Bad Boy Prospect (Alpha Bad Boy Book 2) by Sloane Howell Page A

I'm gonna finish this shit."
    "Oh, umm, yeah right."
    He trots back behind the plate and crouches down as I throw my warm up pitches. When that's finished, I mosey around the back of the mound, tuck my glove in my arm pit, and rub some dirt in my hands. I bend the bill of my cap so that it's tucked tight around my face, old school, none of that flat billed shit everyone does nowadays. My back is to the batter as I slip my glove back on and pound the ball into my mitt. Let's do this shit.
    I turn around and step up to the rubber. The crowd goes ballistic. They love me because they know I get shit done. They came to see their superstar first round draft pick mow down hitters. I dig my cleat in front of the rubber, creating a shallow trench for my foot, and lean in, raising my glove almost to the bill of my cap, so that my glove and hat form a narrow oval and all the hitter sees is my eyes, glaring down at his bitch ass.
    This is what baseball is all about. Only one of us can win and it sure as shit is going to be me. I hope his mother is in the crowd to witness her son's failure. Jackson throws down the ol' number one on the third sign he flashes and I oblige him with a nod. Coach wasn't lying. This sack of shit is on my plate, damn near hugging it. It's time to teach him a lesson and establish my dominance early.
    I come set and look back to the runner at second to make sure he doesn't try anything stupid. Once I'm satisfied, I kick my left leg to my chest, and explode off the rubber with my right, whipping my arm around and throwing exactly where I want — right at this cocksucker's chin. I hear the familiar whistling of the seams cutting through the air as I follow through and kick my back leg around. It sounds like a shotgun blast when the ball pummels into Jackson's mitt. My opponent is flat on his back, bathing himself in dirt and the chalk outline of the batter’s box. The ball barely missed his head and he does not look happy.
    He leaps up from the dirt, bat in hand. "What the fuck?"
    I take a few steps toward him, my brow tightening, giving him the glare I give everyone. "Stay off my fuckin' plate, or I'll put your ass down again." I head back up the mound and look out to the scoreboard in centerfield. The bottom right corner flashes "101 mph." I'm just getting started.
    The opposing hitter still looks mighty pissed and that gets a smile out of me as he steps back in the box. This time he's not nearly as close to the plate as he was. Got him.
    I can see his weight on his heels. It's time to give him the slider and watch him wave like a fucking clown. Jackson probably sees it too and flashes more signs. I know when he flashes the three fingers on the third sign that he's calling for the slider. I nod once more and come set. I'm thinking about how stupid this chump is about to look when I glance to the runner. He has three fingers on his thigh. I turn my head to the third base coach and see him eyeing his runner closely and then he shouts out the hitter's last name. "Thibodeaux!" These motherfuckers.
    I step off the back of the rubber. I'm not putting up with this Mickey Mouse bullshit. It's an unwritten rule of the game. A complete bitch move to steal someone's signs. Kneeling in the grass, pretending to tie my shoe, I look up to the baserunner. He's staring back at me.
    I glance over to the field umpire. He is staring off at the two girls I'll sink my cock into later. I turn back to the runner. "You steal my signs again and he's going to eat this next pitch."
    He decides to act stupid. "Fuck you, bitch."
    "I'm not fucking around, chicken dick. Throw 'em down on your goddamn leg again and see what happens."
    The tone in our voices has grown and we now have the field umpire's attention. "Let's play ball, boys."
    "Yes sir." I flash him a smile and the little bitch running his mouth takes notice.
    I step back to the rubber and look to Jackson. He gives the same sequence of signs like an idiot, but I don't care. The