He scoffed. “Don’t forget to let me pitch however the hell I want.”
I chuckled, and he grinned at me. Damn, we’d come a long way, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that. For the moment, I decided to revel in it.
“Ugh, I think I liked it better when you were bitching at each other,” Kellan teased, and winked at me as he gathered stray bats.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s only a five-minute reprieve from his usual stubbornness.”
Maclain shook his head. “Pot, meet kettle.”
As the game got underway, I couldn’t help glancing toward the stands every now and again, just to make sure they were still in attendance, like they were part of my family or something. Ridiculous. But I wanted his dad to care, to be interested in Maclain’s life. Couldn’t he see how much Maclain needed to know he mattered?
But maybe not. Maclain was really good at disguising his feelings, but you’d think his dad would’ve known him well enough by now. Except, their relationship seemed to be hanging by a thread if I’d put all the little details together right.
I clenched my jaw as I stole another look. His dad seemed distracted, motioning while talking on his phone, and the fiancée seemed bored stiff. But he’d made the effort to attend, even if out of guilt or to show his fiancée he was a good dad. From the little I’d gotten from Maclain, that fitted his personality. Still, he could’ve at least acted somewhat interested.
“Well, look at that. His dad finally decided to show,” Fischer said under his breath when I sank down beside him in the dugout. “Maybe now he’ll chill out.”
The whole team was aware of how much this mattered to Maclain, and it seemed we were all holding our collective breath. But I also felt protective and couldn’t help taking up for him.
“He’s been all right lately. Give him a break,” I said, and I could feel Fischer staring at me. “What?”
“You’ve really become friends, huh?”
“Yeah, sure. Isn’t that what Coach wanted? And maybe it’s working. The team has been meshing a lot better, and our record reflects that.”
“True,” he mused, and I blew out a breath, relieved.
Yeah, it was a little nerve-racking having this secret between me and Maclain. It was liable to drive me mad by the end of the season. Not much longer. My stomach dropped. And then Maclain and I would graduate and go our separate ways. Likely, he wouldn’t even stay in this stupid town or want anything further to do with me. Wow, I was great at jumping to conclusions. No matter what happened, we could stay in touch and maybe even be a support to each other.
Pushing those thoughts aside, I refocused my attention on the field.
Maclain’s nerves must’ve gotten the best of him because he’d allowed a couple of easy hits in the middle of the fifth, resulting in RBIs. As he kicked at the dirt on the mound, his frustration was obvious. I wasn’t sure we could rely on his intuition given the occasion, but I let it go as much as I could, and it seemed Coach had the same idea because he remained mostly silent on the third baseline. To Maclain’s credit, we were also playing a tough team, and it was a miracle we’d held them as long as we had.
Maclain only wanted his dad to be proud, no matter how flawed his logic about the man might’ve been, and I felt for him. I wanted to tell him how much I cared, but that would never go over well with Maclain. Might even result in another bloody nose. I smirked. Or another jerk-off session.
Our turn at bat, we tied up the score, and when I next jogged out to home plate, I no longer saw Maclain’s stepfather in the stands. I spotted them near the first baseline instead. So maybe the heat was getting to them, or maybe they were about to make their escape to the parking lot. For Maclain’s part, it seemed he was instantly disappointed either in himself or them, and his first two pitches resulted in low balls. He kept wiping his brow and swatting at flies—imaginary or not—and though we were all miserable in this heat, he was being a bit too extra.
Thankfully, he got us out of the inning, and Lopez was on deck to close out the game. Back in the dugout, most of us got fresh water from the jug Kellan had already filled twice.
Maclain was talking to Coach at the other end of the bullpen, and I suddenly saw Maclain stagger against the fence dividing the dugout from the field and claw at his throat. His face turned beet red, and all I could think was that he was choking on something.
I pushed past other teammates to get to him. “What’s wrong?”
“I…” Maclain tried talking, but all that came out was a bunch of gibberish. It was like his tongue was too thick or his throat had closed.
“Are you choking?” Coach asked, alarmed, and Maclain shook his head with effort, but all he could do was make garbled sounds. My pulse skyrocketed.
That was when I noticed a large red welt on his arm and knew instantly what happened.
“Where’s his bag?” I yelled to Sinclair, who knew his habits better than any of us.
“Huh?”
“The bag Maclain always carries with him, where is it?”
He pointed under the bench with a shaky hand, and I immediately squatted and began ransacking it.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked over my shoulder. He wasn’t only the team captain; he was also going for a degree in exercise physiology and had helped Kellan last year when he’d fainted from seeing my nosebleed.
I held up the EpiPen I found at the bottom of his bag like a prize. “He’s allergic to bees.”
When Donovan reached for it, I gave it up willingly and followed him as we raced back to Maclain, who was now sitting against the bench, his face swollen, his breaths reedy, and fear gripped my stomach like never before.
Holy fucking hell, I had no idea what to do in this scenario. I just knew it was serious. All you had to do was look at Maclain to figure that out. Was he gonna make it? My body went numb as I stared at his eyes, which had swollen to slits. I unsnapped my chest protector to give myself room to breathe and tossed my face mask on the bench.
“The ambulance is on the way,” Kellan called out as the coaches crouched nearby, one with a wet rag against Maclain’s forehead, the other searching through the first-aid kit.
“We can’t wait for the ambulance.” I motioned wildly as my heart clawed its way to my throat. “He needs that now!”
“Agreed.” The next second, Donovan was already pressing the orange tip of the pen against Maclain’s outer thigh.
I held my breath. Donovan knew what he was doing. I vaguely remembered from my allergy research that it had to be done a certain way and, right then, I was so grateful that Donovan had taken charge.
I plopped down on the bench behind Maclain, and with shaky hands, I squeezed his shoulders, then his nape, hoping to help calm him as he took straining, gulping breaths. “You’re gonna be okay, Mason.”
Glancing up, I noticed lots of eyes on me, but I didn’t give two fucks right then. Let them think what they wanted.
When I looked onto the field, the umpire was pacing, the other team was waiting expectantly in their dugout, the stands were quiet, and Maclain’s stepfather was nowhere to be found.
Or maybe I just didn’t know where to look. Where in the hell was he?
The next several minutes were a blur as the paramedics arrived, got the stinger out of his arm, disinfected the area, and applied a cold compress. Slowly, Maclain came back to himself as the epinephrine began working. His skin looked less flushed and his breathing returned to normal.