The Ninth Inning (The Boys of Baseball #1) - J. Sterling Page 0,1

on fire and the scouts were seeing me play well, my fellow students could say whatever they wanted.

The truth was that I rarely slept around. I definitely had a few one-night stands under my belt. I was a single guy in college on the hottest baseball team in the country. I used it to my advantage whenever I felt the need. I hadn’t meant to turn into such a stereotypical jock, but it’d happened anyway.

“Cole, find me later?” a busty fake blonde whispered in my ear as I pushed through the crowd toward the sliding glass door.

“Not likely,” I shot back without sparing her another glance.

I knew she was pouting, her injected bottom lip sticking out way too far for her face.

Why did girls keep doing that shit? Did they really think we liked the way it looked or even cared?

Ladies, we guys loved that you had a mouth in general. We daydreamed about the things we’d like to do to it or put in it or having it wrapped around our dicks. But we never daydreamed about you making them bigger. If anything, we wished you’d stop. There was enough fake shit in this world; you didn’t need to fill your face with it.

“What’s up, Carter?” I said, calling Chance by his last name once I finally reached him. I clapped him on the back as he handed me a beer in a red plastic cup.

Chance was the son of a baseball legend here at Fullton State and our pitching coach, Jack Carter. He was only a sophomore, but he was one of the best catchers I’d ever seen behind the plate, and he was starting this year, after playing second string to a senior last season.

The best part about Chance was that he never acted like he was owed a damn thing. He worked hard, even as a freshman, and I’d taken to him right away, respecting his work ethic and the way he carried himself. It was rare that someone so young could be so focused and driven, but then again, he’d grown up with a legend, so maybe it was to be expected.

“Hanging out at the keg isn’t a great way to avoid the ladies, Chance,” I teased, knowing that he had a rule about not dating or hooking up with any girls. Ever. I used to make fun of him for it when he first joined the team, but once my senior year had started, I’d understood all too well what he’d been trying to do.

Chance shrugged. “Coming to the baseball house isn’t a great way to avoid the ladies,” he said in response, and I laughed.

You see, most guys had to chase girls in college, but if you were on the baseball team, they came to you. And if you were Chance Carter, you tripled that number.

“You did it right, man,” I said, tipping back my beer and taking a small sip. I didn’t drink often during the season, and I never got drunk.

His eyes narrowed. “What’d I do right exactly?”

“The girls. You said no right from the start. I’m just saying no now. It feels like too little, too late,” I admitted, as if my sex life had led to the fact that I hadn’t gotten drafted at the end of last season. It had nothing to do with it and everything to do with my shitty batting average. I was great in the outfield, fast, with an arm like a rocket, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to have the stats at the plate to go along with it.

You see, getting drafted was a bit easier if you were a pitcher or a catcher. Teams always clamored for as much pitching as they could get, convinced that the more pitching they had, the better off they’d be. And catchers were a close second. But being a position player, trying to get drafted, was a little tougher. They looked for a strong, powerful bat among your other attributes. But if you sucked at hitting, you weren’t getting picked up. And by the end of last year, I had fallen into a slump I couldn’t get out of.

Basically, I sucked at hitting.

But this season would be different. I’d been working on my form, my stance, my hips, and my body alignment and weight distribution at the plate. Chance and I were always at the cages, taking hacks and hitting more than anyone else on the team. I felt like I had the most to