “Ancient history. Just stay away from him. Believe me, you’re better off.”

I shrug. It’s not like I was planning on inviting the kid over for a sleepover, so we could paint each other’s toenails. My loyalty lies with my team. And, if Carter says the guy is bad news, then the guy is bad news.

“Got it. Now, let’s go get fucked up.”

I take a swig of my beer as I lean over onto the bar, desperately wishing I could have something a little stronger. When I told Carter we were going to get fucked up, I was slightly exaggerating. We have another game tomorrow. One beer is all we’re allowed the night before games.

Not that I’m complaining. Trying to play ball with a hangover is a bitch.

I look over to my boy, laughing at the uncomfortable expression on his face as a blonde chick bends over and presses her ass against his junk, gyrating in time to the music. I swear, the kid wouldn’t know what to do with a woman stripped naked and handcuffed to the bed.

Not for the first time, I find myself wondering at his story. When I first met him, I thought he might play for the other team, if you know what I mean. Not that it would have any bearing on his abilities as a ball player. I don’t give two shits what two consenting adults do behind closed doors. But, after getting to know him more these last few months during spring training and now the first part of the season, I’m pretty sure he likes chicks. He just doesn’t know what to do with them.

He denies it ten ways from Sunday, but I’m one hundred percent certain my boy is still hanging on to his V card.

One of these days, I’m going to find out why.

I mean, the guy might not be a Brandon Jeffers on a scale of one to ten, but he’s not half-bad-looking. And the girl currently trying to dry-hump him to death is clearly interested. But Carter never takes any women home.

I’m going to have to give him a few tips out of the old Jeffers handbook.

If I ever find it again, that is.

My thoughts immediately turn back to Liv, my hand instinctively going to my pocket to grab my phone. She still hasn’t texted me back. But that hasn’t stopped me from trying.

I lock the screen and slide the phone back into my pocket, already knowing she’s not going to respond. I hope that she’ll either get sick of my annoyingly charming persistence and talk to me or she’ll get so pissed that she changes her number, and I can finally put this all behind me.

But my resolution from the other night still stands. As soon as I’m able, I’m hightailing it back to Maple Lake. And I’m going to fuck the Tinker Bell right out of my system. I don’t care how long it takes.

The sound of the stool sliding on the floor beside me pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn and watch as Tag plops his ass down next to me. His fingers toy with the label of the bottle in his hands, his gaze not lifting to mine even though he just sat down beside me.

He’s been acting funky for a few days now. I tried getting answers out of him today before warm-up, but the fucker wouldn’t talk. The only time I’ve ever seen him this out of sorts was when he and Lexi split for a bit. But he insists things are fine between them.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s eating at you, dude?” I ask when he doesn’t speak after a few moments.

His expression is pained as he turns to look at me.

“Fuck. I promised I wouldn’t do this. But you’re my best friend. I can’t let you sit in the dark on this one.”

I raise a brow in question. “And is that supposed to make sense to me? Care to try speaking English instead of whatever riddle that was supposed to be?”

He sighs as he looks back down at the bar. “Lexi is going to kill me.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “Look, if it’s that important to her, then I don’t want to know. I happen to like you alive. You field my balls better than anyone else,” I say, giving him a suggestive wink.

But his expression doesn’t change. “No, you need to know.”

“Well, then, tell me. Because I’m sick of watching your mopey ass saunter around all day like someone stole your favorite G.I. Joe.”

“It’s about Liv.”

My ears perk up at the sound of her name. “What about her? Is she okay?”

He shakes his head. “That’s all I’m going to say. That, and you need to get your ass back to Maple Lake ASAP.”

“Why?” I ask, not telling him I was already planning on doing just that next week when we got a break.

“Just go. I cleared it with Coach. After the game tomorrow night, you’re good to take off for a few days until the next game. He’s cool with you missing a few practices.”

Coach doesn’t let anyone miss practice. Last year, when Singer was sick as fuck with the flu, Coach told him to stop being such a pansy ass and made him run doubles.

“Dude, you’re kind of freaking me out. What’s so damn important in Maple Lake that it can’t wait till break next week?”

Tag turns to look at me, his expression somber. “Your entire life is about to change.”