Batting Style (FRANKLIN U 2, #3) by Louisa Masters EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Louisa Masters
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 6.1 MB
- Price: Free
JORDAN
At first, I think the ripping sound is Boyle letting one rip—no pun
intended. It’s kind of his thing, which is how he got the nickname Farty
Boyle. Though it probably helped that his actual name is Marty.
But there’s no stink invading my nostrils or outcry from the guys closest
to him. In fact, when I look up, everyone’s staring at me.
“It wasn’t me,” I protest immediately, even though I know that’s the
dumbest thing I could say. Nobody ever believes that. I mean… he who
denied it, supplied it, right?
“Dude,” Polly—also known as Brad Polling, our pitcher—grabs my
head and turns it toward my arm, “if you’re going to deny shit, at least
destroy the evidence first.”
My confusion lasts for about three seconds before my eyes land on the
mega-fucking-huge rip in the sleeve of my suit jacket. “Shit. How’d that
happen?” And is Coach going to make me wait here until the area around
the stadium is abandoned so nobody can see me leave? The season hasn’t
even started yet—today’s preseason friendly barely got any turnout—so
maybe he’ll relax the stupid suits-must-be-worn-on-game-day rule. The
athletics department must have been eating shrooms when they came up
with that piece of bullshit.
“Did you snag it on something?” Laringo asks, and I shrug, then wince
when I feel the gap widen.
“Don’t think so, but I’m gonna take this off before I make it worse.”
They all watch while I wrestle my way out of the jacket, unfortunately
making the hole bigger even though I’m trying to be careful.
“Why is it so tight?” Boyle shakes his head. “You trying to prove
something?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve got nothing to prove. Just ask your mom.”
The guys jeer and laugh—including Boyle—and I turn my jacket to
look at the rip in the sleeve. Polly bends his head closer, blocking the light.
“Pol, you mind?”
“Sorry.” He straightens. “Good news, that’s just the seam ripping. It can
be repaired.” His dad’s a tailor, so he’s become our resident expert on things
like this. Every year, he does a thirty-minute how-to-sew-on-buttons session
for incoming freshmen players. Coach hates for us to look sloppy.
“Great.” I don’t sound enthusiastic. “Thanks, man. I’ll get that done.”
He claps me on the shoulder and grabs his duffle, following some of the
other guys out. “Don’t forget, Shenanigans tonight,” he calls over his
shoulder. That’s the local bar, not an invitation to get up to no good. Though
there’s a chance we’ll do that too.
I flip him a wave of acknowledgment, then go back to getting my stuff
together and wondering if I could just sneak past Coach’s office without
him—
“Marks? Did I hear someone say you ripped your suit?” Coach’s bellow
precedes him, and I mentally curse my gossiping teammates. There goes
that idea.
“Just the sleeve.” I turn to face him as he stomps over. He’s not that big
of a guy, so fuck knows why he’s got such a heavy walk. “I’m going to get
it repaired.”
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