Last Strike

Game Time

Ashton’s POV:

I can hear the not-so-subtle whispers of some of my teammates when entering the locker room. My left hand instinctively coils into a fist while my right hand is wrapped up with an ice pack strapped to my knuckles. I already know I’m going to regret punching that wall, but damn, if she didn’t provoke me.

She sat there with those ocean blue eyes turned icy, and those plump pink lips pressed into a scowl. Those eyes used to look at me with only adoration and love, but now they appear to be filled with resentment and scorn. Why the hell did they have to hire her of all the people?

Malcolm Jones, my teammate and best friend since college, slides onto the locker room bench next to me. He nudges me with his broad shoulder to get my attention. I know I’m about to get my ass chewed out. He glances around the room to check for anyone listening before asking, “So, what the hell happened?”

I keep my tone in check. I can’t afford to piss another person off today. “I made a drunken mistake. Okay?”

He sighs while rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Hell no, it’s not okay. Dude, pictures and videos of you dropping your pants in front of a crowd of people, which happened to include a police officer, are all over social media and news outlets. What the hell happened to cause you to f*ck up that badly?”

I rubbed at my unshaven chin while my legs bounced harshly in frustration. “I was pissed off after our loss, and I wanted to unwind with a drink at the club. I was fine until Jackson showed up and started running his mouth at the table next to mine. I was going to leave, but then f*cking Rebecca and her coven of bitches showed up.

She immediately started chatting in that loud, obnoxious voice of hers, telling Jackson how I caused her to have a miscarriage. Before I knew it, half the club was gathered around their table listening to their lies.”

I angrily ran my hand through my already disheveled hair and looked to see Malcom’s eyes locked on me. “I snapped, okay? Jackson’s lucky I didn’t beat his ass. I was drunk and allowed my pride to get the better of me.”

“Why didn’t you text me to come back you up, or better yet, pull you out of that damn club? Instead, you drop your pants and get yourself arrested.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Is it true they hired Lizzy to work her PR magic?”

I bury my head in the palm of my hands and nod.

“Damn. Have you seen her yet?”

As I answered, “Oh yeah”, I saw a smirk spread across Malcom’s face. He chuckles. “Oh, I bet she was thrilled to see you. They must have offered her serious money to get her to agree to help you. How did she look?” Malcolm gently elbows me and grins.

“She looked like she wanted to rip my balls off and feed them to me for breakfast.”

Malcolm scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean, as*hole. Is she still the same Lizzy?”

“Man, if it weren’t for those damn blue eyes, I would have thought I was looking at a different girl. She looked polished and professional. She was wearing heels for f*ck sake! That sassy mouth is still the same, though.”

I swear, Malcom lets out a laugh that sounds happier than a little schoolgirl. He smacks me on the back in mock sympathy. “I know it sucks for you, but damn, I can’t wait to see her. She’s probably going to make your life hell for a while, but she knows how to turn scandals into successes.

Remember last season when Slater, with the Braves, got caught with those strippers? The team was ready to cut him loose, and he was losing endorsements left and right. Lizzy managed to clean up his public image, and now he has more endorsements than he had before. Don’t blow this chance to turn things around, Ash.”

******

Elizabeth’s POV:

There’s something special about being at a ballpark, this one in particular. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved baseball, especially the Chicago Grizzlies. I often tell people that I’ve been a fan since I was in my mother’s womb.

My father was a scout for the league and taught me everything there is to know about baseball from the time I was six. Other girls wanted to be Disney princesses, whereas I wanted to be the first female major league baseball player. I was the ultimate tomboy growing up, and the majority of my childhood friends were boys. While I will work to help any athlete in any sport, baseball is my sweet spot.

Growing up, I spent many summer days here at the ballpark with my dad. Now, this is my first time setting foot in this park in over four years, all due to a certain 6-foot-tall second baseman. Shortly after the Grizzlies drafted him in our senior year of college, he threw away our four-year relationship, choosing to believe some cruel lies about me.

I decided to avoid any Grizzlies games unless I was attending for work. I’ve managed not to have to handle any of the team’s players for the past four seasons until now, and it just had to be him. Why couldn’t he play for a team I hate, like the Mets or the Dodgers? I’d be happy to avoid those ballparks.

I slipped on my shades and some sunscreen before heading down to the lower deck. Jacob gave me a perfect seat in the second row along the third baseline, providing a clear view of second base. If I know anything about Ashton, it’s that he’s incredibly hard on himself when he’s going through a slump. That leads him to make deplorable choices off the field, which I would bet money on is what happened last night.

Looking at his stats, he’s going through a dry spell at the plate with a lot of strikeouts, and he’s also been making errors at second. That’s most certainly the formula for an Ashton Tate colossal f*ck up.

As I find my seat, I discover that I’m seated next to James Adams, a well-known sports columnist, who I’m sure already has an article about Ashton’s incident written up and ready for publishing. I have a feeling this seating arrangement is not a coincidence.

He greets me with a warm smile as I take my seat. “Ms. Mason, what a pleasure to see you here for a game. I can’t begin to imagine why you’d be showing up today.”

Thankfully, my sunglasses hid my eye roll from him. Arrogant sports columnists are some of my least favorite people to deal with, but luckily, I’ve had a lot of practice. “Good Afternoon, Mr. Adams. It’s been a while. How is The Tribune treating you these days?”

His smirk irritated me as he responded, “They treat me very well, especially on days like today when I have so much to write about.”

I can tell already that this is going to be a long afternoon.