by Kate, Jiffy
Getting into my stance, I tap my bat across home plate, then again toward the pitcher, staring him down. 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.
Thankfully, I make contact, but it’s a foul ball to the left.
Foul ball to the right.
Pop fly to centerfield.
It’s a shitty at bat, but it’s better than the no contact I’ve been making for the last three games. Dejected, I walk back to the dugout, tossing my batting gloves onto the bench and throwing myself down beside them.
“Fuck,” I mutter, resting my head in my hands. Fuck.
“Shake it off, Rook,” Skip says from his post at the railing. “Shake it off.”
He doesn’t make eye contact or come console me, but the fact he’s not sending me back down to the minors makes me really fucking grateful. I’ve got to get my shit together.
We manage to get on base, but after Mack hits another pop fly, the game is over.
“Drinks on me,” Davies says as he passes me in the locker room, which is quiet and somber. “We’re going out.”
A few months ago, I would’ve blown him off, but tonight, after the last couple of weeks, I agree to his invitation. I might not drink, but I’ll go. Anything to keep me from obsessively thinking and rethinking my decisions regarding Charlotte Carradine and dwelling on my shitty playing.
“Maybe you need one of those sports therapist,” Mack suggests as we wait at a table in a dimly lit bar for our first round of beers. I didn’t plan to partake, but Davies had other plans.
I can nurse a beer for an hour. I used to do it all the time in college to keep from being harassed about never drinking. Being a part of a fraternity, it was kind of expected...and disrespectful if you didn’t.
“He doesn’t need a fucking therapist,” Davies groans, leaning back in his chair. “He just needs to pull his head out of his ass and stop letting things that are out of his control affect his game.”
“I thought you said it’s my fault,” I mutter, picking at a half-shelled peanut.
“Walking away was your call, but all the other bullshit...yeah, that’s not yours or hers,” Davies says, and I have to admit, I like him even more because he hasn’t bashed Charlotte one time. Most guys have some smartass comment when it comes to her, probably trying to help me feel better about everything, but it only pisses me off. I don’t want anyone talking bad about her. She didn’t ask for any of this any more than I did.
“It’s some fucking Romeo and Juliet bullshit,” Mack says matter-of-factly. “Except for you being from the wrong side of the tracks, you’re a baseball player...and she’s—”
Davies laughs, scrubbing at his face, and cuts Mack off. “Shut the fuck up, man. Have you ever even read Romeo and Juliet?”
“Nope,” Mack says, popping a peanut in his mouth and chewing it with a cheesy-ass grin. “But I saw the movie with Claire Danes.” He raises his eyebrows. “Now, there’s a hottie.”
“What are you ladies crying about?” Freeman asks, setting down four shot glasses in the middle of the table. “You still wallowing over that rock star bitch?” he asks, picking up one of the glasses and motioning for us to do the same, but I can’t.
I’m stuck on the bitch comment he just said and seeing red.
Davies goes to say something but I cut him a glare and speak up. “I’m gonna need you to shut your fucking mouth,” I tell him.
He laughs, downing his shot. “Somebody’s fucking touchy.” Looking over at me, he takes the shot he’d sat down in front of me and lifts it to his lips. “Maybe you’re the one with the vagina.”
Mother fucker.
“Maybe that’s why she left your ass…” he continues. “She needed a real man...one that can hit a ball and make her come.”
Standing from my chair, it scrapes against the floor. I know people around us are watching. I can feel their eyes on me, but I don’t give a fuck. I go toe-to-toe with Jason Freeman, slipping the full shot glass from his hand. Locking my eyes on his, I want him to see that I’m all business, so I throw the liquor back, feeling the burn down to my toes, and slam the glass back on the table beside us. “Don’t talk about her again. Ever. Forget you even know her name.”
“Kind of hard to do when she’s all over the Internet...wonder if she has a sex tape?”
Grabbing the front of his shirt, I want to wipe the smirk right off his face. When his hands go up in surrender, I grit my teeth. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Calm down, Rook,” Freeman says, chuckling like we’re sharing a joke among friends, but we’re so fucking not. “It’s not like I want to fuck her...sloppy seconds aren’t my style.”
“Alright, that’ll be enough,” Davies says, forcing his way between the two us with Mack standing to the side, glaring at Jason. “Walk away, Freeman.”
The marching orders from Davies does the trick. Jason lifts his eyebrows, backing away with his hands still in the air. I want to kick his ass, but the logical side of my brain keeps reminding me that I don’t need that kind of thing on my record. I’m not going to be that player. This is my career...my life...and I won’t let someone like Jason Freeman ruin that for me.
“You good, Rook?” Davies asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Fine,” I tell him, my eyes still on Freeman as he makes his way back across the bar to a table where a few of the other guys are sitting. He glances back over at me and I don’t back down, keeping my eyes locked on his.
Charlotte might not be mine, but I will always come to her defense...I will always have her best interest at heart. No matter what. Whether it’s Jason Freeman or the fucking paparazzi, whether it’s walking away so she can find some peace, I’ll do whatever it takes for her to be happy.
Chapter 26
Charlotte
It’s been two weeks since the accident, two weeks in this fucking air cast, two weeks since I last saw Bo...well, in person, that is.
Sitting in the green room, moments away from the release party for my album, I should be preparing—getting in the zone. But when my stylists left half an hour ago to give me my space, I immediately picked up my phone and opened up my MLB app that allows me to watch the games.
Most people in my position would probably be primping or praying, but I’m not most people. Never more so since the accident. That was definitely a wake-up call and it put things into perspective. The only reason I’m going through with this release party is because I have fans out there who I don’t want to disappoint, and it’s part of my contract.
I didn’t go through all of the bullshit of the last two months to not get paid.
I deserve it.
I worked my ass off on this album, poured my heart and soul into, bled for it...literally.
Watching the screen of my phone, I bite my lip and hold my breath as Bo comes up to bat. The week after our talk in the hospital room, he played like utter shit. There were plenty of days I wanted to call him and ask him what the fuck he was doing, but I didn’t. I knew if I reached out to him, it would hurt worse. Bo walked away and even though I know why he did it, it doesn’t make it any easier. Not having him in my life has been the worst kind of torture. I can only hope that all of this will eventually work itself out...somehow, someway.
In the meantime, I get my fix by watching Revelers baseball.
I know what Bo and I had was real. I know it with every fiber of my being. Even when the little voices in my head try to convince me otherwise, deep down, I still feel it—that undeniable connection, our souls woven together. Our relationship might have come from left field and ended abruptly—let’s call it a rain delay—but I’m hanging onto hope that it’s not the final inning.
“Five minutes,” someone says, popping their head into the room.
“Hmmm,” I hum, giving them a head nod, but I’m not focused on what’s out there waiting on me—two hundred people waiting to see Lola Carrad
ine perform. All my attention is on the screen in front of me and the batter who’s on his second strike.
“Come the fuck on, Bo,” I mutter, my knee bouncing.
And just like that, as if he heard me...or maybe he still feels me too...he swings and makes contact, sending the ball soaring out into the cheap seats.
“Homerun, Bo The Bat Bennett,” the announcer cries out. This moniker is a new one and it makes me smile every time I hear it. Ever since he made a turnaround last week and started slamming home runs and snagging impossible outs, the media has been going crazy with talk of The Comeback Kid, another nickname.
But to me, he’s still just Bo...beautiful Bo, especially when he’s dirty and sweaty and all smiles running the bases. It makes my heart happy to see him like that.
At first—back a week or so ago—when I saw him struggling, I was kind of happy about it, I’m not going to lie. I felt so shitty and missed him so bad, it was a relief to see that our break-up was affecting him as much as it was me.
It was like, if he could wallow, so could I.
Fortunately, we both managed to get our heads out of our asses.
A week ago, Bo hit two home runs in one game, one of them being a grand slam, his first of the season.
Also a week ago, I took my first steps toward removing Terry from my life.
It all has to be done in secret, for now. He holds too many keys to my life and if he wanted to ruin me, he could. But I’ll bide my time and keep him at arm’s length, until I’m able to pull the rug out from under him with no kick back.
Up until the accident, I still thought he was on my side, but with all of my extra time to sit and think, I started putting things together, with pieces of a very messed up puzzle coming into view.
I’ve always suspected that Terry was at the root of the paparazzi knowing my every move, but I couldn’t ever prove it, until the accident.
When the police showed up on the scene, they saw the same photographer who chased us down running away from the scene. When they arrested him, they confiscated his phone and his camera, both of which had horrible, grueling photos of the wreckage and the driver who was unconscious.
Sick.
So fucking sick and twisted.
It still makes me nauseous to think about it.
Thank God the driver lived, but it could’ve been so much worse. My mom cried for hours over all the what ifs. She and my dad have basically held me hostage in my bedroom for the past week, not letting me go anywhere unaccompanied.
While the police had the photographer’s camera and phone, they found texts messages between him and Terry going back over a month, where they were sharing information about my whereabouts. Thanks to one of the detectives, I have physical proof of those text messages and the photos from the scene of the accident. It’s up to me whether I want to press charges.
My dad encouraged me to seek legal action, but all I really want is Terry out of my life.
If I have one regret, it’s letting him control it for this long and not seeing him for what he truly is—a fucking selfish, self-centered, self-seeking asshole.
“You’re on,” the same woman with the wide smile says when she pokes her head back in the room. With the Revelers up by five runs, I turn the game off and send out my prayers to the baseball gods that they’ll finish these fuckers off and continue their new winning streak.
“Let’s do this,” I tell her, grabbing my crutches and hobbling my sparkly ass out to the stage.
Casey, Mom, Dad, and fucking Terry are standing in the front of the audience with beaming proud smiles. Except for Terry, now that the cloak has dropped, I see everything for what it is. The only thing he’s happy about right now is that my album debuted in the top twenty-five on the Billboard charts, which translates to dollar signs for him.
I smile down at them, an extra sweet one thrown in Terry’s direction as if to tell him to soak it up, mother fucker, because this gravy train is coming to an end.
“Hello,” I call out to the crowd and get an eardrum-bursting response. “Thank you so much for being here,” I say, balancing on my crutches and adjusting my earpiece and mic, all while keeping my right foot from touching the ground. “I’m going to apologize in advance for my dance moves.”
Everyone laughs and I love the energy I’m feeling in this small venue. It has me thinking that all of my shows will be in places like this. I’m not interested in packing out stadiums or even arenas anymore. I just want to play my music and feel this kind of vibe.
“How about a song?”
My band, Flight of Feelings, strikes up the first cord to Hard Hitter and the crowd goes wild. For a song that has so much grit and power, I can’t help the lump I have to choke down before the opening lyrics. It’s all Bo, every note, chord, and chorus. He oozes from every facet of this song and I fucking love it.
Eyes like the July sky
Couldn’t forget you if I tried
I love looking at you...the spark in your eyes
Curved lips you can’t disguise
Chapter 27
Bo
Nothing feels as good as playing your best game in front of a home crowd with your parents in the stands. The only thing missing in this equation is Charlotte, but I don’t let that thought get to me. I’m here to play ball and that’s what I’m doing...playing the best fucking ball of my life.
“Bo!” a few of the Bo’s Babes girls call from the stands near the third base line. I smile politely and wave. Some players would be all over this cheering section, asking for numbers and having private parties in hotel rooms and shit like that, but not me.
I know I’m technically free to date or fuck whoever I want, but I can’t...don’t even want to think about it. Call me crazy or hopeless, but I’m pretty sure I’ll hold out for Charlotte until I’m somehow convinced that she’s no longer interested in me...and maybe even after that.
“Marry me, Bo!” Turning, I see a big white sign with a diamond ring in the shape of a baseball diamond and those exact words plastered across the cardboard. I feel the blush on my cheeks as the ump gets into position behind the plate, but that’s where it ends.
Once that first pitch is thrown, I tune it all out.
A line drive my way has me diving for the ball and snagging it in the tip of my glove.
I’m back.
There’s still a piece of my heart that resides with Charlotte Carradine, but everything else is fully invested in this game.
Davies throws some heat, painting the corners of the plate and sending the next batter back to the dugout.
After a pop fly to center field, the game is over and we go up two-to-one for the series.
The Revelers are also back.
Once I’ve showered and dressed, I head out to meet up with my parents who are waiting at the end of the corridor.
“Great game,” my dad says, slapping my shoulder and gripping it tightly. “That last catch…” He smiles, shaking his head. “Best I’ve seen.”
This time, when my cheeks heat up, it’s from the praise from my dad. He’s always been my number one supporter, but something about him being here to see me perform like I did tonight and then to have him tell me something like that, it’s like it brings my entire life full circle.
“Thanks, Dad.”
My mom comes up for a hug and I swear there are tears in her eyes. “You really were fantastic, Honey.”
“Thanks,” I say, squeezing her extra tight.
“It was a little lonely in the stands, though…” she adds with a shrug.
Leave it to my mom to bring up Charlotte, in a roundabout way.
“Brenda,” my dad warns.
“What?” she asks, innocence thick in her tone. “I was just saying...I miss the girls.”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes, my dad shaking his head. “I miss her, too.”
“Yeah,” she says, reaching a hand out to brush an invisible wrinkle out of my t-shirt. “Well, everything happens for a reason.
..and what’s that saying? It ain’t over, ‘til it’s over?”
Dad huffs. “Did you just quote Yogi Berra?”
“Or Lenny Kravitz,” she offers with a smile only my mother can give.
We start to walk toward the players exit when something jogs my memory and I remember what I’ve been meaning to ask her since the night we all had dinner at Charlotte’s. “Mom, what did you and Charlotte talk about? That night we all had dinner...”
“I just told her I’d never seen you that happy,” she says with a sigh. “And I thanked her for showing you there’s more to life than baseball.” I don’t miss the twinkle in my dad’s eye as he leans over and places a kiss on the top of her head.
I want that, what they have, and I might not get it today or tomorrow or the next, but one of these days, I will. I feel it deep in my bones. My mom is right, Charlotte showed me that I could have a life outside of baseball...she showed me what true love feels like and I’ll never forget it or her.
“Bo!” The photographer calls my name, obviously more than one time, as people buzz around like bees.
Taking the earbuds out, I offer him an apologetic smile. “Sorry.” Ever since Charlotte’s new album dropped, I’ve basically had it playing on repeat. Hard Hitter is just as amazing as Charlotte said it was—straight up rocker chick vibes...electric guitar, awesome opening riff, one hundred percent her—but I can’t help the twinge of pain in my chest every time it comes on. I wanted my first time listening to it to be a live, private performance. She’d promised me an acoustic version, but never got the chance.
The lyrics are soulful, but it’s not like a ballad or love song, even though there’s so much emotion. Between the electric guitar, heavy bass, and up tempo, it actually pumps me up and makes me feel like running the bases.
Instead, I jog over to the grey backdrop, setting my phone and earbuds on a side table. “Where do you want me?”
My agent has been negotiating some endorsement deals over the past month. Today, I’m shooting my first ad for a men’s clothing line. I still have no idea why they want someone like me representing their company. Most days, all I wear are jeans and t-shirts, but the paycheck makes up for the pretentious bullshit.
