by Mj Fields
In order to keep my mind off of all that, and stop feeling sorry for HB because his team, every single one of them, acted like he was the enemy and not a teammate, which oddly didn’t seem to bother him in the least. His sister, Brisa, however, certainly seemed upset. Her boyfriend, or husband, or whatever he is, was obviously trying to put her mind at ease and distract her. It was rather sweet, which you wouldn’t expect from a man whose hair is longer than mine, is covered in tattoos, and doesn’t smile at anyone, except her.
After the tour, Buck took the entire Steel family, Georgie, and me to a late lunch, early dinner at a steak house, where Georgie, who normally won’t eat anything off the adult menu, decided she’d have prime rib. I suspect it’s because one Amias Steel and half the other insanely hot men at the table ordered the same. She ate nearly all of it, too, with her new hat covering most of her head and face.
By the time the large vans pulled into the hotel, she was passed out. This was a good thing since the rest of the kids, who did not stuff themselves to the point they passed out, were hitting the hotel pool, and me being me had not bought her a new swimsuit since it was definitely not swimsuit weather in the northeast.
She’s now asleep in our suite—yes, suite. Apparently, major league baseball has better accommodations for travel than national level women’s gymnastics.
Georgie is snug as a bug in the king-sized bed, and I seriously cannot wait to see the look on her face when she wakes up. I was so tempted to wake her when we walked in, knowing she wouldn’t even wake if I cranked up the sound system. Georgie could sleep through an earthquake, but I also have work to do, so tomorrow will be like Christmas. Christmas with palm trees, and we’re so close to some beautiful beaches that I’d love for her to see.
I need to check my bank account that I know damn well is just above a negative number since paying three months’ rent and a month of Georgie’s childcare, buying the ‘new to us’ sofa and not having gotten a paycheck yet, to see how in the hell I am going to swing a new swimsuit for Georgie and Disney World on top of that.
I hit my banking app on my phone and see that I have exactly one hundred and thirty-seven dollars and eighteen cents, but I also see a pending transaction for …
“Dear Lord,” I gasp. “Twenty-two hundred dollars and eight cents? Where the heck did that come from?”
I hit the memo and see it’s from The Costello Corporation. I am only supposed to make eight hundred dollars a week. I mean, not like ‘only’ eight hundred. It’s a lot more than I’ve made doing private, overnight care for the elderly patients all through grad school, but this has to be a mistake.
They’re testing me, I bet.
“Well, The Costello Corporation, I’m an honest girl, so I’m not touching a dime of that money.”
I toss my phone aside and look at the files on the coffee table. Amias Steel’s baby face is looking back at me from the top file. Dear Lord, that beard certainly aged him, and did it rather nicely.
I need a distraction, not a reminder of the tsunami that’s about to come in, so I push his file aside and look at the stack of ‘players’ before me.
I will continue trying not to judge them based on what I read in their files, or have read online, but it’s not going to be easy.
The pitcher, number 17, Blaze Bennett, age thirty-nine, has rotator cuff issues, three kids, all in college, from a marriage that ended five years ago due to an affair.
Number 19, catcher, Freddy “The Fisherman” Freedman, the oldest on the team, age forty-two, gets cortisone shots in his knees on a weekly basis. Two divorces, both friendly, with kids ages twelve and eight.
First baseman, number 22, “The Pope,” John Paul, married with five kids, the oldest being seven and the youngest nine months. He’s thirty-two, has no recorded injuries.
The starting second baseman, number 2, Charles “Chuck” Turner, age thirty-four, shoulder injuries, and the man should retire and have surgery but won’t. I’m assuming it’s because he’s paying alimony and child support to three wives for six kids.
Number 29, third baseman, Rick “The Rocket” Brantley, thirty-seven years old, single, no kids, has a different Victoria Secret model on his arm every season.
Shortstop, number 38, age thirty-seven, Dicky Johnson, muscle strains and sprains, divorced, two kids, ages three and sixteen.
Left field, number 42, Cody “The V” Vander, age twenty-nine, in an open relationship, and has one eleven-year-old daughter.
Right field is number 99, Rudy Galleon, age twenty-four, single, no kids, and dates all older women with money.
Playing center field is Leland Locke, number 73, age thirty-three, another serial dater.
“Tomorrow’s family picnic should be interesting.” I yawn as I sit back, grab Amias’s folder, tuck my knees under my legs, and open it up, intent on rereading his therapist’s notes when there is a knock on the door.
Tossing his file on the table, I stand and hurry to the door to open it.
“Doc?” Amias freaking Steel, in a black tank top, insanely muscular arms bulging, pecs on display —as pecs like that should be. I know what it takes to build something as spectacular as his … but also genetics. He certainly won the lottery in that department. “Doc,” he repeats a bit louder this time and lifts his chin to the door.
“Um, can I help you with something?”
“Can you let me in?” He lifts two bulging shoulders, attached to two arms full of bags.
“I’m not sure—”
“Ellis, not gonna lie to you; am not going to be accepting of you lying to me.”
“You lied about being a stripper, and you lied about being of age.”
He closes his eyes, the corner of his mouth curving up in a slight smile as he shakes his head.
“No?”
He opens his eyes. “I may not remember everything about that night, but I do know myself and who I am. I can guarantee I didn’t lie about either of those things. And I’m guessing, since you just answered all but one question firing off in my head, that you’re not about bullshit either. Gonna ask you not to confirm my suspicions about the unanswered question until we are either on our way back to Jersey or in Jersey, because straight up, I’m about to be on a field for the first time in months, pick up a bat for the first time since my accident, and I really need to focus on that head trip. Can you do that for me?”
I nod up and down several times and realize I probably look like a freaking bobblehead but can’t stop.
“Good. You think you can let me in?”
“Maybe.”
He smiles, and it’s a sweet smile. “I’m guessing you have a sleeping Georgie in your bed. I’m not about to lay you down on it and—”
“Dear Lord, shut up,” I whisper as I step back.
He chuckles as he walks past me.
“What’s so funny?” I look down and realize I have on the hotel robe that I put on after my shower, covering undies, and the tie … very loose. “Yeah, about this. I’m almost twenty-six, and I have a kid. I worked full-time while working toward my doctorate and didn’t have a lot of free time to spend at the gym.”
“Ellis, shut your mouth.”
“Excuse me?” I gasp.
He sets the bags down on the table near the kitchenette, and when he turns, he’s scowling down at me. “I was laughing at Dear Lord. You say it a lot. It’s cute. The peep show is fucking hot, as is your body.” He licks his lips quickly. “So shut your mouth, turn off whatever insecurity the last guy left you with, and look long and hard at me. I’m not him.”
“Yeah, well, he’s dead, so …” I shrug.
“And I’m sorry about that—”
“Don’t be. Georgie and I are much better off.”
He snaps his jaw shut, his jaw ticking and his nostrils flaring. “He hurt you?”
“No, nope, no way.”
“You can’t just drop a bomb like that and—”
“Please don’t.”
“Sweets,” he sa
ys with softness.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap then clear my throat. “Sorry. I mean, please don’t—”
“Ellis.” He steps back and holds his hands up. “Some switch just flipped in not just your eyes but your entirety. I’m guessing he did hurt you, and I’m guessing he hurt you bad. I can promise you I’ll never be that guy.”
“Can you please leave?”
“You have someone you can call? Because I don’t feel real good about leaving you looking like you’re terrified.”
A hot tear falls down my face, and I bat it away. “I have Georgie and—”
“An adult, a friend, family?”
More tears. “Amias, I am the most together person I know.” I sniff. “I’m not weak.”
“Okay.” He nods then turns and moves back to the table and starts unpacking the four bags.
“Ginger snacks.” His back still toward me, he holds up a plastic container. “Ginger Ale.” He pulls out a six pack of bottles and sets it on the table. “Crackers.” He holds a box of saltines. “Lemons. Bella sniffs them when she gets nauseous over certain scents.” He sets them on the table. “Ginger root. You can slice a little piece off and put it in hot water.” He sets that on the table, too. “Two kick-ass water bottles that will keep things hot or cold; one Rapunzel and one Jaguars. Georgie can carry juice or whatever she drinks, and it’ll stay cold. You can sip your hot ginger water from yours, and it should help you not to hurl.”
I walk over and stand beside him.
He winks at me as he reaches into the bag. “Motion sickness wrist bands for Disney so you can try to enjoy yourself.”
“This is insane, you know. A bit over the top.”
“Yeah, well, never done this before. Doesn’t mean I won’t be good at it, Ellis.”
He reaches into the third bag. “Not sure what Georgie snacks on, but we have oranges, apples, mangos, strawberries, and blueberries. Packets of instant oatmeal, some fiber bars, yogurt, which you may want to eat, too. And—”
“Thank you.”
“Pfft. This is nothing.”
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself and—”
“I insisted you come.”
“See? You can’t do that. This is my chance—”
“Insisted because that incompetent, complacent asshole, Henry, didn’t even look at my file. Before I even walked in, I overheard some sexy as fuck voice asking to see it, asking questions and sounding a bit irritated at his answers. I was impressed before I walked in and saw you.”
“Yeah, well, isn’t that my job?”
He taps the tip of my nose. “Which is why I insisted.”
“You really haven’t picked up a bat?”
“No.” Now his stance stiffens, and I want to put him at ease.
“I’ve watched your tapes. You’re really good.”
“I’m better than good. We both know that—”
“Dear Lord, I am not talking about sexually.”
When he turns and looks at me, clearly shocked, I want to gobble back my words.
He smirks. “What can I say, I’m not one to do anything half-assed.”
I shake my head. “You’re nineteen.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing. I am at the top of my game … in all arenas.” He rolls his eyes, turns, reaches inside the bag and, yes, pulls out the cutest little bikini I have ever seen. “Check this shit out. Tell me little Miss Sassy Pants isn’t going to look cute as hell in this.”
“Thank you. Seriously, thank you. I promise to pay you back when I get paid.”
“You’re not paying me back. I did this because I take care of what’s mine to take care of.” He steps away from the table and looks like it pains him to do so. “I wanna kiss you, Ellis, so damn badly, so I’m gonna leave.”
“Amias …” I shake my head.
“See me walking away?”
I nod and refuse to admit that it’s bittersweet.
“Only doing it for you. Definitely not because I want to. Before I leave, take down my number. You need anything, and I mean anything, you send me a text or call. You want to see me, FaceTime me.”
“I have your number.” I look down and kick at … absolutely freaking nothing. “You gave it to me on a baseball card.”
He laughs. “No shit?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I gave you that card that means you meant something. Means you meant more than something.”
“What does that mean?”
He shakes his head and rakes his teeth over his sexy bottom lip. “You don’t get that information, not when you and I both have points to prove down here. Jersey, Sweets. You and I are waiting until we take it back to Jersey.”
Sweet(s) Dreams
I gave her the ’73 Topps Rookie third baseman card. The one with three of my heroes on it—Mike Schmidt, Ron Cey, and John Hilton. On top of that, I gave her my number. And apparently, I wrote it on one of those cards. I obviously knew she was something special that night.
As fucked up as it feels to admit, since and only because she keeps reminding me I am only nineteen, I truly hope that’s my baby in her soft little belly. Being a father isn’t scary to me. Being a part-time father is terrifying. Even more so since I already want—no, need—to take care of the baby, her, and Georgie.
I unlock my hotel room door, the door directly across the corridor from hers, which I didn’t ask for, but it ended up working out perfectly. Thank you, Buck, and thank you, God.
I put my phone on the charger then take off my clothes to get ready for my shower, my eyes never leaving the screen, hoping she’ll send me a text so that I have her digits, too.
These feelings, I don’t even have to wonder what they are. They’re foreign, a new experience to me, but I’ve seen them before. That look in the eyes that Brisa has whenever Ranger walks into a room. I’ve seen it with all of my cousins, too, whenever they’re around the person that they’re supposed to be with, and I see it in my parents and their parents.
I always thought that I’d play ball way into my thirties, hoping to stay in it until I was in my forties. I was sure that that would be enough. Hell, none of my dozen or so hook-ups has made me feel like I wanted them again. I could always separate the feeling of an orgasm from believing it was attached to the girl. Never once tried to make myself or them believe it was more than that. I had a dream, and I had drive; both unstoppable. I promised myself that nothing and no one would compromise my game.
Could I have easily secured a girlfriend, one that took the place of my hand in the shower? Hell yes, I could’ve. But that wouldn’t have been fair to them. I was taught to respect women. There were a few times when my sisters or female cousins had to remind me, but I never crossed the line. Though, I won’t say I never pushed it. No promises ever made; therefore, not one ever broken.
I gave her my fucking number on my ’73 Topps Rookie third baseman card.
No one ever got my number. If a girl wanted to hook up she’s slid in my DMs, and if she were at the same party or at school, I’ve made time for a hook-up. I repeat: no one ever got my number.
Until Ellis.
I never wanted to be one of those players—divorced and only seeing their kids from the stands.
Standing under the hot shower, my eyes closed, picturing her blue eyes looking up at me, I wrap my hand around my cock, already hard, and swipe my thumb over its tip. I groan. In my dreams, she’s beneath me, her hands clutching crisp, white cotton sheets, black waves of silky hair fanned over the pillow. Her full, plump lips part as I feed my dick into her tight, hot, wet pussy, and she purrs until I am finally fully seated and taking her breath away.
I started slow, fucking her softly, pushing in, stretching her, pulling out, giving her reprieve. Until I couldn’t help but fuck her harder and harder, raising her thick, muscular legs to my shoulders and watching her hot little box heat, wetness coating my cock. The feel of my balls slapping her crazy sexy ass giving me lit
tle to no ability to take it slower. She cries out my name while her pussy spasms around my dick when she comes, crying … praising my name.
“Fuck yes,” I hiss as my balls tighten and draw up. “Fuuuuuck yesssss,” I hiss as my cum hits the shower wall. “Bring it home, Doc,” I groan as the second shot spurts out. “Fuck.” I stroke faster and the third jets out of me. “Make it a home run, baby. Make it a home—” And there it is. “Fuck yes. Fuuuuck yessss.” Heart racing, I throw my head back and allow the water to beat down on my face and release the beast.
“I wish you were with me, Doc, but we’re waiting to take it back to Jersey, even if I end up tearing my dick off in the meantime.”
Stepping out of the shower, I grab the white towel and tie it around my waist. Then I grab another and begin to dry my hair when I hear my phone chime off from the nightstand next to the bed and all but run to it.
It’s from Cowboy. I’m meeting with my boys from the minors, they’re in town for Spring Training too.
- ETA: 30 minutes.
I reply, Give me 40.
Walking into the oceanside bar, I spot my boys immediately. As usual, they’re surrounded by women.
Cowboy tips his beer to me as a tall, stick-thin, blonde, leggy chick in a dress barely covering her … anywhere turns and looks me up and down with appreciation. She’s the exact kind of woman I would hook up with on any given night out with the guys, but never in a million years fall the way I have for Ellis.
Cowboy walks up, bottle of Corona in hand, and gives me a hug. “Bottled beer and a blonde.” He laughs, “How did I do?”
“Not really feeling—”
“You finally switch from bottles to cans?” he jokes, nodding to the bar, and I follow him.
After making my rounds, fist bumps, high-fives, and bro hugs all around, I sit on the empty barstool, my back against the bar.
“Hi there.” The blonde licks her lips then smiles. “Your boys here have talked you up, and yes, I know you’re married to baseball and not looking for anything but a good time. Just so you know, I’m down for that.”
