Betrayal: Epiphany Series, #0.5

Chapter One

Last pitch, Walsh.

Coach Sanders stood in his box near third base, feet shoulder-width apart and arms crossed in front of his chest. His cap was pulled low on his forehead, making his already impassive expression even harder to read. He rarely showed excitement. In fact, he typically looked unimpressed during practice.

My teammate Diego took his place in the batter’s box and did a little shimmy with his hips as he settled into his stance. I smirked. He had yet to get a solid hit on one of my pitches.

Parker crouched behind home plate, mask in place and glove ready. He dropped his right hand and gave me the sign. If he wanted heat, he’d get it. All season my fastball had averaged between ninety-five and ninety-eight miles per hour. I was hoping to beat that.

I nodded and toed the mound with my right foot. Most athletes were superstitious to a point, and I was no different. I ran through the same ritual before every pitch. Two deep breaths—in, out, in, out. Focus on the catcher’s mitt—nothing else mattered. I repeated the steps in my head like a mantra. Adjust grip on the ball. Windup. Pivot. Stride. Follow-through.

Strike.

The ball disappeared into Parker’s mitt, its only sound an almost silent whump on contact. It was clean, pure. Perfect.

Diego released a string of Spanish that didn’t sound like he meant ‘great pitch’ before stomping toward the dugout with the bat resting over his shoulder.

Coach turned and waved me over as he walked toward home plate. Parker stood and flipped his mask on top of his head, grinning from ear to ear.

That’s the best one yet, Ace.

I stopped in front of my best friend and returned his smile. Did we clock that one?

Our assistant coach joined us, radar gun in hand, at the same time Sanders reached us. They conferred briefly before acknowledging Parker or me. I shifted my feet nervously. Coach enjoyed making us squirm.

Sanders turned toward us and smiled. The old bastard actually smiled. My nerves kicked up a notch, and I felt like I was going to be sick.

Well done. That last pitch was 104. The one before was 102. He clamped a hand on my shoulder. How do you feel?

How did I feel? Like five million bucks.

Arm’s great, Coach.

You ready for tomorrow? It’s a big game.

Absolutely.

You been talking to that scout?

Yes, sir. He’s called a couple times.

He nodded and spat a generous wad of phlegm on the ground. Well, get ready. You pitch this well tomorrow, you’ll have a lot more of ‘em breathing down your neck. His lips twisted into a smirk. You may just get an even better offer than Boston.

It was true. I’d rather sign with the Rangers or Astros, but Boston offered the one thing I really wanted—distance. Two thousand miles was a great incentive when it meant I could finally get far away from my father and his steadily increasing pressure to be like him.

You two hit the showers. He arched a brow. Then get some rest. I need you both in top form tomorrow. Sanders smacked my shoulder and walked away, most likely to yell at Diego for missing that hit.

What’s the plan for tonight? I’d say a celebration is in order, Parker said, waiting until Sanders was well out of earshot.

You were listening just then, weren’t you? I laughed.

Parker rolled his eyes. Yeah, but a few beers wouldn’t hurt anything. He nudged me with his elbow. Neither would pussy. I’d be down for both.

Yeah, well, I’d actually like to get some sleep tonight.

We’ll sleep when we’re dead, my friend. He chuckled. We’ll sleep when we’re dead.

I never dreamed of a career in pro baseball. Like almost everything I’d done in my life, baseball was a way to appease my father. Appearances were important to him—had been as far back as I could remember. To that end, my two younger brothers and I were required to make him look good. He didn’t give a shit about us as his flesh and blood. He only wanted trophies that proved what a great man he was for producing such stellar offspring—something he could boast about.

The thing was ... I was good at it. I started playing with a half-assed mentality, but the longer I played, the more I fell in love with the game. My stats improved dramatically over the past three years and had attracted the attention of major league scouts. Most high school and college players only dreamed about being drafted, and there I was, poised for a possible future in the game.

Even though I started playing for him, it turned into something I wanted for myself. The brass ring was within my grasp, and I was damn sure going to do everything in my power to take it.

After a monotonous drive through Austin traffic, I turned onto our road, grateful to finally be home. As I rounded the last curve, a massive structure came into view. There, at the end of the cul-de-sac, sat what could only be described as a castle. The word house was insufficient when describing where my family lived. Our home was yet one more symbol of my father’s success—and our family’s money. That, in a nutshell, was what mattered most to Connor Walsh.

Success. Wealth. Power. Control.

All of those words embodied his philosophy of life.

I navigated the sweeping drive and parked my Range Rover in its usual spot in the garage. That wasn’t my vehicle of choice, but appearances required I had an appropriate mode of transportation when I escorted the daughters of his powerful friends to their debutante shit. I was being a smart-ass when I suggested it, assuming he’d insist upon something more affordable, but he hadn’t. I figured it was the least he could do since he wanted to dictate what I drove.

The door closed with a soft thud, the sound echoing in the equally massive four-car garage. My sneakers squeaked as I walked across the pristine concrete floor and through the door leading to the kitchen. Immediately, the mouth-watering aromas of butter, sugar, and cinnamon hit me. Mom was baking.

I made a beeline to the counter and slid a handful of snickerdoodles off the cooling rack. They were my favorite.

How was practice, sweet? Mom asked, looking up as she slid another tray into the oven.

Great, I mumbled. Damn. These are awesome, Mom.

Thank you, baby. She tossed her oven mitt onto the counter. Practice?

I pitched a 102 and 104 today. Coach was happy.

That’s fantastic! She motioned to the cookies as I liberated a few more from the rack. Don’t eat too many of those. You’ll make yourself sick.

Not possible.

Mom smiled and stepped closer to ruffle the back of my hair. You always have had a bit of a sweet tooth.

A loud squeal and thumping bass notes drew my attention before I could respond. I moved to the window and peered outside. My youngest brother, Mason, sat behind the wheel of a bright red Mustang Cobra, bobbing his head to the music. Brad, his best friend and partner in crime, was riding shotgun.

What the hell? I turned back to Mom. When did this happen?

She answered with a flick of her wrist. Today. Your father wanted to surprise Mason for his birthday.

Seriously? A Mustang? The kid’s barely sixteen.

I tried, Ian. I tried to talk some sense into both of them, she sighed. They wouldn’t listen.

I stuffed another cookie in my mouth and shook my head. Hell, I didn’t give a shit that Dad bought Mason a car. What bothered me was that Mason was irresponsible on a good day. I knew that first hand—I’d covered for more of his fuck-ups over the years than he’d ever know. My other brother Finn and I had always known that Mason was our father’s favorite, mainly because we weren’t willing to follow in his footsteps—and Mason was like putty, agreeing to whatever life plan Dad cooked up for him. And now Dad had clinched his compliance by buying him a souped-up muscle car for his sixteenth birthday. It would be a miracle if Mason didn’t kill himself in it.

The door opened and in walked Mason and Brad. Mason was grinning from ear to fucking ear. Yo, Ian. Check out my new ride.

I saw. That’s cool, dude.

It’s bad-ass, man. That bitch will scream. Brad and I just took it for a spin. The boys laughed and bumped fists. We’re gonna take it to Todd’s party tonight. He’ll shit himself when he sees it.

I groaned, having forgotten about the party. Dad had already told me I was supposed to keep an eye on Mason and Brad. Great. Babysitting detail the night before a big game. Can’t you blow that off?

No, man. It’s gonna be off the chain.

I don’t want you boys to be out too late, Mom chimed in.

Can’t Finn go with you guys instead?

No, sweet. Finn has to escort Leslie Fisher tonight.

A low