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Book: Unpopular: An Unloved Ones Prequel #3 (The Unloved Ones) by Kevin Richey
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Authors: Kevin Richey
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protrude slightly, like an angry bulldog.
“Yes, sir?” I ask, trying not to squirm under his gaze.
“You feel ready for tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He considers me for a moment, as if trying to judge whether I’m lying. Then he continues. “I got a call this morning. A scout’s going to be there.”
“Already?” I ask. “On the first game?”
His eyes hold mine and he says, “From Vanderbilt.”
My breath catches in my chest and I’m filled with panic. Vanderbilt has been my dream school since before I was born. Their team is the top in the country, hands down.
It’s also the team my dad was on before he hurt his knee.
He lets this sink in.
“Aw, Dad,” I whine, “I wish you wouldn’t have told me.”
“You need to know,” he insists. “Fear spikes adrenaline.”
I feel sick. I just want to get in and have this whole process over with. The last few years have felt like nothing but a tightrope act that could go wrong at any moment. The closer it’s gotten to this season, the more pressure there has been to not only do well, but to be exceptional. My dad’s never said it, but I know he expects me to finish the baseball career he started. Sometimes I think that was the entire reason he even wanted a family. And now the game is coming.
“All right,” he says. “You’d better join the rest of the guys.”
I trot obediently across the field. The locker room and showers are beyond the bleachers, connected to the main school gymnasium. I push through the swinging door and my mind is churning so loud that at first I don’t even notice how quiet it is.
My shoes clap against the cold tiles of the locker room floor. I don't hear any showers, any joking or playful banter. There's nothing but the echo of my footsteps, and the dull smell of years and years of old games burned into the grey-blue walls.
I make my way around the room, past the row of lockers and peer into the showers. No one.
"Hey guys?" I call out. There is no answer.
I saw them run in here. Where did they go? Maybe there was a fire drill that I didn't know about. I walk to the far side of the locker room, and peek out the door that leads to the main gymnasium.
It's an empty hallway, the fluorescent lights flickering against the glass of the trophy cases. I close the door and step back into the locker room.
A lump forms in my throat. Running now, I go back through the outer door to the field, and the sunlight hits me in the face. It seems to burn right into my retinas, and I put up my hand to shield my eyes. Squinting, I look out at the field.
The wind blows and I smell freshly cut grass in the breeze. But it's just as quiet and lifeless out here as it was in the locker room. What's more, I know that my father was out here just a minute ago. He couldn't have disappeared. But he didn't come into the locker room. I would have seen him cross through.
"Dad?" I call out, feeling a bit silly and like a kid lost at the mall. But that's what it feels like: like I had been left behind.
"Where are you?" I call out, and no one answers.
I stare out at the field a moment longer, and then go back into the locker room. Somehow it felt safer not being outside in that empty loneliness.
I walk back inside and&,dash;
"Surprise!" twenty voices call out at once.
I look up to see the guys rushing forward through the back door, flowing in like water from a broken dam. They're all still in uniform, and they're holding something in the middle of the group. My dad comes in behind them, and he's got a rare smile on his face. I look up at him confused, and he points with his eyes to what the guys are holding.
It's a cake. It's round, with white icing and blue piping. A baseball. There are candles on it already lit.
The team breaks out into an off-key chorus of "Happy Birthday." My dad stands behind them, the smile frozen on his face. He's not singing.
I try to smile, but I'm still shaken from finding everyone missing.
"Thanks,
“Yes, sir?” I ask, trying not to squirm under his gaze.
“You feel ready for tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He considers me for a moment, as if trying to judge whether I’m lying. Then he continues. “I got a call this morning. A scout’s going to be there.”
“Already?” I ask. “On the first game?”
His eyes hold mine and he says, “From Vanderbilt.”
My breath catches in my chest and I’m filled with panic. Vanderbilt has been my dream school since before I was born. Their team is the top in the country, hands down.
It’s also the team my dad was on before he hurt his knee.
He lets this sink in.
“Aw, Dad,” I whine, “I wish you wouldn’t have told me.”
“You need to know,” he insists. “Fear spikes adrenaline.”
I feel sick. I just want to get in and have this whole process over with. The last few years have felt like nothing but a tightrope act that could go wrong at any moment. The closer it’s gotten to this season, the more pressure there has been to not only do well, but to be exceptional. My dad’s never said it, but I know he expects me to finish the baseball career he started. Sometimes I think that was the entire reason he even wanted a family. And now the game is coming.
“All right,” he says. “You’d better join the rest of the guys.”
I trot obediently across the field. The locker room and showers are beyond the bleachers, connected to the main school gymnasium. I push through the swinging door and my mind is churning so loud that at first I don’t even notice how quiet it is.
My shoes clap against the cold tiles of the locker room floor. I don't hear any showers, any joking or playful banter. There's nothing but the echo of my footsteps, and the dull smell of years and years of old games burned into the grey-blue walls.
I make my way around the room, past the row of lockers and peer into the showers. No one.
"Hey guys?" I call out. There is no answer.
I saw them run in here. Where did they go? Maybe there was a fire drill that I didn't know about. I walk to the far side of the locker room, and peek out the door that leads to the main gymnasium.
It's an empty hallway, the fluorescent lights flickering against the glass of the trophy cases. I close the door and step back into the locker room.
A lump forms in my throat. Running now, I go back through the outer door to the field, and the sunlight hits me in the face. It seems to burn right into my retinas, and I put up my hand to shield my eyes. Squinting, I look out at the field.
The wind blows and I smell freshly cut grass in the breeze. But it's just as quiet and lifeless out here as it was in the locker room. What's more, I know that my father was out here just a minute ago. He couldn't have disappeared. But he didn't come into the locker room. I would have seen him cross through.
"Dad?" I call out, feeling a bit silly and like a kid lost at the mall. But that's what it feels like: like I had been left behind.
"Where are you?" I call out, and no one answers.
I stare out at the field a moment longer, and then go back into the locker room. Somehow it felt safer not being outside in that empty loneliness.
I walk back inside and&,dash;
"Surprise!" twenty voices call out at once.
I look up to see the guys rushing forward through the back door, flowing in like water from a broken dam. They're all still in uniform, and they're holding something in the middle of the group. My dad comes in behind them, and he's got a rare smile on his face. I look up at him confused, and he points with his eyes to what the guys are holding.
It's a cake. It's round, with white icing and blue piping. A baseball. There are candles on it already lit.
The team breaks out into an off-key chorus of "Happy Birthday." My dad stands behind them, the smile frozen on his face. He's not singing.
I try to smile, but I'm still shaken from finding everyone missing.
"Thanks,
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