Page 116 of Promise

I’ll gladly take on any role Trinity allows me, but I correct all of them. “Darty. I said Darty.”

“Still sounds like Farty.” Petty laughs.

“It almost sounds like Daddy, though,” Marshall adds, watching me.

It sure does.

“First round is on Daddy,” Petty says, still holding onto my shoulder.

Yeah, Daddy’s got the first round.

He won the game, and his girls saw it.

As we collect our gear, I end up near Tate. “Hey, man, thanks for the invitation to join you guys for beers.”

Tate lifts his head, his tone tight. “You always join us for beers.”

“Yeah, but the invitation came from you.”

He hitches his bat bag over his shoulder. “Look, don’t make it weird. You’re part of the team. The team goes out for beers afterward.”

I have more to say, but I bite back the words. Instead, I change topics as we start walking away from the bench. “You went a little hard on the ump tonight.”

Tate got into it with Prudence a second time. Marshall intercepted Tate that round. I was kind of in awe at how she stood her ground with him. The way he came in a little too hot the second time. He’d never harm a woman, but he can be a hothead. I’ve seen him break hearts.

“She doesn’t know baseball. She’s into band,” he scoffs.

“Got something against band kids,” Petty adds from in front of us.

“Of course not, it’s just⁠—”

“It’s just what?” Petty stops short, lowering the bat he had lazily lifted against his shoulder, like he’s ready to defend the honor of musicians at any level.

“Nothing,” Tate counters, continuing to walk toward the parking lot.

“Didn’t look like nothing to me,” Petty comments, situating the bat at his shoulder again.

“Just drop it,” Tate grumbles over his shoulder, walking a little faster.

Petty glances at me, but I shrug, not having a clue what’s going on. He wiggles his brows, mischievousness lighting his eyes.

“Into band, huh? Think I’ll ask her out then.”

Tate drops his bag and rounds on Petty. “The fuck you will.”

“The fuck does it matter to you?” Petty stands toe to toe with Tate.

“She’s just . . . Pete’s little sister.” Tate’s nostrils flare.

“So?” Petty doesn’t back down, smiling wider, teasing Tate, pushing him to the brink.

“Oh, right. I forgot.” Tate scoffs. “You’re into younger sisters.” He sneers in my direction next. “It must be a trait of those who leave.”

What the fuck?

Petty and I stare at Tate as he quickly turns, aggressively hoists his bat bag from the ground, and stalks toward his truck.

I glance back at Petty, wondering what the hell Tate meant about sisters and leaving, but also realizing that the olive branch I thought Tate offered me was still fragile.