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Summary
He slams his locker shut just in time to see Stan walking over, smug look on his face and something clutched in his left hand.
“I think I might have found the perfect thing for you,” he says. His voice is smooth and easy and his eyes read trouble. He raises his hand and holds a flyer in front of Richie’s face
Derry High School Baseball Tryouts
Week of February 25th
Please come with running clothes, a baseball mitt, running shoes, and cleats.“Oh, fuck no,” Richie says. He doesn’t even need to read the whole thing to know that this isn’t his jam. Nothing about this has is name on it and no. Fuck no. This isn’t happening.
Except it is.
Richie takes solace in his inability to play any kind of physical sport ever. He knows he’ll hate this, but he also knows he won’t make the team. Not in a million years.