Intentional Walk: Dating Mr. Baseball Book 3

by McConnell, Lucy

  Maverik had done an excellent job of slathering her cuts with antibiotic ointment and Vitamin E. Contrary to popular belief, chicks don’t dig scars—at least not on their own arms. Twenty-four hours of ice did wonders for her shin. She still had the horrible bump, but that would eventually go away too. She’d had worse. If people could see what her heart looked like right now, they’d be much more concerned about that than the bump on her shin hidden beneath her loose-fitting cargo pants.

  “In short,” summed Sheila, the head of the community outreach program, “we’re looking to hire another tour guide and someone who will go into the schools to do programs about bullying. If you know anyone who is great with kids, tell them to come apply.”

  The group clapped. Jerry, the computer geek who had skin so white his blue veins stood out, went to stand.

  Sheila waved for him to sit back down. “Hang on there. We wanted to introduce you all to the newest member of the Redrocks: Gunner Pinch.” She threw her hands toward the door. It swung open and in walked Western Claude, the PR director, followed by a guy that made Tilly sit up in her seat.

  Gunner. What a great name.

  When Gunner grinned, several women in the room fanned their faces. Tilly closed her eyes for a moment. Her brain had gone into Brayden mode, cataloguing all the reasons this man was not as hot as Brayden. For starters, he was blond in an Australian surfer kind of way, and Brayden had dark hair to his chin that flipped up at the ends, dark eyes like the color found when staring deep into a lake, tall, and handsome. The natural red streak going down the middle of his beard gave him character that no other guy could muster. Ugh! She needed to stop. Brayden’s beautifully shaped body and magnetic brown eyes had officially spoiled her on men. If she didn’t figure out how to get past that, she’d be alone for the rest of her life.

  “Are you okay?” asked Jerry. His fingers brushed her forearm. They felt sticky.

  Tilly opened her eyes and joked, “Do you think you could reprogram my brain?”

  He shook his head, jarring the tiny glasses off his large nose. He set them back in place. “I can’t do that again.”

  “Again?” she asked in alarm. She’d always thought Jerry was shy, but maybe he was the creepy, quiet kind. The kind that holed up in his mother’s basement and trolled the dark corners of the internet. She scooted slightly away.

  He faced forward, his eyes so wide, and refused to look at her again.

  Mental note: don’t tick off Jerry. “I was kidding,” she whispered, hoping she wasn’t making things worse. The last thing she needed right now was some weird stalker.

  Up front, Mr. Claude was going through Gunner’s list of achievements.

  Gunner looked her way and his traveling gaze stopped. A slow, easy smile spread across his face, the kind photographers adored and women swooned over.

  She ducked, not wanting to be caught staring. He seemed nice enough, answering the questions about where he played before coming here, his goals as a pitcher, and how he liked St. George. She crossed her legs and waited out the introduction. As soon as they were done here, she could go home. If she didn’t hurry, she’d hit her driveway at the same time as Brayden hit his. That would ruin her whole avoid-him-at-all-costs plan.

  She looked up again to gauge how much longer Mr. Claude might go on, and Gunner winked. Shocked, she dropped her gaze to her lap. He winked! What was that? Mr. Calude asked him if he’d tried Neilson’s Custard yet. He applied that carefree smile and said he hadn’t.

  Tilly muscled up some courage and looked up through lowered lashes to study him. His beard was thick and nicely trimmed, and his eyes were a dull shade of blue. She wasn’t being mean; they just didn’t do anything for her. She preferred brown eyes. Crap! She did not. She just preferred Brayden. But he’d moved on with surprising ease. She should too.

  She uncrossed and crossed her legs. Yeah. This hot baseball player had winked at her. That was something. Just because she didn’t want anyone but Brayden didn’t mean it wasn’t nice to be noticed by a guy—a guy who made the women in the room stare at him like he was a chocolate fountain and they were starving.

  Mr. Claude thanked Gunner for coming and ended the meeting. A few ladies crowded around Gunner, welcoming him to the Redrocks family. According to Mr. Claude, that’s what they were supposed to call the organization in all their communications within and without the stadium.

  She left, moving a little slow so she didn’t accidentally bump into a chair with her sore shin. One more accident and she’d put herself in a walking cast. She was in the front office reception area, crossing the giant Redrocks logo set in mosaic tiles in the floor, when she heard an “excuse me?” come from down the hallway.

  Since the only other person there was Amelia, the receptionist, she turned and found Gunner lightly jogging her way. T-minus three minutes. If she didn’t leave within that time, then she’d have to find a way to stall for an hour. Brayden’s schedule, though predictable, wasn’t as precise as hers. He could get caught up talking to a player or coach and be twenty minutes late. She either had to get home before him or wait an hour to ensure she was after him. The effort it took to circumvent an accidental encounter was exhausting. All she wanted was a warm bath and a pair of yoga pants. She put on a pleasant face. “Hi.”

  “Hi. I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name.” Gunner seemed larger up close, broader.

  She blinked. “Was I supposed to introduce myself?” She’d spaced out there at the end of the meeting and not paid attention. It’d look awfully rude if she’d walked out.

  “Not officially. I just wanted to meet you.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

  She relaxed. “I’m Tilly Creswick. And you’re Gunner Pinch.” She offered her hand, and they shook. He had a pitcher’s hands. Short fingers, though. Brayden’s hands were— Stop it!

  “So, you’ve been here longer than I have. Do you think this team is really like a family?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Harper Wolfe is the benevolent, cool aunt—even though she is much too young to be an aunt to these people—still, she is darn awesome. Coach Wolfe is the dad, making sure the team does what they’re supposed to. Jerry, the computer guy, he’s the weird cousin. The players are the teenaged boys who eat too much, play all day, and don’t clean up after themselves.”

  “Ouch.” He covered his heart as if she’d wounded him.

  She laughed a little. “Don’t act wounded. I think you can take it.”

  “I don’t mind it so much when it comes from a pretty lady.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “Well, aren’t you a charmer.”

  “Am I charming you?”

  She laughed again. He was quick. Even though she liked talking to him, he did not make butterflies fill her belly. “You’re certainly trying.” She felt awkward semi-flirting with this guy, like her words were coming out flat instead of round.

  “Gunner.” Sheila walked toward them with her signature quick-quick-step. Her heels left small dents in the carpet behind her like a trail of bread crumbs she could use to find her way back to the meeting room. “Can I borrow you for a moment? We need to go over your volunteer schedule.”

  “Sure.” He flashed a million-dollar smile at Tilly. “I’ll see you around?” The question had real weight to it, like he was hoping they’d bump into one another again.

  She lifted a shoulder. “It’s always a possibility.” Was that even flirting? She wasn’t aware. It was always easy to flirt with Brayden; the words rolled out of her with a saucy grin or a sway of her hips. He brought out the woman inside of her and made her feel girly, even if she was covered in trail dust and didn’t have any makeup on. He was good that way.

  Ugh! He was good in so many ways. Why did he have to turn into such a jerk?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brayden

  The next day, Brayden was waiting for Gunner when he got to the bullpen. Gunner had done some warm-ups on the field, so it wouldn’t hurt him to g
et right into it.

  Newton gave him a funny look as he did up his shin guards. They’d talked about giving Newton a few extra minutes to try and get Gunner to throw the curveballs, but Brayden wasn’t going to let the catcher do his job. That wasn’t how he played ball, and that wasn’t how he was going to coach. Brayden gave Newton a small nod to let him know that he had this.

  Newton returned the gesture and made his way behind the plate, checking the side strap on his chest protection.

  “You bring me another set of wacky balls?”

  “Nope.” Brayden held up a brand-new ball. “I brought a pearl.”

  Gunner smirked and held out his mitt.

  Brayden shook his head. “I wanna see your grip for a cutter.”

  Gunner leaned back on his leg, lifting one shoulder. “Man, give it up.”

  “No. Because you’re going to learn to throw a cutter. I have one job on this team, and that is to take your sorry butt and turn it into a pitcher. Now, if Coach says you have to have a cutter, then you have to have a cutter.”

  “Pft, Coach.”

  Brayden had had enough of the un-earned arrogance. “Look. You’re a Redrock now. You don’t get to cop the attitude. We don’t do that here.”

  “So trade me.”

  “We would, but no one would take you.”

  “Right.”

  Brayden locked eyes with Gunner. It was time for a little cold, hard truth. “No one. You have promise, but do you think a team’s going to take a kid that has promise over someone like Montello?”

  Gunner glared. “You don’t think I can out-throw Montello?”

  “I know you can’t out-throw him, because you don’t have a cutter!” Brayden’s yell filled the room, bouncing off the concrete. “Now show me your darn grip.” He squeezed the ball in his hand, the seams pressing into his flesh.

  Gunner cursed. He ripped the ball from Brayden’s fingers and set up for a four-seam fastball, sliding his top fingers over a couple seams and tucking his thumb under the ball.

  “Well, I think we found the problem.”

  “What? Riverez does this.” Gunner’s chin jutted forward.

  “Right, but Riverez has spider-leg fingers. He can wrap around that ball way more than you can with your little stubbies there.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Try holding a two-seam fastball grip, your thumb still tucked, and I want you to pull your pointer finger a quarter inch back so the knuckle pops off the ball.” Brayden demonstrated. It wasn’t the grip he used; his was with a flat pointer finger. “You should feel like you’re holding only half the ball.”

  Gunner shook his head, but he copied the grip on his own ball. “I feel like it’s going to slip right out of my hand if I put any heat on it.” He twisted his wrist around.

  “It’s leather, not butter. You’ll be fine.” Brayden stepped away from the practice mound and gave Gunner some space to work. His heart was beating fast, like it was him out there, trying a new grip, figuring out a trick that would give him an edge. Man! What a rush.

  Gunner wound up and threw an easy one, testing his release. The ball bounced four feet in front of the catcher, who caught it on the way up. He lifted an eyebrow at Brayden.

  Brayden scoffed. “And I guess you threw 95 miles per hour the first time too.”

  “Shut up.” Gunner caught the return from Newton and worked his hand over the ball, getting the grip just right. It would take a lot of practice before he could do that in a game while hiding the ball in his mitt. If it were Brayden, he’d carry a ball around with him, sliding between a fastball grip and a cutter grip. They had a few days before Gunner would relieve, but still, this needed to work. There was a lot riding on Gunner’s ability to learn this.

  “So there’s this cute girl that works here.” Gunner threw the ball with the same result.

  “Lighten up on the pressure with your middle finger.”

  Gunner shook his head, telling Brayden with a look that he was already as light as he dared go. Brayden let the silence answer for him.

  “Anyway. I met her the other day. Tilly?” He lifted his gaze from the ball to Brayden’s face.

  Brayden’s jaws snapped together as if he’d taken the bait.

  “I heard you two used to go out.”

  He could only imagine what else Gunner had heard. He remained quiet, hoping his stony silence would intimidate Gunner into shutting his trap and throwing the stupid ball. Gunner waited as if he had all afternoon to stand there and get an answer to his asinine question. Brayden pulled his chin down. “Yep. Throw the ball.”

  Gunner did. This one hit the plate. Newton dropped to his knees to block the ball and recovered it quickly, sending it back to Gunner.

  “So you’re not a thing anymore?”

  A thing? That’s what people said these days. We’re a thing. We have a thing. You two are a thing. What did that even mean? He could have easily classified what they were. They were in love. They had a committed, healthy relationship. They were best friends. They created kisses that inspired romance songs. They were solid.

  And he’d pushed it all away. “We’re not dating.”

  “Good.” Gunner wound up and threw a beautiful cutter. He turned and grinned at Brayden with an I win glint in his eyes.

  Brayden headed for the exit. He should stay and oversee Gunner’s progress, but he couldn’t stand to answer any more questions about Tilly. Talking about her in the past tense was like walking over his heart’s grave on the night of a full moon while carrying a strand of garlic. “Throw fifty more and then you can gloat.”

  Gunner laughed. “I wasn’t gloating about the pitch.”

  Brayden slammed through the doors. “I really hate that kid,” he muttered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tilly

  Tilly couldn’t quite get over Gunner’s wink. Not that she liked it in a girly-giggle kind of way, but she liked knowing that she’d caught someone’s eye. That she still had it and that men noticed.

  She stood in front of the mirror where those stupid ticket stubs were still tucked into the frame, and took a hard look at herself. She had bags under her eyes and a few more lines on her forehead than she remembered having before. Her dreads hung down to her triceps. She picked one up and looked it over. She always kept her hair clean and smelling nice. There was a fine line with dreads between being hip and different and being weird and different. She’d always thought that she’d walked that line with finesse, but it was time for a change. She had the whole morning off. Her tour didn’t start until two that afternoon, and then she’d work the home plate section during the game that night. If she got to a salon soon, she could be a new woman before she arrived for her shift.

  * * *

  Tilly rubbed her head. Four hours in a swivel chair with several hands working combs and conditioner through her dreads had tugged her scalp sore. The result was undeniably shocking. She couldn’t wait to show Elise.

  Looking both ways, she dodged down hallways and around corners without seeing Brayden. She wasn’t quite sure what he’d think of her new look, and wasn’t ready to reveal it to him either. He’d loved her dreads. She couldn’t count the number of times he’d lifted one between his fingers and played with it before pressing a kiss to her lips.

  Sigh. She missed kissing him. He was so talented with those lips.

  She slipped into the PT room and tapped Elise on the shoulder. Elise spun around, and her jaw dropped. “Wow!” She grabbed the hair by Tilly’s neck and lifted it off her shoulders. “Holy moly. This is so crazy.”

  Tilly laughed. “I thought the dreads were crazy.”

  “Oh my gosh! I can’t believe how long it is. I think it’s almost as long as mine.”

  “I know. I didn’t realize how much hair was here.” Tilly ran her fingers through the strands all the way to the ends. She hadn’t stopped playing with it since she left the salon. The vast amount of conditioner they’d used had done wonders. “I promised to go back for some l
ayers or something in a couple weeks, but I just want to let it hang loose.” She giggled.

  Elise nodded. “It’s so pretty. All those natural highlights. I’m jealous.”

  “Stop. Your hair is stunning.” Elise had red hair, the kind supermodels paid big bucks for and spent hours maintaining.

  Elise made a face. “I can’t stop looking at you. You look so different.”

  “Good different?” Tilly bit her lip. What if Brayden hated it? She shouldn’t even care if he liked her new look, but she did.

  “Yeah. I mean, you’ve always been gorgeous, but this is just amazing.” Elise grabbed her hands. “Has Brayden seen you?”

  “Not yet. I’m still trying to avoid him. Going cold turkey is much easier that bumping into him over and over again.” She forced a laugh. “That makes me sound like a Brayden addict or something.”

  Elise frowned in sympathy. “You’re amazing. I think I’d still be crying every day.”

  “I can’t. I work with children.” Tilly glanced at the clock on the wall. “Speaking of that, I’d better get going. My tour starts soon.”

  “Go get ’em, girl.” Elise grinned. “And let Brayden see you—he’ll eat his heart out.”

  Tilly laughed her way to the front lobby, where her little class of fifth graders waited. She wanted Brayden to eat his heart out. The image she’d left with Maverik was kind of pathetic. No makeup, tears, and once again all beat up and brokenhearted. She didn’t want to be like that. She didn’t want to be seen as the pining, damaged ex, even if that was exactly what she was.

  She waved her arms in the air, which didn’t get her much attention because the kids were too excited to hold still. “All right, kids, let’s play ball!” They stopped and turned her way. “Who likes baseball?” Over half the hands came up. “How many of you have played baseball before?” A few hands dropped.