The Strike Out Read online

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2021

  Cover Design By: RBA Designs

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Excerpt - The Wedding Game

  More Books by Meghan Quinn

  Chapter One

  HOLT

  “I’m drunk.”

  “Is this place spinning?”

  “Oooh, patty melts. Fuck yes.”

  Carson and Knox, my two best friends, sit across from me while Jason, our catcher, is two nuzzles to my shoulder away from passing out next to me.

  The diner booth is crowded given our large, very manly, muscular bodies—so masculine, the most masculine you’ll ever see—and tons of testosterone, and big dicks and balls . . . big dicks and balls. Hashtag . . . check out those nut-sacks.

  Where was I going with that? Uh . . . oh yeah, it’s crowded, we look ridiculous in this tiny booth made for four regular-sized people—not men with the giant scrots—and thanks to Jason’s hometown friends, we’re drunk off our asses.

  School starts in two weeks, and since we’re heading into our junior year—the most important year for a college baseball player because of the chance to get drafted after the season—we all decided to come back to Brentwood University early to have some fun before academics and training absorb our every waking hour.

  If I’m honest—whispers softly in your ear—we couldn’t stand Jason’s never-ending badgering to show us a good time, so we gave in.

  Thankfully, we all live in the baseball loft that’s right off campus, so we didn’t have to worry about dorms opening up or being homeless.

  And since we’re responsible college men, we’ve kept up with our workout routines and had daily practices in the cages. At night, we get piss-ass drunk, then we sweat out the booze the next morning on an easy two-mile run along Lake Michigan.

  If you smell a trail of whiskey and Coke in the mornings near Lakeview Drive, it’s just us . . . the guys with the big balls.

  Speaking of the male genitalia . . .

  “Have you tried that new underwear I bought you?” I ask Carson, who is thumbing through the sugar packets for no apparent reason.

  “It’s a thong, man. I’m not wearing that shit.”

  “You got Carson a thong?” Knox asks, eyes hazy. He’s a lightweight, always has been. Three beers and he’s dancing to his own music; five and he sits in a chair and giggles constantly. He’s had a comfortable four, so we’re not quite at the giggle phase yet. “Why didn’t you get me a thong?”

  “Because Carson was complaining about his dick bouncing around too much during our runs. Thongs keep your junk close together but also give your ass cheeks air. It’s fucking breezy down there, man.”

  “You wear thongs?” Knox asks.

  “Mmm . . . thongs,” Jason mumbles, despite being more or less passed out on my shoulder.

  “Yeah, I do. You have a problem with that?”

  Knox gives me a lazy once-over. “How come I’ve never seen you in one in the locker room?”

  “Because I don’t walk around buck-ass naked like Romeo.”

  “Want to talk about a guy who should be wearing a thong?” Carson taps his nose. “Romeo. His ass is the best on the team.”

  “I take offense—hiccup—to that,” Jason groans, then moves his cheek against my shoulder, getting comfortable. Being the catcher, Jason has made it known amongst everyone on the team that if there was a best-ass award, it would belong to him, but we all secretly profess it’s Romeo’s.

  “Try the thong,” I say. “It’ll give your penis great bounce.”

  “What can I . . .” a female voice at the end of the table starts. At the same time, Knox, Carson, and I turn to see a waitress garbed in a yellow diner dress, pad in hand, pen poised, standing at the end of our table. Uh, I can come back.”

  As if she’s not standing right there, Carson asks, “Did she hear you say ‘penis’?”

  Knox shakes his head. “No, she came after he was talking about the bouncing urinator.” He laughs. “That’s a superhero I could get behind. The Bouncing Urinator.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to be in front of a bouncing urinator . . .” I mutter.

  We all start laughing as the girl clears her throat. “I heard you talk about your penis.”

  Our laughter stops and even though my eyes struggle to focus completely, I still notice the beautiful chestnut color of her hair, deep chocolate of her eyes, and the pretty honey tone of her skin, which indicates she’s been in the sun all summer when not in the diner.

  She’s stunning. From the nametag crookedly hooked right above her breast, I figure out her name is Harmony.

  I could be a detective. Especially if I were sober.

  “We were talking about man thongs,” Carson clarifies as I continue to admire the girl in front of us.

  Not short, but not tall either, she has to be about five six, and even though she has a small chest and waist, her dress barely fits over the swell of her hips and the bubble of her butt.

  I think we’ve a new winner for the best-ass award . . . from what I can see.

  Would it be rude to ask her to turn around so I can make a better assessment?

  “I don’t wear them,” Carson says, pointing in my direction. “Holt wears them. Says it’s breezy.”

  Harmony lifts her brow and checks me out. She looks . . . unimpressed. I puff my chest while she peruses, tempted to take off my shirt for a full show. “You wear thongs?”

  “Man thongs, to be clear, and I only really wear them when we have to go for long runs, and during practice, which is all the time, but I change after practice into boxer briefs. But, yeah . . . man thongs.” I knock the table with my knuckles and cheese it up for her.
>
  Her eyes narrow and she gives our table a curt sweep as recognition dawns on her. “Ah, you’re on the baseball team.”

  “Please, no autographs,” Knox jokingly says while holding up his hand, just as Jason lets out a roar of a snore, causing us to all buckle over with laughter. The boisterous sound wakes him and he perks up quickly, looking around. Then he burps, and his eyes widen.

  Oh shit.

  Harmony sees the impending disaster, steps aside, and points behind her with her pen. “Bathroom is that way.”

  Without another word, Jason cups his mouth and sprints off harder than any of us have ever seen. If only he did that during practice.

  Carson addresses the situation and adds poetically, “Once he ralphs, I’m sure he’ll want a patty melt like the rest of us. But he’ll take the sweet potato fries.”

  “Four patty melts, then?” Harmony asks, with a little more attitude in her voice than before.

  “That would be—”

  “Is there something wrong?” I ask, interrupting Knox before he can say something douchey like “that would be lovely.”

  “Nope.” She pops the P with a snap of her lips and refuses to look at any of us.

  “Then the patty melts would be—”

  “Do you have something against us being on the baseball team?” I ask, turning my entire body toward her. Carson groans. He becomes “ravenous” when he’s drunk, and I know all he wants is his patty melt with a plateful of fries, but I want some answers first.

  The stigma on campus is that the players on the Brentwood baseball team are entitled assholes—which might be true for some of the players who’ve worked through the system, but not for us. There’s also a good chance, at least once a day, that we run into a student on campus who hates us. Didn’t think it would happen before school started.

  “Dude, you’re so aggressive right now,” Knox says. “Maybe she just—”

  “Yeah, I do.” Harmony props her hand on her hip.

  “Okay, never mind.” Knox leans back in his booth and folds his arms over his chest.

  “Let me guess,” I say in an irritated and affronted tone. “You think we’re a bunch of entitled assholes who rule the campus and don’t deserve half the benefits we receive for being on the team.”

  She folds her arms as well and with a whole lot of sass, she says, “Yeah, I do. Your expensive stadium, equipment, staff, and full-ride scholarships eat up half the tuition on this campus, leaving nothing for us peasants. You’re obnoxious, self-righteous, and think the world revolves around you. Meanwhile, the rest of the students around you work at shitty diners, earning low wages, serving drunk morons like you at all hours of the night, just to put ourselves through college so we can earn a degree, graduate to a shitty job that won’t pay for our student loans, and wind up in debt with the rest of the country.”

  Yikes.

  Silence falls. What do you say to that?

  Clearly, she’s bitter, and with the passion flaming in her eyes and the claws ready to shoot from her fingertips, I think I should slowly back away.

  Jason takes that moment to return from the bathroom, and he sits with a resounding plop. He glances around and asks, “Did you order me a patty melt?”

  Rolling her eyes, Harmony takes off toward the kitchen, leaving us concerned. Is she going to put in our order? Because we want our patty melts.

  Chapter Two

  HARMONY

  “Switch tables,” I say when I reach the computer where we enter orders.

  Priya shakes her head, picks up her tray of waters, and starts to walk away.

  “Please, Priya,” I call out. “I’m begging you.”

  “Last time we did that, Coral got pissed and threatened to fire both of us. I love you, but, no. Deal with them.”

  Sighing, I lean against the sticky wall of the diner in which I’ve worked countless hours over the last two and a half years. Coral, our manager, is a stickler when it comes to our sections. She’s a control freak and watches over each of our tables, making sure everyone is happy despite the shitty food and the appalling conditions of the diner.

  Yeah, Five and Dime is popular because it’s located across from frat row, diagonal from the baseball loft, and is a quick walk from campus, making it the hangover destination for every college student at Brentwood. Well, hungover or currently smashed.

  And for some reason, I seem to serve every campus athlete. They always fall under my section, and I get to hear about their limitless dining cards, their really nice dorm rooms, the free athletic gear they get from Brentwood, and the extensions they’re always granted from professors. It’s tiresome and totally infuriating, especially for a girl who lives paycheck to paycheck, and in order to get at least one meal a day, eats the diner’s shitty food.

  Arrogant assholes.

  Succumbing to my misfortune, I start entering patty melts into the system, one with sweet potato fries. I’m tempted to fuck with their order but know it’ll only result in extra work on my end.

  Finishing up, I press enter and start filling up waters for each guy just as Priya comes back from her table. She sets her tray down and looks over the glass partition before saying, “Wow, you got the kings of the diamond tonight. Knox Gentry, Carson Stone, and the one and only Holt Green.”

  “Jason Orson is over there too.”

  “Oh, I think he was the blur I saw racing to the bathroom a few minutes ago.”

  I roll my eyes. “That would be his second trip.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Took me a second to recognize them since they’re not in their gear, but once I did, I felt my skin start to crawl. And of course, they called me out on my distaste for them.”

  Priya scoffs. “Of course they did. Only confident assholes do that. Please tell me you shut them down.”

  “Easily.” I set the last glass of water on my tray and turn toward Priya, irritation creeping over me. “Do you know what really makes me angry? They don’t seem the least bit sorry about how they walk around Brentwood like they own everything. My tuition is paying for theirs.”

  “Not necessarily true. It could be paying for the academic counselor who keeps giving you sass about the classes you want to take.”

  “Both are a kick to the crotch.” I hoist the tray over my shoulder and pat Priya on the ass as I walk by. “Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.” My much-needed break by the water. “I can’t wait.”

  “I’m taking the snacks. You bring the sunscreen.”

  We’ve been planning our beach day for the last few weeks, lining up our days off to coincide with the cover band contest concert that’s taking place tomorrow. I’d been saving every last penny to purchase a cute bathing suit I’d had my eye on at a boutique a few shops down from the diner. Every time I passed the window display, I reminded myself of my silly goal.

  Two days ago, I bought the bathing suit—on sale because the end of summer is looming—and I look damn good in the tiny yellow bikini. I can’t wait to show it off.

  Putting on a fake smile, I reach the baseball table and hand out drinks. Their eyes are glued to my every move. I’m not surprised, given the mouthful I spat at them before.

  Ignoring the awkwardness between us, I say, “I assumed you wanted water, but if you want something else to drink, let me know. Your patty melts are being cooked right now.”

  I lower the tray to my side and take in the table. In the middle is a small notepad with tic-tac-toe boards all over it. Each guy—besides Jason, since he’s in the bathroom . . . again—has a pen in their hands and a stupid look on their faces as if they’ve been caught doing something bad.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “As a matter of fact, you are,” Holt says, looking at me with disdain, like the privileged ass that he is.

  Why do I dislike this guy so much? Maybe because he comes from the incredibly rich Green family of New York City. They have a house in the Hamptons, a penthouse in the city, an apartment in a skyris
e in Chicago, and I believe a cottage in Tennessee. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. The guy oozes money with his pretty-boy looks, non-pilling clothes, and fancy BMW that I always seem to see zooming around campus. And no, I don’t have a thing against rich people. What I have a thing against is a rich person getting a full-ride scholarship when they could have easily paid for their tuition and not seen a dent in their bank account.

  Sure, he’s talented, one of the best left fielders to ever walk this campus, so he earned that scholarship, but as a parent with all that money, wouldn’t you think, hey, let’s take that scholarship money and give it to another student?

  Rolling my teeth over my bottom lip, I ask, “And what might I be interrupting?”

  “Tickety-tock-toesies,” Jason says, coming up from behind me and sitting down. He picks up his napkin and dabs his forehead. “Okay, I think I’m good to go with that patty melt now.”

  Tickety-tock-toesies? I barely hold in my snort of laughter.

  “What did we tell you about calling it that?” Holt says through clenched teeth.

  “But that’s what we call it,” Jason says, looking confused.

  “Not in public, dipshit,” Carson chimes in.

  “Oh.” Jason smiles up at me. “We play manly sports on a tiny notepad. Dungeons and Dragons. Her-ahhhhh,” he wails obnoxiously, but only for a second, because Holt knocks him in the arm to shut him up.

  “Dungeons and Dragons is even worse.” Holt shakes his head and addresses Knox and Carson. “This is why we shouldn’t have hung out with someone younger than us.”