Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
An unwelcome revelation?
If I’m being honest with myself, today was nice. Dare I say, needed.
It’s been weeks since I’ve been off campus for any reason other than obligation, and this afternoon, while technically on the clock, felt like a small break I didn’t know I was dying for. I can’t pinpoint when exactly my life became a hamster wheel, but for a long time now it’s been wake up, climb into this circle, wash, rinse, and repeat.
I didn’t feel that way today. Today, my mind wasn’t already two tasks ahead, and I have Tobias to thank for that.
The short conversation with Franny was soothing in a way I’ve missed. She has that natural mother’s nature about her, but the photos lining the homey walls gave me the impression she may have never been blessed with the role she would have loved.
It’s easy to see she’s taken with Tobias, which is as equally surprising as it is expected.
He’s more than charming and completely over the top, but I’m beginning to realize some of that isn’t him. Most of it is, but not all.
Yes, he’s extremely cocky, but he’s kind of earned the right. He really is at the top of the game, so it’s not like his ego’s inflated where baseball is concerned. And the rest ... I don’t know.
The Playboy Pitcher is said to be an egomaniac. A bad boy with an eye for trouble, bound by air too heavenly for others to breathe.
He is trouble, that’s for sure, but I get the sense he didn’t inflate the bubble people claim surrounds him. I think he wants someone to step a little closer, to look a little deeper.
He wants someone to open their eyes and look into his without prejudgment.
Or maybe he just doesn’t care what others think, and he does the only thing he can.
He accepts the misconceptions for what they are – beyond his control.
If he cared to uphold some sort of image, if he fit said image, Franny and Joe’s is the last place we’d have ended up today.
They care for him, that much was obvious, but what was surprising, at least at first, was that the man cares for them too. An adorable, hardworking old couple with no ties to him.
No tie, but a common felt emotion, one I know all too well.
Loneliness.
Sighing, I close my textbook and tug the blanket up to my chin.
I’m not so sure it was a good thing to see this side of Tobias Cruz, but I’m also not so sure I regret it.
CHAPTER 12
Tobias
How these sons of bitches let me get up to bat, I don’t know.
Maybe the long-haired pretty boy wants to try and prove a point, to be the sole fucker who could say he struck out your boy, but what a dumb shit he is.
He walked Xavier, the fastest fucker on the team, and now we’ve got one on third and first. We’re only up by one right now, but all I’ve got to do is make it to first and X is coming home, no doubt.
So, when Winner by Jamie Foxx comes on and the crowd goes wild—yeah, even the home team fans love me—I swing my bat around and make my way into the batter’s box.
“How you doing, cocksucker?” I say to the catcher while keeping my eye on the man on the mound.
“Fuck you, Cruz.”
“After your girl, yeah, Hanson?”
“Dick.”
“Thick and long, my man. Now tell yours to hit me with that fastball he seems to favor. Watch me make a fool out of ‘em.”
The ump gives his okay, the pitcher jerks his chin and here we fucking go.
I could almost laugh the second before it leaves his hand.
He’s really serving the king of the curve, a motherfuckin’ curve?
Screw first base, this ball is going to the wall.
The clash of cork and rubber against metal pings with contact and the ball flies exactly where it’s intended, too fucking far to catch.
X comes in and I round to third, clapping like an asshole as I pop up, dusting my knees off like the obnoxious fucker I become on the field.
The pitcher comes off the mound, so I hold my arms out with a grin, but his coach shouts something from the dugout, and the punk turns back.
He knows he can’t win now, not when we’re up by three with two out and back to the four spot on our batting roster. Not when they’re at the bottom of theirs and I’m still set to take the mound.
He knows I never reach my max pitch count. When I start a game, I finish the fucking thing, unless we’re up by a fuck-ton, then I’ll swap out and let the number two finish out.
This game is ours, just like we knew it would be.
Like they knew it would be, and tomorrow morning, we’ll win again, sweeping the series.