The Rookie and The Rockstar

by Kate, Jiffy

  I’ll never tell Davies he’s right. He already has a big fucking head what with the cameras always flashing his way and making that damned Body Issue by Sports Illustrated. Apparently, he’s a big deal with the ladies, but unfortunately for all of them, he’s taken.

  Happily married since his rookie year.

  “You ready, Rook?”

  Speaking of the devil.

  I turn to see Davies and Mack both staring me down, like they’re looking for cracks in my armor.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  They both nod, standing shoulder to shoulder, eyes trained on me. Mack is also known as Brick...like brick wall...because he’s huge and because, as a catcher, nothing gets past him.

  “Feeling sick?” Mack asks, his gaze scanning my face and then he reaches out and touches the back of his hand to my forehead, like he’s my fucking mom.

  “Nope,” I tell him, meeting his stare and giving him a cocky smile, as much as I can muster. “Cool as a cucumber.”

  “Got the game shits?” Davies asks, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Game shits?” I repeat, chuckling. “Never heard of ‘em.”

  They look at each other and begin talking amongst themselves, like I’m not still standing right in front of them.

  “Ate the po’ boy, hasn’t puked, no game shits,” Mack ticks off on his fingers.

  “Good color, no cold sweats,” Davies adds. “Oh, and did not get fucking laid last night.” That last line earns me a sideways glance of disapproval. “Fucking never listens to my advice.”

  “You know what this means?” Mack asks, an arm coming up to rest on Davies’ shoulder. When they both turn their heads in unison on me, I start wondering if this is rehearsed. Most baseball players have a lot of time on their hands, maybe they’ve been working this one up all day while the rest of us have been watching game film and going over stats.

  “He must be…” Davies starts.

  “Walks like a duck, talks like a duck…”

  They nod, thoughtfully still eyeing me and quite frankly making me fidget.

  “A cyborg,” Mack finishes, Davies nodding his agreement.

  “Maybe some iRobot shit?” Davies asks, looking back at Mack. “Like no feelings or emotions.”

  “What’s that called?” Mack asks as I roll my eyes and continue pulling out my batting gloves, getting ready for the field. I don’t have time for these jackasses and they obviously think they’re way funnier than they actually are.

  “Oh, wait, I know this one,” Davies says. “I took psych in college, actually thought about being a psychologist one day,” he adds, considering his options, like he fucking needs them. “A sociopath.”

  His voice is grave and serious.

  “Should we be concerned, Rook?” he teases. “Did the team docs give you a good psych eval?”

  He and Mack walk away, laughing at themselves...me...their own ridiculousness, who the fuck knows.

  “Golden sombrero,” Davies calls out over his shoulder, pointing to it on the wall. “Don’t make us dust it off, Rook.” The sincere smile he gives me over his shoulder lets me know this is all for show. It’s what they do—harass the newbie. I can take it. Actually, it dispersed some of those nerves I was feeling a few seconds before they walked up.

  I was kind of inside my head for a few. Now, I feel present, ready to get out there and make my presence known.

  Right before I walk out of the locker room, the last one out, I take a quick second to really center myself, looking around and letting it all sink in one last time before I walk out there. There’s still a couple hours between me and the plate, but it’s my last moment of solitude. Everything from here on out will be in front of tens of thousands of fans who came to watch their home team hopefully get this season off to a good start, set the tone for what’s to come.

  Feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, I hold one fist on top of the other like I’m holding my bat. I tap my imaginary bat across home plate one time in front of me, then again toward where the pitcher would be. I end my ritual with the sign of the cross over my heart before holding the bat up and over my right shoulder. Deep breath in, deep breath out, and...swing.

  Touching the fleur-de-lis that’s painted on the wall beside the door leading to the dugout, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the sights and sounds wash over me.

  Dirt.

  Sweat.

  Hot dogs and beer mixed with fresh air.

  This could be any field, on any level.

  My dad has always reminded me that it’s just a game—one game.

  The only game that matters is the one you’re getting ready to play.

  When I get out to the field and we start our warm-ups, I take a chance to look for my parents. Spotting them, right away, I give a tip of my head. My dad has his pre-game face on, steady and focused, like he could somehow will this game to a victory. My mom is smiling from ear to ear and gives me a slight hand raise, not a full-on wave. She’s nervous, I know she is. She’s always been one to internalize more of the game than my dad or I put together.

  Mom takes baseball seriously.

  She might be a coach’s wife and a player’s mom, but she lives and breathes it as much as we do.

  The two seats to their left are empty, but I try to not notice, not think about whether or not Charlotte will take me up on the seats. She said she would. I left them for her at Will Call.

  The ball is in her court...or maybe field would be a better analogy.

  It’s probably better that I don’t see her now anyway, I need all my focus on this field.

  The rest of the pre-game duties are a blur.

  Warm-ups.

  A little batting.

  Fielding some balls.

  Back to the locker room while the visiting team takes the field.

  Then everyone is back out for the National Anthem and for the first time in my life, I take the field with the Revelers as a starting member of the team. Taking off my hat as they call out my name and number, I wave it at the crowd, earning an even louder cheer.

  It’s everything.

  Everything I’ve worked for.

  I’ve earned the spot, now I have to keep it.

  On my first at bat, there’s only Davies on base. He grounded a ball down the line and made it to second. I block out the fans, block out the opposing players, and take the plate.

  Squaring my feet and then my shoulders, I ease into my stance. Knees slightly bent, I place one fist on top of the other, like I’ve done thousands of times in my life.

  One game.

  This is only one game.

  I chant that to keep my nerves at bay, to keep the voices in my head from screaming, “don’t fuck this up!” Those voices are always there, but I don’t let them win.

  I tap my bat across home plate, then again toward the pitcher, staring him down for the first time.

  Doing the sign of the cross, I send up a silent prayer before holding the bat up and over my right shoulder. Deep breath in, deep breath out, and...swing.

  My first attempt doesn’t make contact, but the motion felt good. He threw me a fast ball and had I made contact, it would’ve been out of the park, straight down the middle.

  Setting it up again, I go through the ritual. Only, instead of the pitcher, I point my bat a little to his left, only noticeable to me, but if this was pool, I’d be calling my pocket.

  Deep breath in, deep breath out, and...

  The solid crack of the bat making contact with the ball lets me know it was a good hit, I felt it all the way into my bones as it radiated through my body. The reverberation like a siren song.

  I don’t flip the bat.

  I don’t even wait to see where it went.

  I just run.

  Because my dad taught me to never get cocky.

  “Regardless of how far that ball flies, you’ve gotta make it around the bases. Just run, son. Tuck your chin and haul ass.”

  His words stick wit
h me as I clear first and head for second, the roar of the crowd behind me.

  As I turn to the corner, I see the third base coach signaling for me to run, so I do, with everything in me and slide.

  It was a triple, the ball landing short of the right field wall.

  Davies made it home and I earned my first RBI.

  Mack left me on base, but we’re on the board and that’s all that matters.

  After the game, a win, I indulged in the beignets and beers. If nothing else, I’m a team player, and after a win like we got today, my first at bat as a major leaguer, I wanted to celebrate. It didn’t matter that the combination sounded revolting. It was actually not half bad, and being a part of the team, knowing I’d contributed to the outcome of the game, was the best feeling.

  When I eventually make my way out of the club house and to the spot I’d told my parents to meet me, I wonder if Charlotte will be there. I mentioned it to her also, but I don’t even know if she made it to the game, so I don’t know if she’ll be here.

  And what if she is?

  What do I tell my parents?

  Is it weird that I’m more nervous about that potential interaction than my first major league baseball game?

  Rounding the corner, I see my mom first. Her beaming smile tells me everything I need to know.

  “You were outstanding,” she says when I get close enough for a hug. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen her and I missed her—missed these hugs.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, giving my dad a smile over her shoulder.

  “Real proud of you, Son,” he says, slapping my shoulder and pulling me into his side. “Great game today.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I tell him, suddenly catching a glimpse of dark hair covered by a purple ball cap with the gold R on the front.

  She came.

  “You’ll never believe who we sat next to at the game,” my mom gushes. “I mean, I know celebrities come to these things...but right next to us...in the same row,” she continues, her eyes growing. “Lola. Carradine.” Squealing, she slaps my shoulder playfully. “Can you believe it? I told your dad that it must be my lucky day. My son plays his first major league baseball game and I get the lucky seat right next to Lola Carradine. I mean, I know she’s had that drug trouble and all, but I still really love her...her music. Remember when she was on Take the Stage?” She talks so fast and excitedly I don’t get a chance to interject, but I see Charlotte behind them and her face pales when she realizes my mother obviously knows who she is. I start to call out to her, but then she quickly takes the hand of the girl next to her, who seems disappointed as she’s yanked away from the scene.

  Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me in front of my parents?

  Maybe this is too much, too soon?

  I wouldn’t disagree with that. I mean, I haven’t had a girl meet my parents since I was in high school. Both of my college girlfriends were casual and short-lived. Thrusting Charlotte into the spotlight with my parents wasn’t my smartest idea to date. But I meant well. I wanted them all here today.

  As my mom continues to talk animatedly about the game, bouncing from Lola Carradine to the catch I made in the seventh inning, I watch as Charlotte disappears down the corridor.

  Chapter 8

  Charlotte

  “Who was that?” Casey asks when we turn a corner. “Where are we going? Wasn’t that the guy who made that awesome play in the 7th inning? We should get his autograph.”

  I huff, breathing heavy like I’ve run sprints and not a few yards down a corridor. Meeting the parents was not on my agenda today or ever. I don’t do parents...and I definitely don’t do parents when I’ve only known the guy for less than a month. I should’ve guessed they were Bo’s parents the way his mom was nervously sitting on the edge of her seat and his dad never sat in his. That should’ve been my clue, but I was so busy watching Bo that I never let my mind go there. He never mentioned his parents coming to the game.

  “Casey, I’m going to need you to shut up.”

  Her brows furrow as she yanks her hand away from me. “Are you on drugs?” she asks, squinting as she gets closer, her eyes scanning my face. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No!” I exclaim, looking over my shoulder and then back to her. “You know I said someone gave me the tickets for the game?”

  She nods leerily. “Yeah,” she drawls. “People give you stuff all the time.”

  “Well, the guy who made the great play,” I hedge. “Bo Benn—”

  His name falls from my lips and my eyes go wide as I hear him call my name from behind me. Turning, I shove Casey behind me, like out of sight, out of mind.

  What is wrong with me?

  “Hey, Bo.” I smile, trying to even out my voice, using years of practice to perfect a few sentences. “Hey, I saw you were busy with…” I gesture where he came from and he finishes for me.

  “My parents.” He exhales, running a hand down his face and I get stuck on the way the muscles in his forearms tense. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you they’d be sitting beside you. I’ve been so focused on making the roster and this game that I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  No, he wasn’t.

  But also, of course he wasn’t.

  “It’s fine, really,” I assure him, because it is. I’m just being a freak who suddenly can’t handle a normal situation. “I just didn’t want to interrupt. But I did want to say thank you for the tickets.”

  About that time, I feel Casey push me out of her way as she steps around me. “Hey, I’m Casey,” she says, offering him her hand to shake. “The little sister. You must be her muse.”

  My eyes go wide as Bo flashes me a lopsided grin.

  Panty-melting grin.

  Oh, God.

  “You know, I know you’re busy...and we’ve really got to get going,” I start, trying to cut the sudden thickness in the air between us. Casey fully enjoying herself to my side as she folds her arms over her chest and sighs. “We have a thing…” I continue. “Right, Case?”

  Casey shakes her head. “What thing, Char?”

  “You know,” I tell her with a deathly stare. “With the...people.”

  Words.

  I use them.

  She gives me an evil smile, but thankfully, changes her expression to one of fake realization. So fucking fake. “Oh, that’s right...the thing and people,” she says with an even faker laugh, throwing her hands up in the air. “I mean, when you’re Lola Carradine, there’s always things and people, amiright?”

  God, I’m gonna kill her.

  Surely Mom isn’t too old to make another one just like her.

  “Well,” Bo says, glancing between the two of us with the oddest expression on his face—knowing endearment—like he’s fully aware of the scam, but he’s going to let me get by with it...

  Because why?

  Because he likes me?

  “There’s another home game tomorrow,” he says, taking a few backward steps, putting space between us that I immediately regret, because damn it, he smelled good—fresh and clean with a hint of that hard-earned sweat still lingering.

  However, the way he’s walking backwards gives me a nice glance at his muscled chest and torso beneath the tight, white t-shirt he’s wearing...and long fucking legs.

  He must be, what...six-foot-three...four.

  “I could leave some tickets for you again at Will Call.”

  The offer startles me. I don’t know why, but I balk. “No,” I say firmly. “I have to work in the studio tomorrow.” It’s not a lie, but it’s also not the truth. I have to work in the studio, but there’s no time frame. I own the fucking studio. If I want to put the hours in from midnight until six in the morning, I can. If I want to work from dusk until dawn, I can. If I want to take a few hours out of my day to watch a baseball game, then I’m going to fucking do it.

  “Okay, well, text me later?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I tell him, because even though I don’t want to commit t
o coming to see another game tomorrow doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk to him. I do.

  I want to talk to him.

  I want to kiss him.

  I want to do all sorts of dirty things to him.

  But one thing Lola Carradine—or her counterpart Charlotte—doesn’t do is relationships.

  “God,” I whisper, once Bo is out of sight. “Why did I turn that down?”

  “Because,” Casey whispers in return, “You don’t want to seem too desperate.”

  I roll my eyes. “What are you now, the relationship guru?” I ask as we start to walk toward the exit.

  “No,” Casey says, intertwining her arm with mine, “But he really likes you.”

  “No,” I argue, pulling my baseball cap down low and slipping my sunglasses on. It’s multi-purpose. It keeps me from being noticed, not that it happens all the time, at least not here, but also because the sun is fucking bright and it’s already hot here in New Orleans.

  “Yes. He does. You obviously didn’t see the way he looked at you,” she muses as we cross the parking lot. No valet or drivers for the Carradine girls. We came here just like regular folk—parked our own car, walked a country mile, ate ballpark food, drank in the sun. It was a good day.

  Seeing Bo take the field made my heart do this funny trick, something I haven’t felt in a long time. I tried to ignore it, but every time he made an appearance, same damn thing.

  And standing face to face with him, even though I was trying to play it off, it was even worse...or better, depending on how you look at it.

  “We need food and wine,” Casey says, reaching the car and slipping in the driver’s seat. “And then we’re going home and Googling all the pics of Bo Bennett...shirtless.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re such a closet whore.”

  After pigging out on some Creole chicken from Verti Marte, the rest of our evening became a montage of Bo Bennett.

  Casey turned into a sleuth, trying to dig up dirt, even though I told her there was none to be had.

  “I don’t get it,” she finally says, tossing her phone to the side.

  “What?” I ask, fully reclined on the couch as I try to let my food digest. For small girls, we can pack it away. The coffee table looks like our very own buffet...except all the containers are now mostly empty.