Pitched by Ella Goode

Chapter Twenty-Three

Colt

The van swervesinto a parking lot and comes to a halt toward the back where there’s no light. Booker pulls up to the front, and we all climb out. There’s no need to talk. We’ve been playing together for over a decade. We know what the other is thinking. Booker, Ethan, and Tommy head inside to chat up the clerk and distract any observers while Mick, Logan, Dean, and I move toward the van.

We hear a door open and then a thin cry followed by a door slamming shut. I sprint around the corner to see some middle-aged dude with slicked-back hair pulling GG around the side of the van.

“Mother fucker!” I rush forward, bat in the air, my swing coming down when a bright floodlight illuminates the entire area. The bastard freezes, one hand over his eyes and the other in GG’s hair.

“Stop right there, son.”

My teammates and I do a slow turn toward the parking lot of the gas station to see two black sedans and about a half dozen guys in suits and tactical vests.

“What the hell is this?” mutters Logan.

“Feebs,” Dean sighs in disgust. “Better not swing the bat, my man, or you could get charged with something, and then your baseball career will be—poof—gone.”

He’s right, dammit. Unresolved rage boils up inside of me, but I let the bat fall to my shoulder again and stalk over to the fake prophet. “Touch her again and I’m going to make your head look like a watermelon dropped on the ground.” I knock his hand away from GG’s head and pull her to me. I cup her face in my hands. She’s so fucking tiny. How could anyone try to hurt her? “You okay?”

She nods, but her eyes are red, which lights something feral inside of me. I turn to the man and bring the bat up again.

“Don’t,” GG begs, tugging on my arm. “People are watching. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“GG?” A high, querulous voice warbles from behind the man. “What’s going on?”

“Is that your mom?” I ask GG quietly.

She nods, misery etched into her beautiful features. My stomach twists. I know what that feeling is like. I palm her head and push it against my chest so she doesn’t have to look upon the betrayal of her parent. Adults are supposed to protect you, not put you in harm’s way or cause you more pain.

“You should be on this side of the line,” I tell her mom. “You should be standing next to GG, not behind a man who is about to hurt her.”

“Who are you?” GG’s mom cries. “GG, come over here.”

“You’re lucky the FBI is here or I swear to God, you’d both be on the ground.” I force myself to turn away, sliding my arm around GG’s small shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go home. Your grandparents are probably worried.”

“I was scared,” she confesses.

“I would be, too.”

“I shouldn’t have gotten into the van with them, but Jerima is strong and my mom—“ Her breath catches, and she can’t finish the sentence because it’s too damned painful. I push her toward Dean and spin back around toward Jerima, the snake oil salesman, and the bitch that gave birth to GG. I can’t walk away without making them feel a tiny measure of the anguish that’s eating away at GG. Before I can get there, a man in a suit steps into my path.

“You don’t want to do it,” he tells me.

“Oh I do.” I shove past him.

“Getting arrested for a violent crime isn’t going to look good to scouts and the major leagues.”

“They can all suck my giant dick.”

Jerima takes one look at my face and pulls GG’s mom in front of him. “This is a violation of my rights. You can’t do this. This is a crime. Are you going to allow that punk to assault me?”

“No one’s assaulting you, Mr. McCarthy,” assures one of the men in suits. “But you are under arrest for the kidnapping of a minor. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

“You’re arresting me for kidnapping? We are retrieving a runaway! This is her mom!” Jerima nudges GG’s mom, who casts a wild glance toward the FBI agents and then toward me, standing like a menace with a baseball bat ready to crash into her.

“I…” she gulps.

“Tell them,” Jerima screams. “Tell them that she’s your daughter!”

“You have a right to an attorney,” drones the agent. He starts to drag Jerima toward one of the sedans.

Jerima digs in his heels. “This is her daughter!” he yells. His slick hair is starting to lose some of its hold. His face is tomato red, and his face is glowing with a mix of sweat and spit. GG’s mom slinks back into the shadows, somehow sensing that siding with Jerima isn’t her best option.

“Sweetheart,” she mewls in GG’s direction.

GG flinches. I step in between the two. “You should get in your van and go back to wherever you came from before I forget that there’s a posse of agents here. If GG wants to see you again, she’ll contact you. Don’t reach out to her until then. You’re not wanted.”

“She’s not going anywhere for the time being. We have more on Jerima than only this kidnapping.”

I nod to my boys and we move as one, with GG huddled in the center. No one’s touching her again. When we reach the SUV, an agent stops us.

“You’re Coltrane Broussard, right?”

I eye him suspiciously. “Yeah.”

A grin breaks across his face. He reaches into his pocket. We all tense. He laughs. “Don’t worry. No cuffs. No gun.” He shows us a small notebook and a pen. “Be a good guy and give me your signature.”

Another agent ambles up. “Really, Connor?”

Agent Connor shrugs. “He’s going to be a Cy Young winner someday. This will be worth money.”

I scrawl my signature across the notebook while my friends snicker behind me. Agent Connor tucks the signature away and then pats my shoulder. “I’ve got high hopes for you, so that’s why I couldn’t let you take the swing at Jerima’s head. You can’t pitch from prison.”