Hancock, however, wasn’t smiling when he was stranded on second and had to come in.
He started jogging to the dugout just as my phone chimed.
Rainie (7:51): Heads up!
I stood up and hurried to the steps, smiling happily when my friend tossed me a whole handful of Double Bubble.
“Thank you!” I called to her.
My gorgeous blonde best friend grinned at me and waved. I waved back and froze when her eyes widened and focused at something over my shoulder.
I turned slowly to find Hancock directly behind me, staring at me like I was an alien who’d invaded earth.
“What?” I snapped at him.
What was his deal?
“Throw those other ten pieces back at her, and only give Manny two.” He looked at my hand. “He’ll wig out even worse if you show up with that many.”
I rolled my eyes and pocketed all but two pieces, then turned and headed back down the steps of the dugout.
Maybe, next game, I’d take the other trainers up on their offer to stay in the mouth of the tunnel entrance that headed out onto the field. Being in the dugout was turning out to be not such a good idea.
Especially when Hancock’s next words hit me.
“I like the way your hips sway, Mizz AT.”
I turned and narrowed my eyes at him.
“I don’t like it when you mention my fat ass all the time,” I growled. “And the name is Sway.”
His eyebrows snapped together.
“I never once called you a fat ass,” he sounded offended. “Not fucking once.”
My lip curled. “Then why the nickname of ‘Half-Pint’ and saying you like the way my hips sway?”
“Because they do. And I fucking like it. There’s nothing else to it but that,” he said, taking a step back.
Then without another word he strapped on his catcher’s gear, grabbed his glove and headed for the plate.
I watched him go, something uneasy settling in my chest.
“See you in three, Half-Pint.”
Then he was gone, and I was left feeling unsure of what, exactly, had just transpired.Chapter 3Sleeping is too hard during the summer. Blankets are too warm, but without blankets I’m vulnerable to monsters.
-Sway’s secret thoughts
Sway
I arrived at the stadium on time, and immediately headed down to the field.
The team, as well as all team personnel, were to be here on the field at one p.m. on the dot to film a freakin’ commercial for ESPN.
I’d just stopped about halfway down the stairs that would lead me out onto the field when I looked up and spotted Hancock.
Parts.
What the hell did he want to be called?
Personally, ‘Parts’ was kind of hard to call someone. Which was why I started referring to him as Hancock in my mind.
Nobody called him Hancock, though.
Not the coaches. Not the news reporters. Not his teammates.
When he was addressed, he was Parts or Peters, his last name.
I felt particularly naughty addressing him as Hancock in my mind.
“Well, hello there, Half-Pint,” Hancock drawled from the bottom of the stairs he was moving up. “What’s going on?”
I smiled at him.
“We’re to be here for a commercial, aren’t we?” I asked, trying not to sound out of breath from the trek from my car to the stairs.
I was hopeful that they didn’t actually want me to be here.
I was already incredibly uncomfortable in what they asked me to wear.
It was April, in the middle of fucking Texas.
With the owners requiring us to wear jeans, I was already sweating my ass off, and I’d only made a small hike from the car to the air-conditioned building.
It was enough to make me a sweaty mess, and I hadn’t even made it to the eventful part of my day.
“Yes, we are,” he agreed. “Well, you are. I’m not.”
“Mr. Peters!” someone called from further down the stairs that led to the field. “Mr. Peters! Wait!”
Hancock looked over his shoulder, agitation clearly written all over his face.
“I’ve already told you I won’t be doing it,” Hancock informed the small man.
And he was small.
Maybe not compared to a normal man; but standing next to Hancock, the man looked positively minimal.
“Please,” the man continued as if Hancock hadn’t even spoken. “We’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars and months planning this commercial. Surely, you understand that we’re doing it for…”
“Craig,” Hancock growled. “I am not doing the Harlem Shake. Do I look like the kind of man who does the fucking Harlem Shake?”
Craig, who I guessed was the head of PR, smiled soothingly.
“Parts,” he held out his hands placatingly.
I wondered again why he was called Parts, but I wasn’t ever going to ask him.
It was weird, and it was also a big freakin’ secret. Everyone in the entire league wondered and speculated about why he was called Parts. Nobody knew the story behind his nickname, though.
“I’ll be there. But only if I can sit in the back and nobody sees me,” Hancock conceded. “And don’t try to move me, or I’m leaving. Capisce?”