Chapter Eight
Brock
Brock rolled his window up after telling Ricky to ride shotgun. He was from Southern California and used to moisture and the smell of sea salt in the air. If he couldn’t have that, then he’d take the air conditioner over the dry dessert air.
Ricky climbed in and lounged in the passenger seat. He was set to fly home in a week. He had a girl there that he was looking forward to spending some time with and maybe bringing her back with a ring on her finger. Brock was on standby for best man duties. He wouldn’t mind spending Thanksgiving in the Dominican Republic, but his parents would be disappointed.
“Why you no let me drive?” griped Ricky. His accent thickened when he was upset, and he was in quite a mood that Brock didn’t hand over the keys.
“Because we want to live,” replied Heath Darsey from the back seat. He bumped the seat with his knee, making Ricky lurch forward. Heath was a big guy. The designated hitter weighed in at 290 pounds. He had a full beard and a belly. If you didn’t know he was an athlete, you could mistake him for a couch potato—except for the sharpness in his gray eyes. It was his eyes that told pitchers he was going to take their best and knock it right out of the park.
Brock laughed. “I’m not letting you drive my truck in traffic, man. You need more practice.”
Ricky glowered. “I’m going to buy my own car next season.”
“Heaven help us all,” muttered Heath. He hooked the headrest with his beefy hand. “Listen, I’ll hire someone to drive you around, a cute coed from Dixie, if you promise not to endanger the sweet grandmas that drive these streets.”
Ricky glared through the windshield and muttered in Spanish under his breath.
“Don’t tick him off, Heath. He’ll do it just to prove he can,” Brock warned. He swiped his palm down his pants to get rid of the moisture.
“See, man? You’ve got Brock nervous too.” Heath bumped the seat again. Brock swerved, knocking Heath into the door. “Hey.”
“Shut up, dude.” Brock flipped in his seat, taking his eyes off the road for two seconds so he could communicate with his face how stupid he thought Heath was at the moment.
“It’s not you that’s making me nervous,” he said to Ricky in a vain effort to calm him down. The last thing any of them needed was that hothead with his own car. He’d have to pass the driving test and get a license, but no instructor deserved to have his life flash before his eyes just to tell Ricky he’d failed.
Heath turned his attention on Brock. Brock could feel it like a spotlight, uncomfortably hot and singling him out. “What’s the lady’s name?”
Brock shook his head. “There’s no lady.”
“Bull-bleep.” Heath was one of the few guys on the team who beeped out his own swear words. He was from the South, and his daddy was a mean son of a gun. There were marks on Heath’s backside that no one on the team dared ask about but that they all assumed were the reason he edited his language. “You are totally whooped—otherwise you wouldn’t be dragging the two of us back to the stadium when the season is over.”
Ricky turned in his seat. “Is this true?”
Brock shook his head. Rule #1: Never let the guys know who you like until you know if she likes you back. Otherwise, you’re just throwing blood in the water.
The sharks circled. Heath tapped Ricky. “Wanna take bets?”
Ricky nodded. “Sure.”
Heath cracked his knuckles. “I bet you a hundred bucks I can figure it out within two minutes of pulling into the parking lot.”
Brock swallowed. “Don’t be stupid.”
Ricky smiled. “Deal.”
Brock growled. “I hate you guys.” Which in guy speak pretty much amounted to You’re my best friends, but you’re hitting too close to the mark. He steered them into the parking lot.
Brock’s heart sank as he looked at the small group gathered in front of the main doors. Sheila, Ashley, and Julia were there, along with the interns from the marketing department. They were college-aged and wore backpacks as if they were in between classes. There were also a half dozen paper boxes on a dolly.
The sound of Brock’s door slamming brought all their faces his direction, but only Sheila’s lit up like the stadium lights. He’d promised himself he’d stay neutral for the first two minutes so that Heath’s wallet was a hundred dollars lighter, but he couldn’t help the warmth that spread through him as their eyes met. And he didn’t have any control over the smile that spread across his face. Seeing Sheila was like watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean—she was that beautiful.
Something smacked, and he tore his eyes off the gorgeous community involvement specialist to see Ricky slapping a hundred into Heath’s outstretched hand.
Heath smirked. “Give me a challenge, man.”
“Shut up.” He made it to the group in record time. Not because he was trying to get away from Heath, but because there was no point in trying to stay away now that the cat was out of the bag.
Sheila grinned at all of them. “Thank you so much for coming in. I know you’d rather be off playing on a beach somewhere.” Her cheeks turned red, and she ducked momentarily.
Ricky laughed. “In a week, yes.”
Heath shook his head. “Some of us prefer the mountains.”
“Oh, really?” Ashley bit her lip, looking up at Heath from lowered lashes.
Heath blinked at her like he didn’t believe she was flirting with him. “Really.”
“I can see you in flannel.” She flushed a dark shade of red.
Brock widened his eyes and shared a look with Sheila, who was equally surprised. Ashley was like a doll compared to Heath. He could pick her up and put her in his pocket for safekeeping if he wanted to. From the deer-in-the-headlights look Heath had on his face, he wasn’t sure what to do with Ashley.
“Okay, let’s pair off.” Sheila worked to keep the outing on schedule. She explained about the flyers in the boxes while handing out papers with the assignments. The four interns divided into two groups and took the top boxes off the stack. They were given schools that had recently had a player visit.
Julia glanced at Ricky. “Wanna ride with me?”
Ricky’s gaze shifted. “Can I drive? I have a permit.”
Before Brock or Heath could warn her, she chirped, “Sure, if you carry the box.”
“Deal.” Ricky grabbed a box of paper and trotted off with Julia.
Heath made the sign on the cross over his chest.
“Is his driving that bad?” asked Ashley.
“Should we warn her?” Brock asked Heath.
Heath kissed the cross hanging on a gold chain around his neck and looked towards heaven as if invoking a blessing upon Ricky and Julia. “It’s in God’s hands now.”
Sheila pressed her hand to her stomach. “I actually like Julia, so if there’s something you all want to tell me …”
The group held their breath as Julia’s car started up, backed slowly out of the parking spot, and left the stadium.
“Huh?” Brock ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe he needed a female instructor.”
“Yeah, or you suck.”
Brock lifted a shoulder. “I’ve never taught anyone to drive before. It’s like trying to explain how to walk.”
“Or how to hit a ball,” added Heath.
Ashley giggled. “Maybe for some of you.” She smacked Heath’s arm, and his ears flamed.
Brock folded his arms, enjoying his buddy’s discomfort. “Hey, if you guys get done in time, you should go to the cages and let Heath show you how to hit. See if he’s any good at coaching.”
Heath rounded on him, his jaw clenching.
“What? If Brayden Birks can coach pitching, you can coach batting.”
Sheila rescued Heath with, “Work on the flyers first, please.”
Heath grumbled what sounded like little Pez head as he reached down and picked up the second to last box. “Where to?”
Ashley pointed to her light blue ca
r. Heath headed that way. As they were walking, Ashley flipped around and fanned her face. Sheila shook her head and mouthed work. Ashley gave her one of those shrugs that said, I can’t be held accountable for what I’m about to do.
Sheila sighed. “It’s a wonder any work gets done around here with twenty-five hotties running amuck.” She grabbed the back of the dolly so she could roll the box around the parking lot. “My car or your truck?”
Brock’s head spun. “Twenty-five hotties?”
Sheila swatted at his arm. “Come on. You guys have to know you’re all totally hot.”
Brock struck the pose Juan did when he was bragging about the underwear commercial he’d filmed. “Whatever do you mean?”
Sheila rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly hot?”
“Oh my gosh. Get in the truck.” Her face was pink.
Brock had the unmistakable urge to run the backs of his fingers down her cheek, to feel the softness of her skin, the warmth. Instead, he opened her door, then the back door where he loaded the box, and finally the tailgate where he slid in the dolly. It fit perfectly against the stack of wood he’d picked up that morning.
“Project?” Sheila asked as he climbed in the cab and clicked his seat belt in place.
“A deck.”
“Really?” She leaned her elbow on the middle console. “I helped my dad rebuild our deck when I was in junior high.”
“Yeah?” He shifted in his seat so he could see her better out of the corner of his eye.
They spent the rest of the drive talking about his plans. She wanted to know all the details from the type of railing to the thickness of the support beams. By the time they pulled into the first school, he was on the verge of asking her over to check it out. The invitation stuttered and died on his tongue. She had too much on her plate right now, and he wasn’t in the mood to get shot down—again.
They made their way into the eerily quiet building. Their footsteps bounced off a row of blue lockers with too many coats of paint, and a florescent light flickered overhead. He leaned over and whispered, “This is when the scary clown comes out with a chainsaw.”
She snorted a laugh. “They’re in class, dork.”
He opened the door to the office, and they were met with a hive of productivity and the smell of freshly sharpened pencils. A student stood on their side of a tall desk, leaning against it as if his legs could barely hold him up and talking on the phone. “Mom? Can you bring my gym shorts?”
Brock groaned. “That brings back memories.”
“What?”
He pressed his lips, debating whether he should confess one of his biggest embarrassments. No matter how old he got or how many home runs he hit, the memory would follow him around and pop up like a bad penny. “I showed up to the wrong gym class my first day of junior high.”
“So?”
“So, I walked into a weight room full of ninth graders wearing the school-issued speedo, thinking that was the door to the pool.”
Sheila’s hands flew to her mouth. “No!”
“I had the world’s skinniest legs, a tan line across my thighs, and these spindly arms.” He waved his arms around like octopus legs. “The guys in there were all Heaths.” He puffed his cheeks out and waddled two steps.
“What did you do?”
“I took off for the door and managed to make it to the locker room, where I locked myself in a bathroom stall and stood on the toilet until they left.”
“That must have been horrible.”
He twisted his lips. “It wasn’t so bad until I slipped.”
“You didn’t!” She giggled. “That’s horrible.” Her laughter belayed her words.
“Splash!” He blew his hands apart.
She laughed harder.
His story was interrupted by the secretary asking what they needed. Sheila explained, and they were ushered back into the vice principal’s office; he was finishing up a phone call.
Sheila switched to professional mode. The laughter was replaced by a soft smile and no-nonsense tilt to her chin. She sat so straight her back didn’t touch the chair. He much preferred the laid-back attitude in the truck.
He decided to see if he could get her to crack a real smile. “They called me swim trunks all year.”
Sheila laughed but hurriedly covered it up with a cough. “Later,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth. The VP held up a finger to say he’d only be a minute.
He went in for one final shot before the buzzer. “Someone ran my suit up the flagpole. It fluttered beautifully.”
Her shoulders shook with silent laughter, but she held on to her composure as the VP folded his hands in front of him on the desk and welcomed them to the school.
“Thank you. It’s wonderful to be here.” Her voice warbled.
“And slightly disturbing,” Brock said, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her head tipped to the side as if she’d been dealt a blow. Her hand went to his knee just out of the VP’s line of sight in a warning. His skin burned from her touch and the warmth spread throughout his cells.
She continued, her voice informative. “The Redrocks are selecting a mascot, and we’d like your school to participate in the voting process.”
“Yes, we’d love you to jump in with both feet,” he added.
She squeezed his knee tighter and pressed her lips together.
The VP glanced back and forth between the two of them. He knew something was going on under his nose; he just wasn’t sure what.
Sheila released Brock and pulled out a flyer, explaining about the mascot tryout events, as well as the big reveal of the animal the children decided on. “All the information is here, and we have additional flyers in the front office that you can distribute to the teachers and staff. We feel that this is a wonderful opportunity for the children to be involved with the team and the community.”
The VP’s jowls shook in disbelief as he scanned the flyer. “You’re really letting elementary-aged children pick the mascot for the team?”
Brock leaned forward, pointing to the top of the desk. “This isn’t swimming laps—it’s state championships. Every stroke, every kick, every vote counts.”
Sheila shot to her feet. Brock jumped up too.
“Thank you so much for your time. If you have any questions, please feel free to call my office.” She placed a card on the desk and smacked Brock’s belly with the back of her hand as she left.
She was good. She made it all the way out the double doors before she broke into a smile. “I’m going to make you sit in the car next time.”
He rocked his head from side to side. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
“Really?” She cocked an eyebrow in challenge.
He sobered. “But if you tell anyone on the team what I just told you, I will have your car towed.”
She laughed, his threat not at all threatening. “Sure. Sure.”
They visited three more schools. At each one, he did his best to give Sheila a hard time, using every swimming and water reference he could come up with. At one point, he took her phone from her hand and spun it like a top on the desk—just to see what she would do. She didn’t even pause in her delivery.
At the end of their route, she relaxed into the seat of his truck and leaned her elbow against the door. “I’m a little confused.”
“A speedo is a tight pair of—”
“No.” Her eyes danced over him, and he got the feeling she wouldn’t mind seeing him in a speedo now. He sucked in his gut and puffed out his chest. “You guys moan and groan during the season when I hand out assignments, but in the off-season, you volunteer and bring two guys with you. Why is that?”
He swallowed, his mouth having gone dry. “Weird, right?”
“Right.” She waited for his answer.
He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Maybe I needed the right motivation.”
“And what was that? Because I already told you I can’t comp
ensate you.”
Ah, heck. He needed to just say it. “I wanted to spend time with you.”
She ducked her head. “Brock, my sister …”
“Was not … fun.”
Sheila turned toward him.
He took in a breath. “Look. We went out. We talked. It was all average. And I know I shouldn’t compare two women—especially sisters—but I’ve had more fun with you in the last hour than I did in a whole evening with Kelly.”
Sheila wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned forward. “Why do you have to make this so hard?”
“I’m not trying to.” He pulled the truck into a parking spot at the stadium. Ricky was leaning against Julia’s car, a wicked grin on his face. Heath and Ashley weren’t back yet. He wondered if they had stopped at the cages for that private lesson. Then he wondered how it was going. “Tell me you haven’t had fun with me, and I’ll be Mr. Professional from here on out. But if you’ve had a good time, even a little bit of one, then we should have more fun together.”
She turned towards him and rubbed her red lips together, drawing his gaze. The air grew thick with anticipation and sparked with attraction.
He tucked her hair behind her ear and ran his fingers down her jaw. “See? Fun.”
Sheila pulled away. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Her words didn’t match her action.
“Okay, we can have fun together.”
He felt a smile spread his lips wide. “Great. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at six.”
“You don’t have my address.”
“Text it to me.”
“I don’t have your phone number.”
“I put it in your phone.”
She gaped at him.
“You really should have a lock on your screen.” He said it with all seriousness, though he was teasing her.
She pressed the home button, and a keypad popped up. “What is this?”
“Like I said, you should have a key code.” He smiled innocently. “I gave you one.”
“What is it?” she asked, her voice shrill.
Heavy Hitter (Dating Mr. Baseball Book 4) Page 6
